I thought of how he’d handle the situation. When I asked him how he managed to sound so cheerful in his letters, he told me he wouldn’t allow anyone to break his spirit. He wrote that when he was with people, he always tried to find common interests. If Baba could gain the respect of the prison guards with his singing, drawing and playing, I’d try to do the same with my abilities. Yes, I told myself, maybe it was a good idea to join their study group.
I left the toilets and walked down the brightly lit hallway. This is what electricity was like. With my key, I opened the door to my new room. I’d be living with only one roommate in a room three times the size of the tent my entire family shared. I was going to sleep in a real bed, while they slept on mats on the ground. I had my own desk, a sink in the room and my own closet.
‘Welcome. I’m Jameel,’ a young man with symmetrical chiselled features said in Arabic. He sat in the middle of the room. An older version of Jameel and a woman who must have been his mother sat across from him. Laid out before them on a white tablecloth was the vegetable stew along with tabboulie, hummus, baba ghanouj and pita.
What was going on? Three girls, dressed like Jews, sat on the beds eating. Fairouz’s voice played on the radio behind them.
‘I’m Ichmad.’
‘What planet do you come from, Ahmad?’ Jameel pronounced Ichmad without the rural accent. The girls threw back their heads and laughed.
‘Ignore him,’ one of the girls said, and rose. ‘He’s the only son.’ She cuffed him on the head.
‘Ignore my sisters.’ Jameel motioned to the food in front of him with his hand. ‘Please.’
His mother immediately filled a plate with vegetable stew for me. I stared at it for a moment. How I wished I could save it for my family.
‘Please, start,’ Um Jameel said.
I sat next to Jameel and devoured the stew. Um Jameel’s face brightened and she scooped more onto my plate. I devoured another plate. Again she gave me more.
‘It’s delicious.’ I hadn’t eaten such food since Baba went to prison six years earlier. Aware that many pairs of eyes were watching me, still I continued to eat.
Um Jameel smiled. ‘Look how he appreciates my food.’
‘Where’s your suitcase?’ Jameel leaned to look around me.
‘I like to travel light.’ In my bag were my only spare work trousers and shirt, the book Teacher Mohammad had given me, and nothing else.
Um Jameel packed up their things and they prepared to leave. ‘I’ll see you and Ichmad on the sixteenth.’
‘No one goes home every other weekend.’ Jameel’s voice was soft but firm.
‘Don’t start that again. I’m not going to worry what kind of food you’re eating or if you’re dressed in clean clothes. If you don’t show up, we’ll come to you.’
Jameel’s face turned crimson. ‘I’ll come.’
‘You too, Ahmad.’ Um Jameel pronounced my name correctly, not like we did in the village. ‘He’ll need help carrying the food.’ Um Jameel motioned towards Jameel, but now spoke directly to me. ‘And don’t think I’d let you go hungry either.’
Jameel walked his family to the bus stop. After I put my one shirt and trousers in my closet, I looked into Jameel’s closet. Jackets and button-down shirts and trousers of a multitude of colours hung neatly, each on its own hanger. On the shelves above the hanging bar were sweaters of varying thicknesses, T-shirts, and a stack of pyjamas. At the bottom was a pair of leather sandals, shiny black boots with a platform heel, and spotless white trainers. His family must be very rich.
Jameel returned to the room and closed the door.
‘I don’t think my mother’s slept all week. Separation anxiety.’ He shrugged his shoulders, walked to the radio and changed it to Western music. From his shirt pocket he pulled out a pack of Time cigarettes and held it out to me.
‘Smoke?’
‘No, never,’ I said.
‘Try it.’ He pulled one out, lit it and handed it to me.
I reclined on my bed, feeling the softness. ‘Maybe later. Go ahead.’
Jameel put the cigarette in his mouth and began to bob his head, sway his hips and bounce around the room like a Sufi mystic in ecstasy. He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray then collapsed onto his bed. Staring at the ceiling, he puffed lazily.
‘Let’s see the campus.’
‘I need to get books.’ Teacher Mohammad had advised me to take the books out from the library straight away because they were too expensive to buy.
We headed across lush green lawns. Jameel tapped me on the chest.
‘Take a look at that piece of tasty lamb.’
I followed his eyes to an Israeli girl sitting on a bench in front of the library. Her shirt was unbuttoned so low I could see the top part of her breasts. Her legs were crossed and she was wearing shorts that were barely longer than underwear.
‘I’d like to rest my head on those pillows.’ Jameel bared his teeth, shook his head and growled like a dog in heat. ‘How I’d like to ride my camel between those mountains.’
‘Please.’ I scanned the campus for guards. ‘What if someone hears you?’
He laughed, slapped me on the back, and we continued on.
CHAPTER 23
I entered my first class, Introduction to Calculus, and had to stop and take it all in: freshly painted walls, rows of desks, the professor’s big desk with a leather chair on rollers, and gleaming blackboards that looked brand new. The room was filling quickly with students all chattering at once in Hebrew. I avoided eye contact and looked for a seat in the back.
I got the last open seat in the last row, thank Allah, since the only remaining seats were directly in front of the professor. Israelis were everywhere. The one on my right said ‘yiksah,’ got up and took a seat in the front.
My eyes met the professor’s, who stroked his overgrown beard and leaned on his desk. After a few minutes, he stood, adjusted his kepah. ‘My name is Professor Mizrahi.’ White strings hung out from under his shirt, indicating that he was religious. Those Jews believed that God had promised them the land of Israel.
Professor Mizrahi’s accent as well as his name told me he was Sephardic. This was just my luck; my first professor would hate me. Sweat beaded up on my forehead.
‘When I call your name, you’ll sit in the seat I assign you, and that will be your seat for the semester.’ Professor Mizrahi looked down at the chart in his hand. ‘Aaron Levi, Boaz Cohen, Yossi Levine…’ Professor Mizrahi called one Jew after another and filled the class from the back to the front. He pointed to the desk in front of his desk and called, ‘Ahmad Hamid’ with perfect pronunciation.
I felt like a specimen under a microscope, between two Sephardic Jews, the only non-Jewish Arab in the class. They would eat me alive.
‘Let’s begin.’ Professor Mizrahi picked up the chalk and wrote on the board 3x-(x-7)=4x-5.
‘Mr Hamid?’ He pointed with the chalk towards me.
‘x equals 6,’ I said from my seat.
‘What did you say?’ Professor Mizrahi cocked his head.
My heart pounded like a fist on a door. ‘x equals 6.’
Professor Mizrahi blinked and read the next problem.
‘Mr Hamid, can you find the instantaneous speed or instantaneous rate of change of distance with respect to time at t=5 of an object which falls according to the formula s=16t2+96t?’
‘The limit is 256, and this is the instantaneous speed at the end of the five seconds of the fall.’
The ticking of the clock in the front of the class was deafening.
‘Thank you, Mr Hamid,’ he said. ‘Quite impressive.’
***
I had maths and science classes from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. On the way to the library to study, I made a detour to the botanical garden between the administration buildings in the north and the National Library in the south. The Sequoia sempervirens and the Sequoiadendron were so gigantic they rose above the surrounding buildings.
How I wished I could bring Mama to see the garden. I imagined Baba drawing her picture in front of the trees.
In front of the library, I craned my neck to see the vast stained-glass windows, illuminated from within, as if knowledge and light were one. I pulled open the door as if it were a holy shrine and that same bright light poured over me.
‘Bag on the table.’ The armed guard’s words hit me like a gust of cold air. I complied. He dumped out my notebook and pencil. ‘Against the wall.’ He pointed. ‘Shoes off.’
My face felt warm. I didn’t want to draw attention to the sandals Mama had made for me from a used bike tire, but I had no choice. Slowly, I untied the rubber strips. The guard stuck his pencil through the back loop of one, lifted it in the air and examined it from every angle.
‘Over here,’ he instructed. ‘Legs spread, arms out.’
While the guard patted down my left leg, a Jew bearing an Uzi and a backpack entered the library. All Israeli soldiers and reservists were required to carry their loaded Uzis in Jerusalem.
‘Motie, I thought you were in the North,’ the guard called to the armed man while he patted down my right leg. ‘Did you run away?’
‘Transferred,’ Motie replied. ‘Lucky for me this city’s loaded with Arabs. There can never be enough soldiers here. Bad enough I have to repeat the year, I didn’t want to miss the first week as well.’
For a split second, I wished I were Jewish so I could enter the library without being hassled.
Four Israeli men, the kind that looked like they cracked walnuts with their bare hands, motioned for Motie to join them at a large table.
Empty tables were everywhere, but I wanted an individual desk. From the corner of my eye, I spotted one and tried to look nonchalant as I rushed to it and pulled out my syllabi.
Inappropriately loud voices caught my attention and I glanced over. My eyes met Motie’s. I turned my head away, but it was too late. He saw me look at him.
My eyes refused to focus on my Introduction to Calculus syllabus. The throaty voices grew louder.
‘You go over,’ Motie said.
‘You have the gun,’ a deep voice said. Bursts of laughter rang out.
Eyes glued to the syllabus, I watched the paper grow damp under my fingertips.
A screech, like a chair being pushed out from the table. The sound of boots getting closer. Breathe, I reminded myself. I glanced up. He was coming for me, Uzi in hand.
‘Excuse me. You’re Motie Moaz, aren’t you?’ The librarian intercepted him.
‘Yes.’
‘You still owe books from last year.’
‘I read slowly,’ he smiled. This was a man who was used to getting his way.
But she was having none of it. ‘Come with me. I’ll give you the list.’
The boots were gone, for the moment. I needed to find W.L. Wilks’ Calculus before Motie returned. ‘Calculus’ was written on the shelf behind his table. Should I wait until his friends left? What if they were there all night? What if other students checked the book out by then? Why didn’t they give us the list of books we would need before classes started? I took a deep breath, walked all the way around the edge of the cavernous room, entered the stacks from the back and darted to the Calculus section.
The men’s deep voices grew silent as I approached my destination. My eyes scoured the shelf. I grabbed it. Pages stuck together. Where was the table of contents? Two silhouettes whispering to each other appeared in my peripheral vision. Where was that table of contents? This was it. I closed the book.
Book under arm, head lowered, I started down the long, narrow aisle. Before I could exit, Motie appeared like a roadblock. I spun to go the other way. Two Israelis stepped into the aisle and blocked my passage.
Why did I answer those questions in class? Motie jabbed me in the stomach with the barrel of his Uzi.
‘Are you planting something back here?’ He jabbed me again.
‘A book. For class.’ I couldn’t breathe. ‘Excuse me, I need to pass.’
The veins in his neck bulged.
‘Excuse me. Please. Let me pass.’
‘Come with me,’ Motie said.
‘Now?’
‘If all goes well, there’ll be no pain involved.’ With the barrel of his Uzi, he motioned towards the table.
He guided me with the barrel jammed into my kidney. ‘Sit there.’ The barrel pointed to a seat. I sank into the chair. The barrel pushed a piece of paper towards me. ‘Answer the first problem.’
I looked at the problem. If c(a)=2000+8.6a+0.5a2, then c1(300)= ?
‘308.6.’ My voice trembled.
He raised his left brow. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘No secret.’ I squeezed the words out. Motie pointed the barrel of his Uzi to the next problem.
‘I suppose it doesn’t matter as long as you deliver the answers to us.’
‘How do you know he’s giving you the right answers?’ one of the brutes asked.
Motie ripped a sheet of paper out of his notebook. ‘Do your homework at the same time.’
A grim bearded librarian walked towards us, arms folded across his chest. His face was familiar. Our eyes locked. He was contestant number six. This wasn’t good.
‘Is he giving you trouble?’ the librarian asked Motie.
‘Everything’s fine, Daaveed,’ Motie said. ‘We’re having our first group study, right Mohammad?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Speak up, Mohammad,’ Motie said.
‘Yes. This is a study group.’ My voice was only slightly louder than my previous whisper.
Daaveed sneered at me before he walked away.
I looked at my ‘study group’. Would Zoher and Rafi’s Sunday-night group also be at gunpoint? I looked at the clock. It was only 4:45. How long would they keep me? Would I have time for my other homework? I’d stay up all night. I didn’t need to sleep. Motie would get tired, wouldn’t he?
Motie took a book from his backpack and tossed it on the table. ‘Physics’ was scribbled on it in Hebrew with a black marker. Beneath it were the words Tues and Thurs 9am–10am Professor Sharon. The blood throbbed in my veins. Wasn’t one class together enough?
‘Nu.’ Come on. Motie tapped the next problem.
The library was crowded now. All the larger tables were occupied by students engrossed in their books. I looked at the clock. It was 4:46. At least he allowed me to do my own homework. Light streamed in through the window. Would this day never end?
If Baba were here, I thought, he’d want me to teach Motie how to solve the problems, not just tell him the answers. For the rest of the questions, I went through the steps of each problem. Towards the end of the assignment, Motie actually solved the problems himself and only requested that I verify his answers. By the end of the assignment, he spoke without the help of his Uzi.
‘I need to eat, but I shall return.’ Motie half smiled at me. ‘This was helpful.’
Did he expect me to wait in the library for him? With eleven checked-out books in my arms, I went back to the dorms. Now, I hoped, I wouldn’t have to go back to the library for a long time.
‘Open the door,’ I called to Jameel from the hallway. The books cut into my palms and forearms. The stack reached over my head. Jameel didn’t respond. When I tried to pull the key out of my paper bag, I destabilised the books and they toppled to the ground. Desperately I examined each one. What if one was damaged? How would I pay for it? I’d given my stipend to Mama. I only had enough for the bus fare back to the village and six loaves of bread.
Heart pounding, I unlocked the door, brushed off each book and carefully placed them on my desk.
CHAPTER 24
It was after one in the morning when I heard Jameel’s key in the door.
‘Did you open your own library?’
‘Haven’t you started preparing for class?’ I asked.
‘I’m honing my English for the Saturday-night school dances.’ He smiled. ‘You should see these American
girls. Rarr.’ He shook his head. ‘Come out with me tomorrow night.’
How could I go? I was here to study. He had no idea of the sacrifices my family were forced to make because of me.
‘You need to go shopping.’ Jameel smoothed his lapels. ‘I need to teach you how to dress.’
How could I justify buying a new pair of trousers when Mama didn’t even have a winter sweater to protect her from the biting wind?
‘You’re welcome to borrow my things,’ Jameel said. ‘I know how cheap you are.’ He laughed.
***
In the morning, I woke up dreading my physics class. Jameel told me that our teacher was well known for his sharp scientific mind and his dislike of Arabs. Physics had always been my favourite subject, but now I wished it weren’t a mandatory course.
‘You’re wrapped tighter than a mummy,’ Jameel said as we walked to class together. In a black turtle-neck and black trousers, with a leather briefcase over his shoulder, he looked like a professor. I felt people staring at me as I walked next to him dressed in the outfit Mama had made. Jameel and I entered the class and headed straight to the back of the room.
Unlike the other professors, who dressed casually in jeans and cotton T-shirts, Professor Sharon strutted into the classroom in a perfectly pressed pinstriped suit and bow tie. His thick glasses, burly beard and overgrown moustache clashed with the rest of his getup.
‘Ichmad Hamid?’ Professor Sharon said. His voice made my upper lip tremble.
‘Present.’
‘Where are you from, Mr Hamid?’ Professor Sharon asked.
‘El-Kouriyah Village.’ I could hear the unsteadiness in my voice.
When Professor Sharon had finished the roll call, he looked directly at Jameel and me as if he were looking at a lesser species.
‘We’re living in hostile times.’ Professor Sharon’s voice was serious. ‘Every Israeli citizen must be on alert. Come to me with any suspicions you might have. Nothing is too small.’ Professor Sharon cleared his throat. ‘If a high-powered assault rifle whose mass is five kilograms fires a fifteen-gram bullet with a muzzle velocity of 3×104 cm/sec, what is the recoil velocity, Mr Abu Hussein?’
The Almond Tree Page 11
