“That tree was planted by my grandfather the day my father was born. My grandparents planted a different kind of tree for each of my siblings, my cousins, and me,” Mama said. “We used to fight over whose tree was better. My siblings all carved their names on the tree trunks, but I carved mine on a high-up branch.” Mama stared at that picture, transported by the past. I was afraid to ask her if those trees were still there, or how she had felt upon seeing her home in Haifa. I listened instead.
“When I was very small, my father used to lift me on his shoulders so I could pluck my own figs.” In another photo, she and one of her sisters were teenagers standing in the Al Aqsa compound in front of the Dome of the Rock. “In those days, we could take a bus right to Jerusalem, or we could go by train straight to Beirut, or Damascus, or Cairo even. The world was open.” She stared a bit more. “If only we knew then.”
“Why are you so depressing?” Sitti Wasfiyeh chimed in from her room. “Doom and gloom, by God! You’re going to jinx the girl and make her not want to go to Palestine.”
Mama peeked her head through the door. “Hajjeh, we thought you were taking a nap. Come sit with us.”
“It looks like I need to. I’m a better storyteller, because I’m older and remember more, because I was in Palestine longer,” she said, walking into the family room with her cane. “Make us some tea while I talk to my granddaughter.”
There was still a lot of hope and euphoria over the Oslo Accords. A famous Palestinian in America named Edward Said was warning that this agreement was no cause for excitement; it was a trap to buy Israel more time to keep colonizing Palestine. My brother agreed with him and said Bilal did too.
“Nahr, I think you’re going to get along well with Bilal,” Jehad said. “He headed the Communist Party in Palestine back in the day. He probably hates rich Kuwaitis too.”
I didn’t know how to answer. The only things I knew about communism were that its color was red and Russians were communists. I made a mental note to find out what I could about the Communist Party. People were talking about how easy it was to research anything on the Internet. I thought I might learn to do the Internet too.
It was around this time that I ran into an old friend at a mall in Amman. Literally, I ran into him. I almost didn’t recognize him, until he bent to pick up his bags, which he seemed to have spilled purposely. “I’m very sorry, sister,” he said.
It looked like an accident to onlookers, the carelessness of distracted shoppers. But when I looked up, I saw Mohsin, the young man on the balcony in Kuwait, smoking a cigarette, confessing that he preferred boys and asking me to tell him a secret of mine.
“No harm done, brother,” I said.
He picked up my bags and handed them to me. I saw in my peripheral vision a woman with children stop to stare at us from a store. His wife.
“Thank you,” I said, and walked away to the privacy of the nearest bathroom. As I suspected, he had dropped his business card into my bag. He was a banker. A handwritten note on the back of the card read Please call me.
I waited a day to call, confessing, when I finally did, that I had been worried his wife might answer. He laughed, because I had called his personal mobile phone. He had been vacationing with his family at the Dead Sea and had stopped in Amman for a few days before heading back. The woman I’d glimpsed at the mall was indeed his wife.
We made small talk. I told him I was planning to go to Palestine. “I’m so happy for you,” he said. “Someday, enshallah, when Jerusalem is liberated, we will all once again be able to visit our holy city.”
Then we spoke of the stunning advancement of technology, which seemed to be passing me by. The Internet was everywhere. People could send instant letters electronically through something called e-mail. Jehad had already told me about it, but all I knew was that it wasn’t like a fax. “It’s amazing, and anyone can have an account for free,” Mohsin said, but there were still connection fees at the Internet cafés.
“I have some friends who could show me,” I lied for the sake of conversation.
“Let me!” he said. “I can set you up with an e-mail tomorrow if you want.”
I agreed, not because I wanted to have e-mail but to see him, and we set a time.
Mama used to get so happy when someone from Palestine visited us in Kuwait, especially if they came from Haifa. She would say they “carried the scent and spirit of my home and youth in Palestine.” That’s why I wanted so much to visit with Mohsin. He carried the scent and spirit of Kuwait.
I waited the next day among young people sitting at various computer terminals. I had no idea what to do. It was intimidating, and I felt out of place. Mohsin didn’t show up. Such a disappointment, I thought, and was getting up to leave when a young man rushed in, out of breath. He looked around, then walked up to me. “Are you Madam Yaqoot?” he asked.
I hesitated. “Who wants to know?”
“I have a package for you, and I’m supposed to set you up with an e-mail account,” he said, still catching his breath.
“Yes,” I said.
“Fine. Before I give you the package, you’re supposed to answer a question to verify who you are.”
“I’m not answering anything.” I turned to leave.
“Okay. You’re the only woman here, so I believe you’re who I’m supposed to give this to. But just so I can report back—can you just tell me …” He unfolded a piece of paper and read from it: “What is the other name of the girl with two real names?” He looked up from the paper with pleading eyes.
“The answer is Nahr.” I smiled, snatching the package from him, and walked away to open it in the privacy of the café bathroom. There was an envelope with cash in it and a new mobile phone. There was no note, and the money was more than I needed to get to Palestine.
The young man was waiting for me when I emerged. “Madam, I’m very sorry to bother you, but I am supposed to get you on e-mail before you go,” he said, explaining that he needed to complete the entire task in order to get paid. The account had already been set up, and he showed me how to open it. “This is the log-in information. Write it down,” he said, then showed me how to change my password.
“As you can see, you already have one e-mail,” he said, pointing to a line on the screen. He instructed me how to open it and leaned in when I did. I pushed him out of the way. “I can read on my own,” I said.
Dear Nahr,
I hope it’s okay to call you by that name. I am sorry I could not be there myself today. Something came up with the family, but I did my best not to disappoint you. If you’re reading this, it means that the courier delivered a sealed package for you. I owe you a debt and it gives me pleasure to think I might be of some help to you now. I believe it was fate that we ran into each other.
Your friend,
Mohsin
P.S. The phone is paid for one year in Jordan. When you get to Palestine, you will need to buy a local SIM card.
I clicked the box labeled Reply and typed with two fingers: You never owed me anything. But whatever debt you may have felt, consider it paid in full and more. P.S. The package was still sealed, and the young man went above and beyond.
Then I clicked Send.
“Tell me when you’re ready to respond, I will show you how,” the young man said.
“Boy, I already did it. I’m good at the Internet,” I said. He looked at me with a blank stare. “But I have some questions. Sit down. I’ll buy you a cup of tea. I told Mohsin you went above and beyond.”
The boy relented and sat with me for some tea. He answered my questions with the limited patience one has for a small child. I learned that I did not have to come back to the same computer forever to access my mailbox. I could do that from any computer in the world. I thought the e-mail I sent would take days to be delivered, but he assured me it was already in the recipient’s mailbox. Just like that. I didn’t believe him, so he demonstrated with a test e-mail from his own e-mail to mine. Finally he explained what a SIM car
d was.
“Madam, thank you for the tea, but I really must go,” he said. “Best of luck to you.”
“Thank you!” I said, contemplating the difference between us. He was not much younger than me, but I was already much older in those days when I was still in my twenties.
IV.
PALESTINE
THE CUBE, SOUTH
A VAULT DOOR on the south side is the only entrance and exit. Food comes through a waist-high rectangular opening. Sometimes books are pushed through the same slot.
The first books I received preceded the first visitors by three bowel movements. One book was about blue whales, one on the cosmos, and another a bad translation of a badly written Western romance novel. I devoured them before the visitors arrived and had begun rereading about blue whales. Such extraordinary creatures. True gentle giants, full of mystery and romance, like the ocean itself.
An expressionless armed guard escorted the visitors into the Cube—a woman in her midtwenties and a man twice her age. He spoke Arabic. She didn’t, but was learning, she said. They asked short, simple questions. What did I eat? How frequently? How often did I go outside? Did I communicate with family? Did they give me books to read? Pen and paper?
I find it difficult to look visitors in the eyes. My gaze gravitated to the man’s dark, hairy forearm emerging from a rolled-up white sleeve.
All I could think about was touching the dark, hairy forearm.
“Are you interested in blue whales?” the woman asked, nodding at my books. “And outer space?” She smiled as if we were having a normal conversation. I understood her English, but I waited for the man to translate. Information swirled in my head. Blue whales are the largest creatures ever to roam our planet, as long as thirty meters and weighing up to 173,000 kilograms. They have intricate social lives and complex languages. Hunted to near extinction. Less than a few thousand remained before whaling restrictions were introduced, but whalers continue to serve a black market, and these majestic creatures might disappear from the world. Blue whales subsist on krill. Krill is a Norwegian word. I wonder what it’s like to be Norwegian. What’s it like to be a whale? To live in water. To be the biggest creature on earth, still vulnerable to a small man’s greed.
Dark, hairy forearm. Rolled-up white sleeves.
“Yes,” I said, barely audible. “I’m interested in whales.” Her gaze made me more aware of my prison clothes. I had done my best to tidy my hair. Although the man was dressed casually, the woman wore a conservative dark suit, low black heels, and a gray blouse. Blue stones studding her ears accented her blue eyes and, when I focused on them, it seemed as if she had four blue eyes. I wished she had worn glasses. I’d like to see a reflection of myself.
“You seem healthy and well-groomed. I understand your shower comes on automatically. Are you able to shower daily?”
The man did not translate, nor did he realize that I understood her speaking to me as if I were a child. But I wanted him to translate so I could ask her about her hygiene habits too.
“Yaqoot, is there anything else you would like to talk about or bring to our attention? We have ten minutes left,” the man said.
“Have you spoken with my family?” If they had, it would have been the first thing they told me. If they had any decency.
The man lowered his eyes. She looked at him, then at me. “No. We didn’t,” he said. “But we will, and I’ll let your mother know you’re fine.”
Fine?
I put my feet up on my bed and turned my back to them.
Shortly after they left, the same hard-faced guard came in to retrieve the books. I had locked my bracelets facing the room this time, because I wanted to get a last glimpse of the blue whales, the stars and planets and cheap romance before they were taken from me forever.
“Otva`li, mu`dak, b`lyad!” I yelled, bound to the wall by my bracelets.
We were both shocked: me, because she understood.
She turned to me, her hard face replaced with a smile. I smiled too, and said it again. Fuck off, you asshole, fuck!
She laughed, and so did I. She put her hand on her chest and said, “Klara,” nodding as she walked out, the metal door closing with an automated clang.
The next day, my whale book was pushed through the door opening.
That’s how Klara became my friend, or what could pass for a friend in the Cube. She speaks to me sometimes through the speaker, since the camera doesn’t record sound, even though I don’t fully understand what she says. She would be reprimanded if they knew. She told me that. I keep my mouth shut because I like her. Sometimes I remember that I should not like her. But I am always excited when she is on duty. She doesn’t consider herself Israeli. She’s Russian. Her family forced her to leave with them, and she desperately wants to return to her village. She’s not even Jewish. She said her father made it all up to get the state subsidies for Jews willing to emigrate to Israel. It was free money, plus her father was close to being caught for embezzling. She hated her father. And she missed her boyfriend. She apologized for not getting more books. I should add that the things she tells me are my interpretations of the broken English, Arabic, and Hebrew we use to communicate. I asked if I could get books about communism. She said, “Da, naverna.” Yeah, probably.
I fell asleep thinking about the dark, hairy forearm below a rolled-up white sleeve.
THE LAYERS OF ABSENCE
I WAS TOLD to expect difficulties from Israeli border authorities when crossing the Jordan River into Palestine, but it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. I was interrogated. Searched. Searched again. They would not accept the Palestinian ID that Jehad had worked hard to reinstate because it did not appear in their system. They said this was not uncommon because it takes time for new hawiyyas since the Oslo Accords to update in their system. Hours later, they stamped my Jordanian travel document with a three-month tourist visa. One of my interrogators, whose sense of power had been irrepressible and somewhat exhibitionist in the way she ordered me around, pointed to my plump belly and asked, “You have baby?”
Bitch.
In all, I was made to wait six hours. Maybe it was finally getting through, or some spiritual call from my ancestors, but I was overcome with relief—and something akin to belonging—when I emerged on the other side of the crossing terminal. The landscape, topography, weather, and smells were no different from the east side of the Jordan River, but Palestine was nothing like Jordan. There was an immense silence just beyond the bustle of people milling about, waiting among parked cars, taxis, soldiers, handcarts. I gazed toward the unfolding land, where rolling hills met the sky. Images began to converge in my chest, deepening my breathing. Memories of two trips we’d taken as children with Baba; Sitti Wasfiyeh’s tales about Ein el-Sultan; stories from Mama, Baba, neighbors, and friends about Haifa. The ones I thought I’d discarded, tuned out, dismissed. They were all there to greet me, enfolding me in the embrace of our collective dislocation from this place where all our stories go and return. Here is where we began. Where our songs were born, our ancestors buried. The adan sounded from unseen minarets. It floated through me, raised the hair on my arms, made me close my eyes and inhale the call to prayer.
A man stood before me. “Salaam, Yaqoot.”
I knew who he was, of course. He had told me on the phone he’d be waiting. His brown face was creased, much older and wearier than the youthful photos I had seen years ago. I suppose he recognized me from my photos too, and maybe thought the same of me. We stood that way, in an uncomfortable pause, acknowledging something shared.
“Hello, Bilal,” I said. “You can call me Nahr.”
“Alhamdulillah assalameh, Nahr.” He smiled, taking my bag with a dark, hairy arm that emerged from the rolled-up sleeve of a white linen shirt. He looked like Mhammad, with a defined jaw and strong, dark features, but he was thinner and taller. “Our mother is anxious to see you and insists that you stay with us, of course,” he said.
I knew my mother-in-law only throu
gh the telephone, and would meet her for the first time now as I came seeking a divorce. She was nearly blind and possessed the limitless generosity and kindness that often accompanies sightlessness, as if one’s love for the world increases as the ability to see it diminishes. I recalled the immediate affinity I had felt when we spoke years ago, and now I wished I had come to visit her sooner.
She wore a black embroidered thobe and black hijab in permanent mourning for her husband and, some would say, her eldest son, Mhammad, although he was still living. She had prepared msakhan for my arrival. I didn’t know if she knew or if it was a coincidence that she had made my favorite dish. I could smell it when Bilal and I walked into their home, a modest stone structure nestled on the side of a hill in the unplanned, organic style of Palestinian villages, its floors tiled in beautiful granite from nearby quarries in el-Khalil. Their home was accessed only by a narrow, winding footpath, over which Bilal had carried my large bag, and I had struggled to walk in my heels.
“Bilal, may God bestow His favor on him, slaughtered a couple of our chickens and prepared the meal himself. I just watched over it while it baked,” she said.
I hid my surprise. This was the second time in one week that men had cooked for me. “Bless both of your hands that made this delicious meal. You humble me with your kindness,” I said.
“You are one of us, even though you are here to separate from us,” Bilal said kindly.
I looked down, unsure how to respond.
Against the Loveless World Page 14
