Only women are in the cafeteria now. The men and boys have already eaten. The women serve us Dolma, Shrak, and hummus for dipping. One of the many foods I have come to love is the Shrak, which is a pliable pita-style bread. Even though Hoda makes my lunch every day, I find myself getting in line for a round of Shrak when my girls line up for their lunches.
Most of the girls in my class spread out, sitting with girls from other classes, sisters, and cousins. A few of their mothers help around the center and come to visit during lunch, like Jasara does with Laila.
One day at lunch, I asked Laila in Arabic why Jasara helps, knowing she won’t be paid. She stared at me like I had grown a third head and told me in the best English she could that she was thankful for what they have done for them. “Not ... eh ... um ... maal.”
I deciphered what she was trying to say. “Money. It isn’t about the money.”
She nods and continues to eat her lunch. “They give food. Help when sick. Teach.” She smiles at me tenderly. “I am thank.”
Decoding her words, I say what I think she is trying to. “You are thankful.”
She nods eagerly and speaks slowly in English. “I am thankful.”
Muna sits in between Jasara and me, dipping small pieces of Shrak into the creamy Hummus. She is so petite and I watch her take little bites, hoping those bites eventually get bigger, making her stronger. I wonder if she worries this might be her last meal. Is that why she takes small bites? She never finishes her food, but always asks me at the end of lunch, “You keep?”
At first I didn’t understand, but Laila’s perception was keener than mine when she told me she wanted me to hold it for her. Save it for the end of the day.
Everyone starts to clear their plates and Muna gazes up at me, holding out her nibbled Shrak, whispering as if anyone discovered the bread would disappear. “Keep me?”
I smile at her effort to ask me to hold onto it and place both of my hands under and on top of the bread. “I will keep for you.”
She smiles and whispers, “Shukran.”
“You’re welcome.”
The girls get a thirty-minute recess after lunch. As my girls walk behind me, with Muna’s hand in mine, we enter the section of the center housing the Caritas and WorldTeach directors’ offices. I turn to the girls and put my finger to my lips for them to be quiet as we pass the offices. As we turn the corner, I notice two armed soldiers standing guard outside of Tom’s door. The door is open, so without being too obvious, I look in only to catch a glimpse of two dark-haired men sitting side by side across from Tom. Tom is usually a very happy and smiling type of guy even when things get frustrating for him. He isn’t smiling now and it leaves me wondering if something is wrong.
My girls’ light chatter distracts me, and just as one of the guards glimpses down at me, I look away from the room and turn to calm them again as we walk on, eventually making our way outside.
I usually play hopscotch with my girls. They loved learning this game and it has been the game of choice this week.
“Ms. Ella, come play,” one of the girls calls to me, waving me down.
Preoccupied with the soldier standing on the other side of the courtyard gate, I smile and wave. “You play.”
Yes, we have a guard walking the courtyard when the children are at play and the gate is always locked when we are out here, but never a soldier. Two soldiers within as well. Something is going on. The front door of the center opening catches my attention and I see Tom walking toward me as he watches the girls play. I adjust my veil, feeling the wind creeping under it, pushing it back.
“They love hopscotch, don’t they?” Tom asks, making conversation as he comes to stand next to me.
I watch the two separate hopscotch games they have created to accommodate all nine of the girls except Muna, who is by my side drawing with chalk on the concrete. “They do.” I smile, remembering the day I taught them how to play and how they have come such a long way since then.
“Why are soldiers here?” I ask openly.
Tom is still smiling at the girls at play as he responds, “The benefactor paid a visit today. Wanted to see how the program was coming along.”
“Oh, and he requires soldiers to visit?”
“Yes, it does,” he says flatly, obviously not in the mood for my interrogation.
That didn’t seem to explain the heightened security fully. “Is he still here?”
Realizing my questions were going to continue, Tom shifts his attention to me. “No, he left.”
“Hmm.”
I give room for Tom to settle from my questions before another one begs to be asked remembering the two men in his office. “Was the silent benefactor one of the men in your office?”
I scratch the tip of my nose, attempting to seem casual about my perpetual chain of questioning.
“Yes, we were discussing safety precautions.”
A red flag goes up immediately. “Safety?”
We have gone over safety and what to do if the center was under an attack. We knew where to hide, but we were reassured since the center was established nothing has happened to put the refugees, the children, or the volunteers at risk. Refugee men volunteered to be trained as guards. I’d felt safe under their guard, but now we had soldiers?
Tom nods casually. “We will be discussing added security in a mandatory meeting after classes today in the cafeteria. Could you tell Ana and the other volunteers? Spread the word about the meeting?”
“Yes.”
I’m about to ask more questions, but Tom is already walking back to the doors, preoccupied with the soldier standing guard at the courtyard gate.
As we get into the car and drive away from the Makan Lil Amal center, Zaid breathes a deep, throaty sigh of relief before drinking the cold bottle of water we each have waiting for us. I don’t open mine. I had hoped my first visit to the center would be about raising security measures for the volunteers and refugees, but with the increase of attacks surrounding us in Beirut, Iraq, and north of Amman, the need for heightened security is necessary.
It had been three weeks since returning home and both Zaid and my father had done an excellent job keeping me busy and away from the center. With the conditions worsening at the borders, I demanded coming down here. Zaid insisted on coming, only because he didn’t want me staying any longer than I should.
“Thank you for going with me.” He places the lid back on the bottle and glances over at me, but says nothing. “It would be irresponsible for me, our family, to leave them vulnerable if an attack came.”
“Yes, and putting our own safety at risk in the process is fine with you?” he adds as he looks out the window. Our black SUV winds through the labyrinth of Wust El-Balad, downtown Amman. We are led by a car ahead of us and another SUV identical to ours behind.
“We were not at risk. No one was aware of us being there other than the directors.” We made sure to keep ourselves hidden as we entered the center through a side door and alley rather than the main entrance through the courtyard.
Zaid takes another drink of his water, then clears his throat. “We could have sent word with a soldier. One of the handfuls I have stationed there temporarily. I have trained those men personally. They know how to deliver a simple message.”
My brother’s arrogance and selfishness is relentless and has become more acute since my returning home. He has changed since I last saw him and I’m not sure what it is. “Send word with a soldier? Like you would send a greeting card or a gift? Is that how you would handle notifying the center of a threat, brother?”
Zaid leans his head back into the headrest as he glares over at me. “There is no threat, as I’m sure you would know if you spent more time focused on the state of our security rather than daydreaming of ways to save people increasing our risks. They are the real threat. Make no mistake, I have complete control over my area of expertise, brother, where you have none.”
“Two bombings at centers in Mafra last week, an attack
at a city camp in Jaresh yesterday. While your defenses are bulletproof, the attacks are coming and it is not from within. A handful of soldiers dispensed to these centers would not break our defenses Zaid. Show some fucking compassion.”
“You are a prince, Raj! We have people to do these things for us, risk themselves so you can remain safe and help lead our country. Yes, I will be king, but I will expect your advisement on diplomatic decisions. You can’t very well do that dead, can you? Your mind needs to be on the state of Jordan, not running around being some savior for illegal immigrants!”
My father had made the comment about me being an advisor a few times since my coming home.
“Jordanian, Syrian, American, they are all people at the center, Zaid. Just because they are not pure Jordanian, or registered refugees, does it make them less human to you? Fuck!”
Zaid shakes his head and turns away from me. “Listen to you, I thought I was the one with the temper. That is what the King always says,” he laughs and looks after me, hoping I will join in his humor. “Remember when we were little, how you would always try and hush me when I would curse?”
I force a half grin of the memory as I look out my side window. “Yes, I guess it is your turn now to hush me.”
The walk down memory lane is lost when he returns to our discussion. “Raj, the Americans at the center are the only reason I agreed to relinquish a few soldiers for the center. Well, that and the King’s demand. Apparently, he sees this grand vision of yours, as does your mother.”
I run my hand over my face. “You say you agreed like our father’s opinion is just something to side step. If you just gave this center a fucking shot, you would see what it’s worth to our country.”
Zaid ignores my suggestion. “You have always been a daydreamer, Rajaa. Peace and love and poetry. Is that what the American university has taught you?”
He shoots me a glare. “You used to have your head on straight, now all of that shit has weakened you and your philanthropic desires are bringing weakness here to an already ill king. A father wanting to appease his son upon his return since he may not make it to another.”
As Zaid shakes his head and looks away, I am dumbfounded by his cold and callous regard of my father’s decision to carry through with the center and the way he considers my father’s death as something quickly approaching.
“You don’t know what the fuck you are talking about, Zaid. I haven’t changed, just grown wiser.”
“In the few months you are here, I suggest you spend most of your time with our father and studying the current state of Jordan, and less time worrying about this center. Reacquaint yourself with your home, your people, our ways, rather than the way of the West clouding your mind.” He doesn’t look at me as he gives me this advice.
“Should I remind you our father attended Georgetown University and my attending was under his advisement.”
Zaid shoots back, “Yes, and as the eldest son, the one that will be crowned heir to the throne, I chose to stay here and serve my family, my country, learn the ways of leaders, form allegiances, relations. If I hadn’t, who would be here to help the King make decisions affecting the future of Jordan? Your mother, the Queen?”
He shakes his head. “No, it has been me!”
“What about our Prime Minister, Shafar Badran, the Cabinet. The weight of rule doesn’t fall completely on the King and Queen. I’m sure they have been...”
Zaid smirks and jumps in before I can finish. “Yes, well they have done what they can by law, and I do everything else.”
His double talk strikes a nerve of concern, but I leave it for now as he continues.
“I have proven my worth to both the King and our executive office. Let’s not forget I have been working by his side while you have been off fucking American coeds at Georgetown.”
Once my brother gets this way, it is pointless to continue a logical discussion.
The tension between us has grown too thick, as it has many times since being here. The endless media coverage of my being home and the apparent delay my father has placed on crowning the heir apparent to succeed him as king has only added to Zaid’s maddening personality shift. He sits back and turns to his side of the window just as his cell rings. Picking up, he speaks quickly, saying he can’t talk. It’s because of my presence, I am certain. He continues his conversation by text as I look out my window.
Driving through the center of Amman as a child with my brother, my father. and mother, the streets didn’t look like this, desolate from a palpable fear of attack on the capital of Jordan. The entire Middle East suffers from this symptom of war and terror transfixed by the extremist revolutions peppering the Arab states.
Home is west of Amman. As soon as we arrive, we silently exit the car and walk through the entry toward my father’s office, the strain between Zaid and me tangible.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” my brother announces sharply to my father.
“Wa-Alaykum as-salaam,” my father responds as he closes his laptop, sensing the tension in my brother’s voice. “Mal Khatab. What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” I say quickly while my brother takes his question as an open invitation. He speaks quickly in Arabic, telling our father he and I shouldn’t have gone down to the center today. That our presence wasn’t necessary when a soldier could have easily been sent with the message to Mr. Stern.
“Nothing happened, everyone is safe. Zaid and I just disagree on the responsibility I hold for the center, that is all.”
Zaid sits down in the chair across from my father. “Really, Raj, then what is it you were saying to Mr. Stern about wanting to take a more active role at the center?”
He raises his arms high, like he is calling upon Allah. “You said you were compelled!”
I did not think being at the center would affect me if I remained disconnected while we were there, but somehow the children, the woman in the courtyard, unraveled my separation. I meant to go in there, talk to Mr. Stern, and leave; that was my intention.
Little girls in the courtyard hopping and playing with a stone. I have seen girls on the streets of D.C. play this game. As Zaid exchanged more details of how the soldiers’ presence will relieve any worry and how the staff and volunteers should be briefed, I watched the girls through the small, dusty window behind Mr. Stern.
I noticed the soldier guarding the gate as Zaid and I had instructed; all entries into the center were to be guarded at all times now. There was a woman standing near the children, watching over them with her back to the window. I couldn’t see her face, as she was shielded by a blue veil, a hijab. I noticed a piece of blonde hair escape from beneath it, like a ribbon of gold as it rose and fell to her shoulder over and over again. The dance it had taken on was seductive, making me look away; the veils purpose is to preserve modesty and there I was staring.
I attempted refocusing on Zaid’s and Mr. Stern’s exchange, but my thoughts drifted back to the woman and how she reminded me of my mother. She used to wear the veil every day of my childhood, then one day she stopped. She would tuck her hair in quickly when it would begin to come loose as she played with my brother and me. She would chase us and my brother and I would laugh until we couldn’t breathe. The woman in the courtyard didn’t tuck her hair back, or even acknowledge it had been freed from the veil.
I was nine when I saw my mother’s long, dark head of hair for the first time. The dark mass fell around her oval face, like the waves of the sea at night. I’d asked where her hijab had gone, but she didn’t explain. Now I understood it was a choice that didn’t frame her internal or spiritual relationship with Allah. It was a choice she made, but not afforded by all. Those in impoverished areas of Amman, and among the refugees, traditions and faithfulness was strong, and so was hijab. The woman in the courtyard, with her liberated hair, she was not a Jordanian or Syrian. She was not from here at all. Min Barra, an outsider.
“Is she a teacher?” I asked Mr. Stern
The weight of Zaid’s
immediate stare in my direction was heavy as Mr. Stern shifted the conversation. “Yes, she is,” he said as he looked out the window behind him.
I looked at the silhouette of the woman once more, just as she turned her head to the side, seeming to sense my heavy gaze. Her profile, her nose, lips, she seemed familiar to me. My brother adjusted the conversation back to the safety of the center, expecting my undivided attention. When given a moment’s leeway, I searched for her again through the window, but she was gone, having moved away.
As we walked from the office into the hall, I felt the compulsion to find this familiar woman, but not in mixed company. “I’m compelled to have more involvement in the center. I’m not sure to what capacity, but I would like to visit again regularly, Mr. Stern.”
Seeming stumped and confused, he cleared his throat and stepped closer to my brother and me. “Whatever way you see fit, we would love to have you, Prince Rajaa. I know you want to maintain anonymity, and I know your time should be spent working closely with your brother and father, the King.”
Zaid quickly spoke up, “Yes, I’m glad you say that, Mr. Stern.”
“Oh, Tom, please,” Mr. Stern corrected him.
My brother nodded, “Well, Tom, you understand we need to protect ourselves as much as we need to protect the center. His presence will have some division.”
I noticed Mr. Stern shrink away a little, and smile respectfully as Zaid took control of the conversation. “Of course, Prince Zaid.”
My brother put out his hand in kind for Mr. Stern and Tom accepted it graciously. “Zaid is fine, Mr. Stern, but let’s just keep that between us, all right?”
Zaid’s stout laughter outweighed Mr. Stern’s timorous chuckle.
Sitting next to me and across from my father, Zaid’s smug smile and accusatory glare is infuriating, and I could easily rise to his level, but I manage to keep my anger in check as he continues to stir it with his words. “Did the teacher in the courtyard compel you?”
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 9
