The Almond Tree

by Michelle Cohen Corasanti

  The roar of military Jeeps speeding into our village silenced the chatter. Rocks flew through the air and pummelled them; engines screeched to a halt. My friend, Muhammad Ibn Abd, from my class, ran past us, through the square, with two steel-helmeted soldiers with face protectors and Uzis on his heels. They threw him down on a tarp of tomatoes and drove the stocks of their Uzis into his skull. Abbas and I tried to run to him, but Baba held us back.

  ‘Don’t get involved,’ he said and pulled us towards our house. Abbas’ fists were clenched. Anger bubbled inside of me too. Baba silenced us with a glance. Not in front of the soldiers, or the other villagers.

  We made our way towards the hill where we lived, past clusters of homes like ours. I knew each of the clans that lived in these family groups, as the fathers would split their land among their sons, generation after generation, so the clan stayed together. My family’s land was gone. Most of my father’s brothers had been forced into refugee camps across the border in Jordan twelve years ago, on the day of my birth. Now, my brothers and cousins and I would have no orange groves, no houses of our own. As we passed the last of the mud-brick homes, my head pounded with rage.

  ‘How could you stop me?’ The words burst from my mouth as soon as we were alone.

  Baba took a few more steps, then stopped. ‘It would accomplish nothing but to get you into trouble.’

  ‘We need to fight back. They won’t stop on their own.’

  ‘Ichmad’s right,’ Abbas chimed in.

  Baba silenced us with his look.

  We passed a pile of rubble where a house used to be. In its place was a low tent. Three little children held onto their mother’s robe while she cooked over an open fire. When I looked over at her, she lowered her head, lifted the pan, and ducked into the tent.

  ‘For twelve years, I’ve watched many soldiers enter our village,’ Baba said. ‘Their hearts are as different from each other’s as they are from ours. They are bad, good, scared, greedy, moral, immoral, kind, mean – they’re human beings like us. Who knows what they might be if they were not soldiers? This is politics.’

  I gritted my teeth together so hard my jaw hurt. Baba didn’t see things the way Abbas and I did. Uncollected rubbish, donkey dung and flies littered the path. We paid taxes but received no services because they classified us as a village. They stole the majority of our land and left us with one half of a square kilometre for over six thousand Palestinians.

  ‘People don’t treat other human beings the way they treat us,’ I said.

  ‘Ichmad’s right,’ Abbas said.

  ‘That’s what saddens me.’ Baba shook his head. ‘Throughout history the conquerors have always treated the conquered this way. The bad ones need to believe we’re inferior to justify the way they treat us. If they only could realise that we’re all the same.’

  I couldn’t listen to him anymore and ran towards home, shouting, ‘I hate them. I wish they’d just go back to where they came from and leave us alone!’ Abbas followed on my heels.

  Baba called after us, ‘One day you’ll understand. It’s not as simple as you make it out to be. We must always remain decent.’

  He had no idea what he was talking about.

  The flower scent reached me about halfway up the hill. I was glad we lived only five minutes from the square. I wasn’t like Abbas, outside playing games with friends and running all the time; I was a reader, a thinker, and this running fast made my lungs burn. Abbas could run all day and he’d never even perspire. I couldn’t begin to compete with his athleticism.

  Bougainvillea in shades of purple and fuchsia climbed the trellises that Baba, Abbas and I had made to run up the outside of the little house. Mama and Nadia were taking more trays of sweets to their storage place under the tarp near the almond tree. They had been baking all week.

  ‘Go inside,’ Baba said as he trudged up behind Abbas and me. ‘They’re starting curfew earlier today.’

  ***

  Sleep could not find me. My anger made me invisible and when it visited the rest of my family, it overlooked me. So I was the only one who heard the noises outside. Footsteps. At first I thought it was the wind in the almond tree, but as they drew louder, closer, I knew it was not. No one was ever out after dark except soldiers. We could be shot if we left our homes for any reason. It must be soldiers. I lay very still listening for the pattern, trying to discern how many feet. It was one person, and not in the heavy boots of the soldiers. It must be a thief. Our home was so small that, in order for everyone to lie down, we had to place many things out of doors. The food for my birthday party was outside now. Someone was creeping up on it. I stepped over my family’s sleeping bodies, afraid to be seen outside, but more afraid to let someone steal the food Mama and Nadia had worked so hard to prepare, and that Baba had saved all year to buy.

  The chill caught me off guard and I wrapped my arms around my chest as I picked my way along, barefooted. There was no moon. I didn’t see him. A sweaty hand clamped over my mouth. Cold metal pressed against the back of my neck – a gun barrel.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said.

  He spoke in my village’s dialect.

  ‘Tell me your full name,’ he demanded in a whisper.

  I closed my eyes and envisioned the tombstones in our village cemetery.

  ‘Ichmad Mahmud Mohammad Othman Omar Ali Hussein Hamid,’ I squeaked, wishing to sound manly, but sounding like a little girl.

  ‘I’ll cut your tongue out if I catch you lying.’ He spun me around and jerked me backwards. ‘What’s a rich boy like you doing in my house?’

  The scar on his forehead was unmistakable. Ali.

  ‘The Israelis, they took our land.’

  He shook me so violently I feared I might vomit.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ He jerked me further backwards. I grabbed onto his arms with all my might and thought of my family asleep on their rush mats in our house, Ali’s home.

  ‘He’s sleeping, doctor,’ I said, adding the title as a show of respect so that he might not slit my throat there, next to the birthday pastries.

  He thrust his face into mine. What if he asked what Baba does?

  ‘Right this very minute, my comrades are burying arms throughout this village.’

  ‘Please, doctor,’ I said. ‘I could pay attention much better if I were vertical.’

  He slammed me backward before he yanked me upright. I looked at the open bag next to his foot. It was filled with weapons. I looked away, but it was too late.

  ‘See this gun.’ He shoved the pistol in my face. ‘If anything happens to me or my weapons, my comrades will chop your family to pieces.’

  I nodded, mute to this horrible vision.

  ‘Where’s the safest place to hide them?’ He glanced towards the house. ‘And remember, your family’s lives depend on it. Don’t even tell your father.’

  ‘I would never,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t understand. We have no choice. Hide them in the dirt behind the almond tree.’

  He walked me over with the pistol against the back of my neck.

  ‘There’s no need for the gun.’ I lifted my hands away from my sides. ‘I’m quite willing to help. We all want freedom for ourselves and our brothers in the camps.’

  ‘What’s under the tarp?’ he asked.

  ‘Food for my celebration.’

  ‘Celebration?’

  ‘My twelfth birthday.’ I could not feel the gun against my skin anymore.

  ‘Have you a shovel?’

  He followed me.

  ***

  When we finished, Ali stepped into the trench and laid the bag of arms down the way a mother would place her baby in his bassinet. In silence we scooped dirt from the mound beside the trench until we covered the bag.

  Ali grabbed a handful of date cookies from under the tarp and stuffed them into his pockets and mouth. ‘Palestinians trained to use these weapons will come.’ White particles sprayed from his mouth. ‘You’ll protect them until the time is rig
ht, or your family will be killed.’

  ‘Of course.’ I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to become a hero of my people.

  I started to return to my rush mat inside the house, but Ali grabbed my shoulder. ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you all.’

  I turned to face him. ‘You don’t understand. I want to help.’

  ‘Israel has built a house of glass, and we’ll shatter it.’ He cut the air with his fist then handed me the shovel.

  There was a skip in my step as I returned to my house. I lay again in the darkness next to Abbas, my body and mind charged with the thrill of what I’d participated in. Until it occurred to me – what if the Israelis found out? They’d imprison me. They’d bulldoze our house. My family would have to live in a tent. Or maybe they’d exile us. I wanted to talk to Baba or even Abbas, but I knew Ali and his comrades would kill us. I was caught between the devil and the fires of hell. I had to move the weapons. I’d tell Ali they weren’t secure. I couldn’t dig them up now. Where would I put them? During the day, someone could see me. I’d have to wait until curfew. The whole village would be at our house this evening. What if the soldiers came? What if my family noticed, or someone from the party? The village cemetery. New plots were dug there almost daily. I’d go after school to scout out a place.

  CHAPTER 4

  I had to go outside and make sure nothing looked suspicious. I was getting up when Mama placed the cake on the dirt floor in front of me. She pushed me back down and kissed my cheeks.

  ‘Why are your eyes so bloodshot?’ she asked.

  I shrugged.

  My siblings gathered around me.

  ‘I laboured with you for fifteen hours…’ Mama began.

  ‘Can you retell the story later?’ I asked. We could all soon be dead and she wants to tell the story of my birth?

  Mama pointed to the picture Baba drew of her, pregnant, lying in the dirt between our orange trees. Crates overflowing with oranges concealed her from all sides.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

  ‘While I was birthing you, Israeli tanks entered our village and sprayed it with deadly fire.’ Mama’s eyes never left me. ‘The Israelis separated the men and women. With guns pointed at their heads, the soldiers marched the men in the direction of Jordan. Women dug up jars of money, gathered their gold and clothes. With their bundle of valuables balanced on their heads, house-keys around their necks and children under their arms, the women also marched. By the time you emerged, the soldiers were gone.’ Mama smiled at me. ‘Because of you, we aren’t refugees.’

  She motioned to my sister Nadia. ‘Bring the birthday king his coffee.’

  I could hardly breathe.

  Nadia placed the white cup filled with Arabic coffee in front of me. I gulped it down, leaving a small amount.

  Mama watched me. ‘You’re going to choke.’

  I handed her the cup. She turned it around three times, covered it with a saucer, flipped the two upside down and faced them towards me. The coffee grounds settled at the bottom. Carefully, Mama looked into the cup for the symbols that would tell my future.

  Her face darkened, her body tensed. She grabbed the earthen pitcher and dumped well-water over the grounds. Baba laughed. Abbas covered his mouth with his hand.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing, my love. It’s not a good day to read your future.’

  A wave of fear hit me. Was it because of the weapons? Was I to die?

  Mama would spend the day preparing more birthday sweets. I needed to make sure she couldn’t see anything.

  ‘I am in the mood for a date cookie.’ I rose.

  Mama pulled me back down. ‘Nadia, fetch Ichmad a cookie.’

  Suddenly I thought of all the cookies Ali had eaten.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said.

  Mama squinted a bit, like she was trying to see through my odd behaviour. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I had a lot last night.’

  Baba reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small brown bag and extended it to me. His face glowed. Our eyes met as I took the bag from him.

  ‘It’s the two magnifying glasses you wanted,’ he said. ‘For your telescope.’

  ‘Where did you get the money?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ‘I’ve been making payments since last year.’

  I kissed his hand. He pulled me close and hugged me.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Abbas asked.

  Baba handed me a book: Einstein and Physics.

  I placed the 3 cm magnifying glass between my eyes and the opened book. With my other hand I held the 2.5 cm glass above the 3 cm one.

  ‘Why are your hands shaking?’ Mama asked.

  ‘Emotion.’ I moved the lens until the print came into sharp focus.

  Abbas handed me a ruler.

  ‘Three centimetres,’ I said.

  I felt like a tsetse fly under a microscope.

  ‘Here.’ Abbas passed me my homemade telescope and a knife.

  I measured carefully and cut two slots into the cardboard tube, inserted the lenses and secured them with fabric. Through the telescope my book was huge. ‘Twice the power.’

  I hugged Baba again. What had I done?

  The school bell sounded.

  ‘I don’t want to be late.’ I’d sneak back to the almond tree before I left for school.

  ‘I’ll walk you,’ Baba said. ‘I’ve taken the day off to help Mama prepare.’

  ***

  After school, I stopped by the cemetery, found the appropriate plot and went straight to my almond tree. The dirt looked the same.

  ‘Come sit with me.’ Baba appeared next to me. ‘I heard a few new jokes.’

  My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t think straight. I held the telescope up. ‘She’s beckoning me.’

  ‘How can I compete?’ Baba said.

  I climbed our almond tree. Abbas and I had named her Shahida, ‘witness’, because we spent so many hours in her watching the Arabs and Jews that she felt like a playmate deserving of a name. The olive tree on Shahida’s left we called Amal, ‘hope’, and the one on her right was Sa’dah, ‘happiness’.

  Baba leaned against the mud-brick wall of our home to watch me. I aimed the lens of my new telescope at Moshav Dan’s swimming pool.

  ‘I wonder if Einstein made his own telescope. You’d do well to follow his example,’ Baba said.

  ‘Abu Ichmad!’ Mama called. ‘I need your help inside.’

  Baba walked to the front of the house.

  I aimed the lens of my telescope to the west of the village. Our hilltop home was the highest point in the village. All the remaining homes were one-room cubes, mud-brick with square flat roofs. The sweat dripped into my eyes. Would this day never end?

  Baba reappeared. ‘Dinner’s ready.’

  A book hit the almond tree and crashed to the ground. I jumped off the branch.

  ‘I hate maths.’ Abbas kicked up the dirt. ‘I’ll never be able to do it.’

  ‘A man who needs fire will hold it in his hand,’ Baba said.

  ‘I’ve tried, but I keep getting burned.’

  ‘Ichmad will help you.’ Baba put his arm around me. ‘God has blessed you with an extraordinary mathematical mind for a purpose.’

  Abbas rolled his eyes. ‘How can anyone forget?’

  ‘Maybe if you spent less time with friends and more time with your books like Ichmad does you wouldn’t have any trouble with maths.’ Baba raised his eyebrows and patted Abbas on the head.

  ‘Dinner.’ Mama’s voice was soft; she was just reminding Baba of what she had sent him to do.

  ‘We’ll be right there, Um Ichmad,’ Baba said. ‘Let’s go, boys.’ We walked towards the house, Baba in the middle, his arms around Abbas and me.

  Inside, my little sister Sara ran to Baba, nearly toppling him over. Mama and Baba’s eyes met and she smiled.

  ‘Let Baba breathe,’ Mama said.

  ‘Here it is.’ Baba pointed to this year
’s portrait of me, which hung in the birthday section of the wall.

  ‘You look just like your father.’ Mama grabbed my cheeks. ‘Look at those emerald eyes, lush hair and thick black lashes.’ Mama raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re my masterpiece.’

  Abbas and my other siblings looked like Mama, with their skin the colour of burned cinnamon, black unruly hair and long arms.

  ‘Take these.’ Mama handed Nadia small dishes of hummus and tabboulie, which she placed on the dirt floor.

  ‘Come, Mama prepared a feast,’ Baba called to Abbas and me. He sat cross-legged next to the small dishes. ‘I swear to you she is the best cook in all the land.’

  He looked at Mama. The corners of her lips rose and she lowered her head.

  Abbas and I sat next to each other as we did for every meal. The rest of our siblings joined us on the floor around the dishes.

  ‘It’s your favourite,’ Mama said. ‘Sheikh El Mahshi.’

  I could not meet her gaze. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ She looked at Baba.

  ‘I’m too excited about the party.’

  Mama smiled at me.

  ‘Those are yours,’ Mama said to Baba. She pointed to a plate of miniature aubergines stuffed only with rice and pine nuts. Baba was vegetarian; he would have no killing in his name, even of an animal for food.

  ***

  Baba sat with his oud on the stone wall next to Abu Sayeed, the violinist.

  I’d started to walk back to the almond tree, when I felt Baba’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Stand next to your portrait,’ he said.

  Abbas walked behind the house with a group of his friends. My stomach dropped. I stood beside Baba next to the easel that held my portrait.

  Men lined up, arms on each other’s shoulders, and began to dance the dabkeh in the middle of the courtyard. Others went behind the house. I could feel the wetness under my arms. The guests were dressed in their Friday best. The older people wore their traditional robes.

  Children shouted, the babies yelled, and everyone laughed while Baba sang his heart out. Abu Sayeed tapped authoritatively on the side of the violin, tucked it carefully under his chin, and then waved his bow in the air in an elaborate flourish. He manoeuvred it like a magic wand. More and more children headed for the back yard.