‘This is so unfair,’ he whispered. ‘I fear for your father. The prison…’
I put my finger to my lips. What if, God forbid, Mama or my siblings heard? ‘Let’s talk later.’
‘They have no regard for human rights,’ he hunched over and whispered. ‘What can I do?’
‘You have your own family,’ I said.
‘You’re in a tent, too,’ Abbas added.
‘They’re not going to let your father go. Whose weapons were those? Did they plant them to get this hill? They have enough sniper towers.’ Uncle Kamal shook his head.
I took the rice off the fire. ‘Let’s talk later.’
‘They do whatever they want,’ he said.
‘Please. Not now.’ I cocked my head in the direction of the tent in the most exaggerated way I could.
‘Fourteen years.’ He shook his head.
Mama came out of the tent with the wet rags she had been using on Nadia to bring her fever down. All night Nadia had been in and out of consciousness, burning up with fever. What if it spread to Fadi and Hani or, worse yet, Abbas or me? We couldn’t afford to get sick.
Abbas handed Mama the pot of rice.
‘Curfew’s minutes away,’ I said.
Uncle Kamal looked down at the ground. ‘This must be awful for you.’
I stood, as if to shield myself from his sympathy. ‘We’re managing.’
‘So what,’ he asked, without looking up, ‘did your father say they were doing to him?’
Why didn’t he understand that I didn’t want to talk about this? ‘I need to check on my mother…’
‘How did he look?’
Images of Baba shackled like an animal overwhelmed me. Uncle Kamal covered his eyes with his hands.
‘I want to help.’ His facial muscles tightened and his body shook. ‘Please, excuse me. Honestly. I’m so upset. I’m sorry.’ Tears formed in his eyes. He turned and made his way down the hill.
‘We’re fine,’ I called to him. But we were not. How could I afford shoes for Hani? The cheap buckle on his already too-small sandal had broken and he’d been walking around barefoot for two weeks. No one had eaten until they were full since the house was destroyed; hunger tracked us constantly. There were afternoons when I thought of sneaking into Moshav Dan and stealing fruit. But then I thought of the barbed wire, the armed guards, the beatings. I was failing my family.
Every evening after dinner, I went to Teacher Mohammad’s house. And for a short while, I’d climb out of my purgatory. The time with Teacher Mohammad was the most cherished part of my day. Somewhere inside of me, I knew that Teacher Mohammad held the key to Baba’s wish.
When I was with him, I felt like I wasn’t bearing my burden alone, that we were a team. When I was with him, I could see possibility. If Baba’s imprisonment had been some sort of test of faith, my belief was in science to pull him through. When I’d return to the tent just before curfew, I’d continue studying by the moonlight and the lights from Moshav Dan. I was also tutoring Abbas, but he often felt too tired to study with me.
Before bed, I’d wash behind a sheet I’d hung from Shahida, the almond tree. I’d purchased a small tin tub, and during the day Mama would drag water up the hill. I’d be the last one each night to stand in it and pour water all over my body.
I knew the only way to improve our conditions was for me to work harder.
CHAPTER 13
Bile rose up my oesophagus as I pushed a wheelbarrow filled with cinderblocks to the base of the house. Inside the structure, Abbas was hammering beams together. I had insisted he take that job. It was hard to work outside in the heat during the Ramadan fast. The sun was scorching, but I had the chills. My skin felt cold and damp.
No matter how thirsty I was, I wouldn’t allow myself to take even a sip of water. According to the Imam, if I fasted for Ramadan, not only would Allah forgive all my past sins, he’d also answer my prayers. The sun pounded down on me. My threadbare clothing provided little protection.
I prayed that tonight would be the first sighting of the crescent moon, which would end this month-long fast. And then I began to regret it. This was the holiest month of the year; the month the Koran had been revealed. For the past twenty-nine days, all I’d eaten was a small portion of rice and water at the crack of dawn, and the rest of the day I fasted. By 6am we were on the job, and now the sky was beginning to darken.
The palms of my hands were raw where my blisters popped. The cinderblocks dug into my wounds and made them bleed, but I continued to load them onto the truck. Despite the hour, the air still felt like fire. I’d stopped perspiring. My vision had blurred. The day seemed never-ending. No matter what, I’d continue. I kept repeating the Imam’s words, ‘If you fast for the month, your sins will be pardoned.’
I unloaded the wheelbarrow as quickly as I could and only used the energy to lift my head when the barrow was empty. The air seemed full of fog, which was impossible.
Suddenly the Iraqi grabbed me by the shirt and cuffed me on the head. Instinctively, my arms shot up to protect my face. Stunned, I cowered.
‘Avee!’ the Russian said. ‘Let him go.’
‘He’s too slow,’ the Iraqi said. ‘I need to keep him in line.’
The Russian took a couple of steps towards the Iraqi. ‘Back off.’
‘I’m warning you,’ the Iraqi said. ‘Don’t disgrace me in front of the Arab. He’ll never listen to me again if I don’t keep him and his bastard brother in line.’
Thank God Abbas was out of earshot.
The Russian countered, ‘Kindness creates loyalty.’
The Iraqi’s face turned a dangerous colour of red. ‘Let them take the rest of the day off.’ The veins in his neck bulged. ‘The house will build itself.’
The last thing I remember was vomiting on the side of the wheelbarrow and then everything went black. Cold water hit my head. A blurry face looked down at me. It was Abbas.
‘Thank God.’ Abbas’ voice was choked. ‘You fainted.’
‘Did I drink any water?’
‘No. Should I get you some?’
‘Absolutely not.’
He extended his hands to me and pulled me up.
‘The truck’s here,’ Abbas said.
Slowly I got up and brushed the dirt from my hair and clothes. He helped me to walk. We crammed into the back with the men. The stench of our sweat made me sick to my stomach.
***
We passed by children waiting at the entrance to our village. A truck from the moshav pulled up behind us and they ran to their fathers, hugging and kissing them, laughing and happy. I glanced at Abbas. Was that anger or sadness on his face?
On our walk up the hill, the aromas of grilled lamb, garlic and vegetable stew emanated from every house. Abbas walked with his head down. Everyone was preparing for the breakfast celebration.
‘Do you think Mama has prepared a special meal?’ he asked, with hope in his voice.
For his sake, I prayed she had. We’d been living on almond bread, almond butter, raw almonds, fire-roasted almonds, almonds and rice and almond soup. The almond tree was a blessing. But today was a holiday. Every year, on the holiday, we gathered together and ate katayif in honour of Amal. It was her favourite dessert. Would we still be able to do that this year?
‘How was Baba able to support us?’ Abbas asked.
‘We lived mostly from money he saved when he owned the orange groves,’ I said. ‘And Baba made twice as much as Yossi is paying us together. We can’t do the same work as an adult. And we have more expenses. Don’t forget, everything we owned was destroyed.’
My hunger was greater than usual. My stomach convulsed as if it was attempting to eat away its own lining. With my hands, I pressed against it to dull the pain.
I began to calculate the number of almonds that grew on our tree every year. First I counted the number of branches in the tree.
‘Ichmad,’ Abbas said. ‘Go and wash.’
‘What about the muezzin’s call t
o prayer?’
‘You were passed out,’ Abbas said. ‘The crescent was spotted. Go ahead, you’re the oldest.’
Mama handed me the pitcher and I poured the water over my hands before cleansing my mouth, face, arms and feet. Maybe I rushed my cleaning. The Imam said we needed to be purified for prayer. It was important for me to do everything right. Maybe this could help Baba. When Nadia finished cleansing herself, I washed my hands again.
‘What are you doing?’ Abbas asked.
‘I missed a few spots.’
‘Hurry up!’ Abbas said. ‘I’m starving.’ I noticed the deep circles around his sunken eyes.
Abbas, Fadi, Hani and I lined up shoulder to shoulder outside our tent facing Mecca, Mama and Nadia behind us. We all stood erect, with our heads down and hands at our sides.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ we began. God is great.
With my eyes closed, I pretended I was eating the stews, sautéed vegetables and halal meats we always ate to break the fast. Visions of dishes appeared. Crispy hot falafel. Sweet baklava.
All we had was a bowl of rice apiece. After the meal, Abbas and I sat in the corner and read the Koran by lantern light. Our clothes were too worn out to wear into the mosque. Secretly, I prayed the Palestinian Freedom Fighters would capture an Israeli and Baba would be released in a prisoner exchange.
That night in the dark, I listened to Mama sobbing. She must have thought I was asleep. My stomach convulsed with hunger. Then it occurred to me. I could make weapons to hunt animals.
***
On Friday afternoons, we didn’t have work because it was the Jews’ day of rest, so Abbas and I headed out to what remained of our village’s grazing pasture to set traps and try to catch rabbits and birds. We walked carefully, searching for bedding and feeding areas as well as waterholes. Luck was with us, and we happened upon a rabbit hole.
We lay on the ground, each of us on one side of the hole, and placed over it the noosing wand I’d built from a pole and piece of wire I’d found in the garbage at work. With the wire slip noose over the hole, we waited for a rabbit to emerge.
As we lay on the ground, I saw a herd of sheep coming in my direction. I could just see them over the tall grasses without moving from my position. Their short feet kicked up dust, their cries of baa baa baa were like the resonance of a musical instrument, and their progression was by sideways leaps and playful butting.
From their midst, a shepherdess appeared. She was a delicate girl with black curly hair that reached the small of her back, and green twinkling eyes. She was so petite, how could she possibly handle the entire herd alone? With her stick, she sharply tapped each sheep that tried to stray. Our eyes met. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I smiled at her and she smiled back and, before I knew it, she and the sheep had passed by.
***
On Saturday morning I hurried back to the rabbit hole with a spear, a plank, forked sticks and a wire noose. I told Abbas he didn’t need to come, that I could easily set the traps myself. Secretly, I hoped to see the shepherdess. On either side of the rabbit’s run, I set up forked sticks, laid a cross-piece with a wire noose hanging from it across them and waited.
The wind carried a girl’s voice to me, shouting, ‘Help me!’
With my spear and plank in hand, I ran to the voice. The shepherdess was up against a tree, a raggedy jackal advancing towards her. I ran in front of her, waving my arms at the creature, but it didn’t run away. That’s when I saw the froth at its mouth. It continued to come at us, trance-like.
I ran at the jackal and drove my spear into its neck. With my other hand, I cracked it over the head with a plank. It fell to the ground and began convulsing. I clubbed it again and again until it wasn’t moving anymore.
Perhaps I was in shock. I just stood over the thing, not believing what I’d done without thought, without fear. The shepherdess ran over and threw her arms around me. She must have realised her madness because, within a second, she released me and stepped back.
‘Were you bitten?’ I asked in an attempt to break the awkward silence.
‘No, thanks to you.’ Her face flushed.
‘What about your sheep?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she said. ‘The jackals always run away. This one was different.’ She smiled and began to tap her sheep. Within seconds she was gone.
A rustling in the brush behind me startled me – what if there were more jackals? I swung around, but there was nothing. My trap! Caught in my noose was a big white rabbit. I picked it up by the ears and brought it home. Maybe my luck was changing.
***
The next day, the Jews declared the area where I’d encountered the shepherdess ‘closed’ and barred us from entering. The news about my killing the rabid jackal circulated throughout the village. When I passed villagers, they congratulated me with their eyes. Abbas asked me to repeat the details of the story numerous times. My siblings considered me a hero, but I felt empty. I didn’t feel there was anything heroic about killing. The animal was sick. I’d done it in self-defence and for survival, but that didn’t make me feel proud. The only person I confided my feelings to was Baba. He wrote back that he would have felt the same way.
CHAPTER 14
The flatbed truck pulled up by our construction site to deliver trees. ‘Where are you two going?’ the Yemenite asked.
‘To buy a sapling,’ I said.
Abbas shook his head. ‘What?’
‘From the Jewish National Fund?’ The Yemenite’s voice was suspicious.
The driver showed me the different trees that were available that day: cypresses, pines, almonds, figs, carobs and olive trees. Abbas stood a metre behind me.
‘I’ll take that one.’ I pointed to an olive sapling.
The driver scrunched his brow. I paid him my day’s wage for the sapling and some mineral dust.
‘Are you crazy?’ Abbas’ facial muscles were taut.
‘We’re going to plant it in Baba’s honour.’
‘A tree from the Jewish National Fund? They stole our land and forbade us to benefit from it. They don’t need our money. They control over ninety per cent of the land.’
I shrugged. ‘Where else could I buy this?’
***
That evening after work, Abbas and I gathered our family around the almond tree and I held up the olive sapling. ‘Every year we’ll plant an olive tree in Baba’s honour until he’s released,’ I said.
Abbas and I dug an area sufficient for the sapling’s size with the shovels I had used with Ali, and to bury Sara, and we planted the sapling. Together, Abbas and I spread well-rotted donkey manure that Mama had prepared over the area. When we finished, Mama spread the mineral dust.
Mama and my siblings sat in a circle around the tree and I read the relevant part of Baba’s letter:
Your idea to plant the olive tree in my honour brought tears to my eyes. I don’t care if you purchase the sapling from the Jewish National Fund. I pray our people and the Jewish Israelis will one day work together to build up the country, rather than destroy it.
I put the letter down. My eyes met Fadi’s.
‘You’re both crazy.’ He tried to get up but Mama held him down.
‘Think of your favourite memory of Baba,’ I said.
‘No one could build things like Baba,’ Abbas said. ‘Remember the cart?’ Abbas and I had helped Baba make it from wood. It was my idea to make the wheels from tin cans. When he pulled us through the centre of the village in it, everyone stared.
‘What about the rocket launcher?’ Fadi said. Baba had made the launcher from scrap pipes and an empty water bottle. The rocket could reach the top branches of the almond tree.
‘And the skipping rope?’ Nadia said. Baba had collected scraps of rope from work.
‘Don’t forget those bows and arrows,’ Abbas said. ‘And the cardboard bull’s-eye.’ Baba, Abbas and I had broken off branches from the almond tree to make the arrows. We’d painted a black dot with circles around i
t for the bull’s-eye and had hung it from the tree. Abbas and I had spent hours trying to hit that centre dot.
‘Nothing beats that backgammon board,’ I said. ‘Remember how he painted the rocks for pieces.’ Baba had spent hours playing with me until I became unbeatable.
‘Let’s go to the cemetery, to grandfather’s grave,’ I said. Every Friday before Baba had gone to the mosque, he’d stopped at the cemetery to water the flowers he’d planted at his father’s grave. When Baba went to prison, I took over the job.
‘Then, let’s go to the mosque,’ Mama said. ‘Your father always went on Fridays.’ It was important to Mama, I told myself.
In the mosque, Abbas, Fadi, Hani and I stood on the rugs that were laid on the glazed tile floor with all the fathers and sons. Mama and Nadia stood at the back with the women. Uncle Kamal was there with his sons. I couldn’t help feeling everyone’s pity and it saddened me. I looked at the mihrab that pointed to Mecca. I remembered when Baba showed me where Mohammad Pasha, a governor during the Ottoman rule, had inscribed on it his name along with the date 1663. Abbas’ cheeks were wet with tears. It was so painful for me to watch all the other fathers and sons, to see Uncle Kamal, and to know that Baba was in prison and Sara and Amal were dead.
We sat on the prayer mats and the imam began his sermon from behind the white marble minbar about the importance of father–son relationships and how children were young for such a short time; how fathers should take the time to enjoy their children. I saw the barber with his son in the corner and I was reminded that Baba, too, would return. The limestone blocks and cross-vaulted ceiling of the mosque, which I had always looked at in awe, now shrunk me. Because of me, Baba couldn’t enjoy its beauty with us.
As we returned to the tent we passed the square foundation of mud-brick that once was our home. I could remember each portrait Baba had drawn – especially the one of Baba holding me the day I was born. He looked like the happiest man alive. If only he’d known then the suffering I’d bring upon us all.
We sat around the fire and I told my siblings about Baba’s orange groves and how he’d taken charity to the villagers, and made music at everyone’s happy occasions. I wanted my siblings to know that they had a father; to know what he was like; to remember him. It was easier for Abbas and me – we’d spent more time with him – but Hani was so young.
The Almond Tree Page 7
