“Can’t avoid it,” Ahmed said.
Later, they drove to Fatma’s to tell the family their plans. Would they tell Ahmed it was a foolish idea? Would the mother expect to come along?
Everyone talked at once. Margaret held her breath. Someone said, “Fikra kwaisa.” Good idea. Huda, who was traveling that afternoon, said she’d serve them lunch when they arrived in Bethlehem the next day.
Fatma’s husband, Abu Ra’id, turned to Margaret. “Ahmed, he’s lucky. He still has his ID.” Abu Ra’id shook his head. “I tried thirteen times to visit Palestine. The Israelis said no.” His eyes became moist. “Thirteen times!”
All that Margaret could say was, “I’m so sorry.”
That night after the children had fallen asleep, Margaret lay next to Ahmed and wrapped herself around him. “You’re traveling on your American passport, right?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He caressed her arm. “If I use my passport and they discover I have residency, I could get into trouble. I don’t want to risk losing my ID.”
Ahmed had always emphasized that his ID card—his residency in the West Bank—was something to hold on to. He clung to it like he clung to his dream of one day returning to Palestine.
They were quiet for a moment until at last he said, “I’ll decide at the border.”
They began the winding descent toward the bridge with Abu Ra’id at the wheel and Ahmed next to him drumming the dashboard nervously. From the backseat, Margaret glanced out the window and squinted at the sweeping view of the valley and the switchbacks etched in the hillsides.
At the Jordanian border, they waited for their passports to be stamped. Then Ahmed ushered them onto a bus, where they sat silently as the seats filled with other passengers. What a contrast to the jubilant ride to the wedding two days before. Finally, the bus lurched forward, and the first Israeli flag appeared. Then another. At last, the bus stopped at a building. Inside, long lines of travelers filled the space. Young soldiers strode by, talking loudly to one another in Hebrew.
Tariq asked, “Are those the Israelis?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Shh.”
When it was their turn, she handed four blue passports to the female soldier. Meanwhile, beads of sweat appeared on Ahmed’s forehead. “I have a residency ID,” he said and handed over the small identification card in an orange plastic cover.
Margaret blinked but kept her face neutral.
The soldier flipped open the cover, revealing an outdated photo of Ahmed. After reviewing their documents, she gestured toward some chairs. “Go wait over there.”
The children sat, and Margaret whispered to Ahmed, “What are they doing?”
“Checking my background.”
Margaret groaned softly.
After an hour, a male soldier approached and asked for Ahmed. They walked away, and Margaret stared at the empty seat next to her. Regrets began to pile up inside her. Why had they come to Palestine?
She repeatedly ordered Tariq and Leena to sit still until finally Ahmed walked back toward her and sat down. He sighed wearily. “They’re almost done.”
“What did they ask?”
“The usual questions,” he said. “‘What’s your purpose in Israel? Where are you staying? Who do you know?’ Over and over.”
By the time Ahmed and Margaret were called back to the window, they had waited three hours. A female soldier gave Margaret and the children two-week visas, stamped on a separate sheet of paper. To Ahmed she returned his identification card, still in its worn plastic cover.
Soon they were in a taxi, the Israeli border behind them. Driving through the Palestinian countryside, they passed olive groves sloping gently toward them. Arabic music played on the radio, and tassels swayed in the windshield. Squeezed in the backseat with the children, Margaret declared, “We made it!”
Ahmed turned to her and smiled. “I knew we would. Kids, we’ll be in Bethlehem shortly.”
Margaret leaned forward. “What about Jerusalem? Can we go to Jerusalem?”
“That’s the tricky part,” he said. “You and the kids can, but I don’t have permission to go there on my ID. Maybe we can try, though.”
“How? Planning to scale the wall?”
“I can try showing them my passport. Hopefully they won’t look inside.”
They arrived in Bethlehem. The taxi took them to an old palace that had been converted into a hotel. Most important, it was in walking distance to Aida refugee camp. After they settled into their two rooms, they left on foot for Huda’s house. Ahmed hurried down the hill and into the camp, and the children had to run to keep up. They followed him through the narrow winding alleys, past graffiti-covered walls.
“How do you know where you’re going?” Tariq asked.
“I grew up here,” Ahmed said. “This is my home.”
“This is where you lived?” Leena’s voice was full of disbelief.
“You’ll see my home soon, habibti. Aunt Huda lives there now.”
Ahmed paused in front of a rusty blue door. “Here it is.”
Before they could ring the bell, the door opened. Huda stood there, a smile on her face. She welcomed them into the courtyard, and her children gathered around. Hands were shaken, cheeks kissed. Ahmed’s sister Yasmine and her small children were there, too, having traveled from their home in Dheisheh Camp. Yasmine’s eyes filled with tears as she embraced her brother.
Seated on cushions in the crowded courtyard, Ahmed laughed and talked with his sisters, who hung on his every word. Margaret realized that this was filling a gap for him, a void that had grown bigger every year he’d lived away from his home. Could he ever be satisfied with a life in Seattle? And yet—could a job in the Gulf fill the empty spaces for him? That wouldn’t be his home, either.
Cooking smells wafted to the courtyard from the tiny house. Huda brought out the meal, a steaming platter of rice, fried cauliflower, and chicken—maqluba, Ahmed’s favorite. After the meal, they drank tea, and the sun crept down until it was no longer visible. Huda sat next to Margaret and gave her an affectionate squeeze.
The next morning over breakfast, Ahmed talked intently with Huda’s husband about plans for the day.
Margaret asked, “So, we’re not going to Jerusalem?”
“Honey, I have to go.” His tone was high-pitched. “What’s the point of coming here if we can’t go to the Old City?”
“But what about your ID?”
“We’ll just try to use our passports at the checkpoint.” He shrugged. “I have to try.”
“And if they look inside? They’ll see you don’t have a visa.”
“Each year it’s worse. Maybe next time we won’t be able to see Jerusalem at all.”
At that, Huda smiled sadly. “Go see Jerusalem for me.”
Margaret exchanged a look with Huda, who explained that she had not been to Jerusalem for years. A fresh wave of compassion arose in Margaret, as she thought of Ahmed’s family living in the refugee camp. They lived a harsh life, unable to move from city to city, coping with checkpoints, restrictions, living with so much uncertainty.
Ahmed and Margaret agreed they would go. With their children, they left hurriedly for the hotel, where they caught a taxi to the massive wall covered in graffiti.
As they approached, Ahmed said, “Bismillah.”
They walked through a caged metal corridor, across an open space, and into a building, where they took their places in line. Through a high-security turnstile they passed, then a metal detector, and they turned a corner to find more lines.
“The passports,” Ahmed said.
Margaret reached into her backpack. Ahead of them were long lines of Palestinians waiting, documents in hand. When it was their turn, she held them up for the soldier. She spread them out in a fan, five blue passports. She held her breath as the soldier slowly passed his eyes over their family.
He waved them through.
Outside, Margaret sighed deeply, but there was no time to pause. They
slipped onto a minibus heading to East Jerusalem, the Arab side of the city. They sat, and Ahmed brought a hand to his chest. “Thank God. What a relief.”
The ride was short. When they got out, they walked briskly toward Damascus Gate. Ahmed pointed to the ancient stone wall. “That’s the Old City,” he said to the children.
“Wait!” Margaret called out. “I need a photo!”
Ahmed and the children turned and posed. She lined up the massive gate inside the viewfinder, her family in the foreground. As soon as she snapped the photo, they rushed down the steps and into the gate. They followed Ahmed through the labyrinth of the Old City, admiring the pottery and barrels of spices, and buying trinkets for the children.
At each stop, Ahmed told the vendor the highpoints of his life story. It went like this: He was from Aida Camp and studied in America, where he got married. At that point, he would gesture to Margaret, who smiled and nodded. Ahmed explained he had lived in amrikia for twenty-four years. He announced it as though it were the most extraordinary of facts.
It occurred to Margaret that Ahmed had been in Seattle for more than half his life. She had secretly admitted to herself months ago that a move to the Middle East had actually been a reasonable suggestion. In truth, Ahmed was part of a larger trend: Arab immigrants who, since 9/11, were disillusioned with the States and hoped to return to the Middle East. But Margaret had been so dead set against it, so sure of herself. This self-righteousness, where had it come from? And yet, over time, Ahmed had dropped his plan just as she had demanded.
In the Muslim Quarter, Ahmed tapped his watch. “It’s time to pray.” They followed him down a covered alley, past shops selling Qur’ans, prayer beads, and plastic adhan clocks. The gate leading to the Dome of the Rock was ahead of them, the entrance for believers.
They passed through the gate, stepped into the courtyard, and shielded their eyes from the sun. As they walked down the tree-lined path toward the mosque, Ahmed reached for Margaret’s hand and held it. They examined the intricate blue tiles of the mosque and its gold dome from all sides. Margaret snapped photos while Ahmed and the children walked around, heads tilted up, gazing at the calligraphy.
Outside the mosque entrance, older Palestinian women gathered in their traditional thobs and white scarves. Margaret couldn’t help but think of Ahmed’s mother and how she had spoken so fondly of attending Friday prayers in this mosque. That was when she had lived in Bethlehem, when she had gone regularly to Jerusalem—before the wall, before the restrictions.
What a different world this was compared to their life in the cul-de-sac. It was no wonder Ahmed’s mother was miserable back there. Homesick and tragically displaced, the mother could never adjust to life in that cul-de-sac, so lifeless and foreign. Of course, the mother knew of no way to live other than her own.
The sun beat down on the worn stones. Ahmed guided Margaret and the children off to a grassy area, where they sat under the shade of a tree. Ahmed, his dark curly hair graying handsomely, reclined on his elbow, picking tufts of grass. “This spot,” he said, “is where I used to meet my mother after prayer.”
Margaret had always seen their marriage through the prism of their tiny world: the cul-de-sac, the restaurants, their children. But now, sitting near the Dome of the Rock with the walls of the Old City in view, she could envision her and Ahmed’s life as part of something bigger.
And she could also envision the country where Ahmed hoped to move. She had finally done her research—in earnest this time. While researching for their current trip to Jordan, a switch had flipped in Margaret’s head, and she found herself googling the UAE and reading up on the county. The place wasn’t perfect—what country was?—but now she had a visual. When she thought of the UAE, she saw skyscrapers and highways. She saw beaches and deserts and palm trees. She saw luxury hotels and malls. And international schools and villas, too.
Keep an open heart. The words played in her mind. She longed to tell Ahmed what had been on her mind for months. Margaret searched Ahmed’s face and started to speak.
At that instant, the adhan, the call to prayer, rose from the loudspeakers. Margaret sighed and closed her eyes. The melodic voice of the muezzin floated in the air, alerting worshippers that the prayer was about to begin. Ahmed announced that he and Tariq would pray in the adjacent mosque with the men while Margaret would take the girls into the Dome of the Rock.
Inside, the mosque was cool and cavernous, with tall marble pillars reaching upward. Amidst the hushed calm, they took their place in line, Margaret in the center with Leena and Jenin at her sides.
It was a comfort to pray inside the ancient mosque, embellished with elaborate mosaics and carpets, the third holiest mosque in Islam. With this thought, the turmoil inside Margaret subsided, and when the communal prayer began, she listened to the familiar phrases and murmured her responses. And as she knelt in sujud, a renewed sense of faith swept over her. Everything would work out. God willing, she would set things right with Ahmed.
At the end of the prayer, she whispered to the girls, “Make du’a.” Shifting to English, Margaret held up her palms and made her silent prayer. Please guide and protect me and my family. Forgive me, God, for all my mistakes. She opened her eyes to see the other women rising and Leena tugging on her sleeve. Margaret closed her eyes again. Fill my heart with love and faith. Help me overcome my fear.
Later, they walked among the alleyways again.
“I know where I want to go now,” Ahmed announced. “Come with me.” They followed him down one long straight alley, until he said, “This is it.”
He stopped at a small dessert shop; its sign read AL JAFFER PASTRIES. They filed into the shop and eyed enormous trays of sticky sweet kanafe, basbousa, and baklawa. They sat at one of the marble tables, and Ahmed said, “Now you get to taste my childhood.”
He ordered tea and five servings of kanafe. The waiter served them each a flat slab of the bright orange pastry filled with soft cheese, garnished with chopped pistachios and drenched in sweet sticky syrup. They had all eaten a variation of it back in Seattle prepared by Ahmed.
“This,” he declared, “is the real thing.” He put a bite in his mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed. His face became flushed with the taste of the kanafe and nostalgia embedded together.
Margaret gazed at her husband as the gooey sweet cheese rolled over her tongue. Leena climbed up onto Ahmed’s lap, and Tariq put his arm around his father.
“This is the best, Baba.”
Ahmed nodded. “I can never get mine to taste like this back home.”
Back home.
It was in this perfect atmosphere of warmth and nostalgia that Margaret felt her pleasure recede. She glanced at the tender faces of her family, and her eyes landed on Ahmed, who was smiling at something Jenin had said. Margaret’s spirit flooded with both love and angst. She looked down at her plate of half-eaten kanafe and pushed it away. All of the distress she had endured for the sake of staying in Seattle—clinging to her sad house in the cul-de-sac—was now reduced to a realization, a sudden click in her head: she had made a mistake.
A knot formed in her chest, and she had an abrupt urge to escape the pastry shop. She needed to breathe. “We haven’t gotten anything for your mother,” she told Ahmed. “Why don’t you finish up here and I’ll find a gift for her.”
“Good idea,” he said, and they agreed to meet up on the steps outside Damascus Gate.
“See you then.” Margaret said good-bye to the kids and turned down the alley. Wandering aimlessly, her mind spun a web of regrets. She drifted through the souk until a shopkeeper enticed her into his pottery shop by asking, “You want something authentic?”
She entered the narrow shop and picked up a stack of hand-painted plates.
“You’re my first customer today,” the shopkeeper said. “My first! Things are getting worse and worse. Few tourists come to Jerusalem anymore.”
Margaret, in a private turmoil of her own, looked down at the plates in her hand
without really seeing them.
He went on. “So many problems.”
Margaret sighed. “Yes, I know.” She selected a decorative plate for the mother. It had a scene of the Old City and the word Jerusalem in English. “My husband’s Palestinian. I know about the problems here.”
He asked where her husband was from, and Margaret told him. She handed him the shekels and wished he would stop talking. As soon as she paid the man and accepted the plastic bag containing the plate, she realized it was a silly gift. Ahmed’s mother couldn’t read the word Jerusalem, and she didn’t have a wall of her own on which to hang it.
He said, “Your husband, he is a lucky man.”
Margaret looked at him and then away. “He’s not.”
The shopkeeper rocked back and forth on his heels. “He’s a lucky man.” He smiled and tilted his head at her. “I can tell these things.” His face was that of a friendly uncle, but his words made Margaret angry.
No, she wanted to say. Her husband wasn’t lucky—he had a wife who was self-centered and hard-headed. Totally stubborn. Margaret turned to leave but then paused and stood there. Like an image in her viewfinder suddenly brought into focus, the reality of her choices became clear. In that cramped pottery shop, Margaret knew what she needed to tell Ahmed.
She turned out of the shop and hurried toward Damascus Gate. The alley was crowded at that time of the day, and it was already past the appointed meeting time. When the sight of the gate finally came within view, she hurried toward it.
After passing through, she took an enormous breath. The heat of the day had lifted, and the golden light of the late afternoon sun shone on the steps where Ahmed and the children were supposed to be. She climbed halfway up the stairs and turned back to Damascus Gate, scattered with passersby and vegetable sellers. She scanned the faces of the people streaming out of the Old City. Where was her family?
Margaret sat on the one of the steps and stared at the gate. She thought about Ahmed, her life partner—who he was, and who he wasn’t. He would never turn away a family member who needed help. He would never opt for a quiet evening when he could have a loud one with his family. He would never spend a weekend on yard work or home repairs. He would never be satisfied with their cul-de-sac life. What had she expected?
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 32
