Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  They drove down a tree-lined boulevard with trendy cafés and upscale boutiques. On the sidewalk were Arab women in stylish hijab walking alongside others in short skirts and sleeveless tops. What a world away from the crowded and conservative side of town where Ahmed’s relatives lived.

  They found the correct street, where the villas were set wide apart, each protected by imposing walls. The sun bore down on Ahmed and Margaret as they stood at the gate. He rang the bell while she wiped sweat from her brow. They heard footsteps, and then a tall, well-groomed middle-aged man opened the gate.

  “Ya zelamah!” His casual greeting matched his broad smile as he held his arms open. He was fit and wore a smart polo shirt. They stepped inside, and the men greeted each other with kisses to the cheek.

  Rashid shook Margaret’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you.” He pointed to Ahmed. “I haven’t seen this guy in years.”

  They walked across the courtyard toward the large stone villa. To one side, the blue tiles of a swimming pool sparkled. Rashid led them up the stairs and into the formal entrance, flanked by large pots, flowers spilling out of them. Inside the large entryway, a formal staircase rose up to meet the high ceiling. The house had a different feeling than Fatma’s, cool and fresh. It was air conditioned, of course. Margaret stepped over a red tribal rug and passed a framed antique mirror.

  They entered a formal sitting room, its floor covered with more red carpets, thick and lush. “Please sit.” Rashid gestured toward an overstuffed cream-colored sofa, arranged with red embroidered pillows.

  Margaret sank into the sofa. As the men exchanged the usual questions, her eyes scanned the room. The wide glass-topped coffee table displayed antique Bedouin jewelry beneath its glass, and on top were hefty books on Middle Eastern art and architecture. The walls were decorated with a kilim rug, an old Arabic door, and framed maps of the region.

  A woman walked in. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She smiled and extended her hand to both Margaret and Ahmed. “I’m Cynthia.” Her look was chic and polished, with stylish blond hair and a pale linen dress. “I’m going to go make some tea.” She turned to Margaret. “Would you like to come with me?” Her American accent was familiar, but her manner seemed foreign.

  Margaret followed Cynthia down a hallway, past various paintings of Arab scenes. Margaret had only a moment to admire them before she entered a spacious kitchen. Hung on its yellow walls were colorful pottery and a plate with the word Jerusalem.

  “Have a seat.” Cynthia gestured toward the kitchen table.

  Margaret sat, and Cynthia poured hot water from a kettle into a teapot. The kitchen was spotless and clutter-free; the marble countertops gleamed with a just-polished look. A young Asian woman entered, approached Cynthia, and reached for the kettle.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” Cynthia pointed to a plate of nuts. “Why don’t you bring that to the men?”

  “Yes, Madame.” The woman took the plate and left.

  “I’m still training her,” Cynthia said. “She doesn’t understand I want to do a few things for myself.”

  “Oh.” Margaret was unable to say more; she knew nothing on the subject of maids.

  On an oversized tray, Cynthia arranged a tea set and plates of small cakes and chocolate-covered dates. “Let’s take our tea in the sunroom.” She picked up the tray and again Margaret followed her. This time they walked down a different hallway, one featuring framed Chinese-brushstroke paintings.

  They entered the sunroom, full of greenery and arranged like a photograph in a home décor magazine—so completely different from Fatma’s house or even Margaret’s back in Seattle. Outside was a garden lavishly planted with grass, shrubbery, and bougainvillea.

  Cynthia poured the tea. The cups were of the fancy sort, fragile and delicately patterned.

  Cynthia took the first sip. “I heard you might be moving to the Emirates. I hope it works out.”

  Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Did my husband tell you to say that?”

  Cynthia set her cup down. “I’ve never met your husband before today.”

  Margaret wanted to say something to repair her misstep, but Cynthia kept talking.

  “The UAE is a good posting, but it depends on which emirate. Do you know?”

  Margaret shook her head. “It’s not likely we’ll move.”

  “We lived in Abu Dhabi for years.” As Cynthia gestured, her gold bracelets slid back and forth on her wrist. “Abu Dhabi is more conservative. Dubai is growing like crazy. It’s very international but feels like a construction site. It is the regional travel hub.” She ticked off the places they had visited. “Cairo, Marrakesh, Malaysia, Phuket, Kenya, Oman. Even Yemen!”

  Margaret smiled weakly. This was just the sort of bragging she disliked. She thought of Liz back in Seattle, how uncomplicated it was to share a cup of coffee with her, so down-to-earth and without pretension. As soon as she got back, Margaret would tell her all about Cynthia, and they would have a good chuckle.

  “Of course, it’s getting outrageously expensive.” Cynthia crossed her legs. “That’s one of the reasons we left. Plus, the expat lifestyle there is a bit over-the-top. They’re building man-made islands in the shape of palm trees. I mean, really, is that necessary?”

  Margaret listened absently, distracted by a general longing for Seattle. She heard Cynthia’s words, but somehow they didn’t register. It was hard to make small talk about something Margaret didn’t know anything about.

  “We wouldn’t mind moving back,” Cynthia said. “We still visit sometimes.” Her eyes lit up. “Hey, maybe we’ll see you there.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You sound less than thrilled. How do you feel about moving?”

  It was the first time anyone had asked Margaret how she felt. Ahmed and his family had just expected she would go along. Liz had assumed it was out of the question. The women from her Qur’an study believed she should follow her husband, whatever his plans.

  “We’re happy in Seattle. There’s no reason to move.”

  “I understand,” Cynthia said with genuine sympathy. “Our first posting was in Saudi. We had just settled in, and Rashid had an opportunity in Istanbul. I told him no way. I didn’t want to learn Turkish.” Then she spoke wistfully. “I still regret that. I mean, Istanbul. Can you imagine?” She sighed. “I guess I was afraid. I didn’t want to start over or have the kids change schools.”

  “I don’t want my kids to change schools, either. And I can’t imagine leaving my parents.”

  “It’s hard at first. I was so homesick.” She shook her head. “But it gets better. We fly back to Boulder every summer. That helps.”

  “It’s just so far away.”

  “We did a stint in Singapore. I ended up loving it.”

  Margaret’s eyes took in the room, and when Cynthia wasn’t looking, she took her in, too. Cynthia clearly had a different life. For one thing, she had money.

  “My advice?” Cynthia leaned in. “Just keep an open heart.”

  Margaret nodded but couldn’t find a word to say in reply.

  “Especially if your husband gets a good package.”

  Margaret nodded again but was unmoved. What was fine for Cynthia wouldn’t work for her. How could a desert country possibly compare to their life in Seattle? How could they leave their home, their friends, and the life they had spent twenty years building? The restaurants were doing well, and their children were in good schools. There was no reason to traipse off to the other side of the world. Jenin was already obsessed with the political problems of Palestine. Moving to the region would only make it worse. Who was Cynthia to give advice? Besides, she knew nothing of Ahmed’s family.

  “My husband has relatives in the region.” Margaret finally said. “I’m worried they’d be too much for me.”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’d be easier than you think.”

  Margaret wanted to mention that Ahmed’s mother would be living with them. Instead, she said, “My husband
wants to Arabize our children.” She pronounced the word with more disdain than she had intended.

  “They’re half-Arab, aren’t they?”

  “They’re American, too,” Margaret said a bit defensively. “They get plenty of Arab culture in Seattle.” She felt a sudden vulnerability in front of this woman she had just met. Margaret crossed her arms and hated with disgust the blouse and denim skirt she was wearing—so drab compared to Cynthia’s clothing. Margaret said in a low voice, “My mother-in-law is living with us.” She sat back and waited for that to sink in.

  “I know all about Arab relatives,” Cynthia said. “It’s a package deal with an Arab husband. No way around it. Honestly, the family is easier to handle in an Arab country where they’re not so dependent on you. And the villas here are meant for big families. Plus, you can get a maid. Let her wait on the family. Know what I mean?”

  A set of images flashed in Margaret’s mind: she and Ahmed were in a grand Arab villa—a pool, a maid, and a lush garden with blooming jasmine. The images expanded. Margaret drank tea from fine china and decorated her home with large framed photographs from their travels. The maid performed the household drudgery and tended to Ahmed’s mother.

  Nearly fooled, Margaret came to her senses. How could she have a strange maid underfoot in her house? How could they ever have a normal life in the Middle East? Besides, she doubted Ahmed could get a “good package,” as Cynthia called it. People didn’t live like that from running coffee shops. It didn’t work that way.

  Margaret finished her tea and refused a second cup. She chided herself for nearly falling under the spell of Cynthia’s house, her musings, and her bragging. It was all part of Ahmed’s plan to entice and persuade. Margaret made a vow. She would put an end to his scheming. She was always the one who compromised. Now he was asking her to make the ultimate compromise: to leave her home, her friends, her parents, and the life they had worked so hard to build. And for what? To satisfy his spontaneous whim. She wondered how she had allowed things to get this far.

  Chapter 19

  On her way to Dheisheh Camp, Alison rode in a taxi with her backpack at her feet. Next to her was Belal, who had turned out to be the ideal travel guide: readily available, willing to take her anywhere, and silent when she was too tired to talk. She thought ahead to meeting Yasmine, the last of Khalid’s sisters. Alison had already been through the ritual four times and could predict the scene: kisses, greetings, and questions: Do you love Palestine? How many children do you want? Was your grandfather really Muslim? Are you going to be Muslim?

  She mentally rehearsed her Arabic responses as Fairuz played on the radio and Belal blew smoke out the window. It was he who had suggested they call Yasmine before heading off to Dheisheh. When Huda made the call, Yasmine was adamant that Alison spend the night and the next day, as well. Alison had replied that she would stay the night but leave after breakfast.

  Belal sucked the last bit of life out of his cigarette and flicked it out the window. He turned to her and explained that there were rarely any Israeli soldiers in Dheisheh, so she didn’t have to worry about running into any. The soldiers she had seen in Aida Camp were there to guard the checkpoint and protect the Tomb of Rachel. Dheisheh Camp was bigger but quieter, with few clashes.

  When they stepped out of the taxi, Alison lifted her backpack to her shoulder and looked up at the sloping hill before her, filled with a network of alleys and concrete structures.

  “Before, this camp had a big fence around it,” Belal said. “Now no more.”

  “Maybe things are getting better?” Alison asked.

  “No, they are not.”

  The alley heaved with people passing in both directions, children shouting, and women hovering in doorways. Like the first refugee camp, each cement home had mismatched upper floors, or a room added on. Some additions were only half-complete, with cinder blocks still showing and metal rebar jutting out—perpetually unfinished, as though the builder had simply given up. Dheisheh was even more crowded, with some houses four stories high, sprawling upward, piling four generations of refugees on top of one another.

  Belal seemed to know what Alison was thinking. “This place is so crowded, if you sneeze, your neighbor will hear you.” He pointed to a simple one-story building. “That place is for dabke dancing.”

  “How do you know about this camp?”

  Belal lit a new cigarette. “I have a friend. He lives in Dheisheh.”

  When they reached Yasmine’s house, a boy of about eleven opened the gate into the courtyard. Alison was taken aback by how different it was from Huda’s. There was no patch of green or welcoming corner of cushions. The space was scattered with a jumbled mess of plastic tubs and two upturned seats removed from a car.

  “Tafadhalu.” The boy opened the door for them. Alison entered with her backpack and noticed that Belal was staying behind.

  “What time you want me to come tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Ten.”

  Belal nodded and blew smoke into the air. “As you like.” He disappeared, leaving Alison with the boy, who had to be Yasmine’s son. As she followed him around the corner, Alison realized Yasmine lived in an add-on apartment.

  Alison instantly recognized Yasmine at the doorway. She had the same face as her sisters—deep-set eyes and dark circles underneath. Her dark hair spilled down her housedress, which dragged on the floor. She balanced a curly-haired baby on her hip and reached to embrace Alison.

  “Ahlan wasahlan.” Welcome. Yasmine guided her into a small room, sparse of furniture but crowded with four children standing around, including the boy who had let her in—the eldest. Alison sat on the floor cushions amongst the children. With only one small window, the room was stifling.

  Yasmine sat across from her. “I’m glad you are here. I wanted to meet you since my mother told me about you. Inshallah your trip is going well.”

  At least, that’s what Alison thought she heard. She understood only random phrases of the local dialect, so different from the Modern Standard Arabic she had studied at university. She missed having Khalid nearby to explain. There was so much she still didn’t know.

  Before Alison could reply, Yasmine passed the baby to one of her daughters and excused herself, perhaps to make tea. Unlike Huda’s daughters, Yasmine’s children were all too young to be preparing and serving tea. In fact, the little girl holding the baby on her hip looked about five.

  Yasmine returned with two tall glasses filled with an orange drink. She held the tray in front of Alison. “Tafadhali.” Alison took the cool glass in her hand. Yasmine sat cross-legged on the floor mat. She shooed her children away and began her questions. How was her mother? Her grandmother? Her sisters? Alison responded, “Alhamdulillah.” It was now a familiar give-and-take for Alison, though she searched for the Arabic vocabulary to describe the engagement party, the dancing, and Nadia’s dress. When Yasmine was satisfied with the answers, she asked about her brothers. Alison reported in detail about Ahmed and his family.

  Yasmine moved on to Khalid. It was a series of questions, one logically leading to the next. How was Khalid? How was his health? Was he working? What kind of job did he have? Was he making money? And then an unexpected question came up, an awkward question. Had Khalid forgotten his sister Yasmine? It was difficult to answer because maybe he had forgotten Yasmine. He rarely mentioned her.

  “No,” Alison said. “Khalid didn’t forget you.” Then she remembered the gift that she and Khalid had chosen together. She unzipped her backpack and presented Yasmine with the wallet.

  Her face lit up. “Shukran.” Thank you. Yasmine turned the wallet over, opened it, and stared at the space where the bills were supposed to go. Her shoulders dropped slightly. She looked away for a moment and then said, “I know he has forgotten. He never calls. He never asks about me.” According to Yasmine, Khalid had been closer to her than to any other sister. Then he moved to America.

  As she spoke, tears sprang from her eyes. Her oldest son sat next
to her, stroking her hand and glaring at Alison as though she were the cause of all of his mother’s suffering.

  Yasmine explained the details of her life. Her husband couldn’t get to work because the wall and roadblocks made that impossible. There was no work in Bethlehem. This meant no money, except the little bit handed out by the United Nations. Yes, they got some rice, flour, tea, and one hundred and fifty shekels per month. This was for a family of seven. “Seven people!” she shouted. As she spoke, her expressionless children milled about the room.

  “I know it’s not Khalid’s fault.” Yasmine wiped a tear. “But why can’t he ask about us?” Her tone turned angry. “Can’t he take our bad news?” Alison leaned back, inching away. It occurred to her that she would be sleeping in the tiny house and staying through breakfast.

  Yasmine looked up at the small window. “I know he has a family now. I know that.” She turned back to Alison and finally came to her point. “I can’t even buy pencils for my children. Not even a pencil! Would it harm Khalid to help the children? He’s their uncle.”

  Alison, drained by the exchange, was painfully aware that her Arabic was hopeless for what she wished to say. She uttered phrases as they came to her. “Don’t worry, we’ll send some money. No problem. I’ll tell Khalid. He doesn’t know.”

  At once, the expression on Yasmine’s face changed. “Don’t tell Khalid! It’s my mistake.” Then came crying. Yasmine looked up and whispered something, maybe a word to God.

  “We’ll send you money,” Alison repeated.

  The words made Yasmine cry harder. “I never should’ve said anything. Forgive me.”

  “No problem.” Alison regretted her feeble Arabic vocabulary. It was clear Yasmine was under enormous stress managing her family under these circumstances.

  “I’m sorry.” Yasmine pressed her hand to her chest and continued to cry. Alison wanted the topic to change. She wanted Yasmine to pat her belly and ask how many children she hoped to have. Anything but this crying.