Twice, she went by the office and waited, but Jamal neither entered nor exited the building. She was running out of time. Running out of money and out of ideas. She went to al-Rimal, the neighborhood where he lived, but did not see him walk in or out of his building. Nor his wife.
She walked to the Mediterranean, along the coast where so many conquerers had marched since history was born. Gaza had always been a place of warriors and survivors. Nur plucked what remnants of courage lay in the sand and walked back to al-Rimal, climbed the stairs of Jamal’s building, and knocked on his door. No one answered. She knocked again.
The neighbor’s door opened and a young woman in her twenties emerged with books in hand, clearly off to class. “Hello,” she said. “Are you looking for my brother’s wife?”
“Are you Dr. Jamal’s sister?”
“Oh, no. They don’t live here anymore. My family is renting their apartment for my brother who just got married.”
Something inside of Nur fell from its place, perhaps her heart, and she caught it before it would crash and break on the floor of her life. “Where did they go?”
“They moved to Canada. There was a big party and everything. Their immigration papers finally came through! They’re so lucky,” she said. “Sister, you don’t look well. Can I offer you a glass of water?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m an old friend. I’ve been away and didn’t realize they had already left. Thank you. May Allah bless you with success in school, sister. Salaam.”
A discarded old shoe, bewildered and pregnant, sat once again by the water. Thank God for the water. Nur thought she might cry, but she didn’t. A song washed upon the shore and danced out of her.
O find me
I’ll be in that blue
Between sky and water
Where all time is now
And we are the forever
Flowing like a river
O find me
Where it’s always day
And always night
There are no hours here
In the blue
Between sky and water
There are no countries here
No soldiers
No anguish or joy
Just blue between sky and water
As the sky grew dim, she headed back and stopped by the Internet café. Finally, the icon next to Nzinga’s name on Skype was lit green. Nur hurriedly began typing.
“Nzinga! I’m so happy you’re online. I miss you so much.”
“Hey, boo! I miss you, too. You still in Gaza?”
“Yes. Can you talk? I can borrow a headset. No picture, though. The camera uses too much bandwidth. The electricity might cut off at any minute and there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Of course, child. Slow down. Are you okay?”
Nur inhaled and tears leaked from her eyes as she scrambled to connect the headset. “Nzinga, I am desperate to talk to you. I am in trouble and I—”
“Is this about the grant?”
Nur had set up a small office in Nusseirat to hold individual and group therapy sessions for women and children and had been seeking funding. A small grant was forthcoming from the European Union but she did not want to accept American or European money. So she had corresponded with Nzinga about seeking funding sources in African nations.
“No, I mean. Yes, but no … it’s …” Nur was suddenly without words.
“Okay. Calm down and tell me everything. If we get cut off, find a way to e-mail me. I have been meaning to write to you because I am attending a pan-African conference in Egypt next week and was hoping I might be able to see you since we will be so close,” Nzinga said. “But tell me, darling, what is troubling you.”
“It’s Jamal.”
Nzinga made a sound that Nur knew was formed from pursed judging lips and raised eyebrows holding back curses she wanted to let loose around that man’s name. Nur had told her that it was over and had lied that she had moved on.
“He has left Gaza for good … with his family,” Nur began.
“Good riddance, Nur. I know you might be heartbroken, but I told you this would not end well. Thankfully it didn’t last long and now you can heal and get on with your life. I have news on the grant and now …” Nzinga stopped speaking. “Nur?”
The place inside Nzinga where she was a young social worker who met a little brown girl with curly black hair clinging to her dying grandfather had become populated over the years with the ornaments of memories, learning, and loving between them. Words formed in that space that Nzinga did not notice until she heard them emerge from her own mouth. “Are you pregnant, Nur?”
SIXTY-FOUR
My sister spoke to me in the private moments before she slept. Then we visited in her dreams and she knew I would always be with her, even if she couldn’t remember those dreams upon waking.
The stem of a lollipop dangled from Rhet Shel’s lips. She made sucking sounds as she watched folded clothes stack one item over the other.
“Khalto Nur, can I go with you to Egypt?” Rhet Shel asked.
Nur paused and smiled apologetically. “Not this time, habibti.”
“Why are you going to Egypt?”
“I want to visit an old friend who used to take care of me when I was little. And I’m also going to see about a grant for our new office that you and I are going to paint when I get back.”
Rhet Shel smiled. “Can I pick the color?”
“Yes! In fact, I think we should have an entire wall just for kids to write on.”
“Whoa!” Rhet Shel’s eyes widened. “You’re going to let kids write on the wall?”
The look of astonishment at such a concept amused Nur. “Yep! And you can pick out the color to paint the wall.”
“When?”
“As soon as I’m back from Egypt.”
“When?”
“Just a few days.”
“What if the Egyptians or Israelis lock you out?”
“Then I’ll just wait until the border opens” Nur stopped what she was doing and kissed Rhet Shel’s face. “But you can bet that I’m going to come back.”
“Promise?”
Nur hesitated, then smiled. “I will also bring you gifts.”
SIXTY-FIVE
The beekeeper’s widow moved in permanently. No one remembered when or how, but it was natural that her place was in our home. Her enormous body helped close the gap I had left. She suggested a remedy for Nur’s predicament. But everyone could see that it horrified Nur. It horrified them, too. But they thought Nur was still too American to fully comprehend what it meant to deliver sin. It was Mama who surprised them by saying, “The sin has already been committed. What she’d deliver would be, enshallah, a child of our flesh and blood.” The beekeeper’s widow spoke nonsense by suggesting that maybe people wouldn’t care since Nur had been raised in America and people there do that sort of thing. Teta looked at her sideways and said, “First of all, for once, my daughter is right and I am wrong. Aborting our flesh is also a sin. Even if people don’t know about it, Allah will know.” Then they began to scheme. Nur could deliver the baby abroad and come back as if she’d adopted a child. She could leave and pretend to have married and return with a ring. They could say her husband wasn’t allowed to cross the border. Or, they could just say she had already been married when she had first arrived in Gaza. A visit with her husband in Egypt, then a divorce, would explain the delivery. How the hell would anyone know differently? My teta and the beekeeper’s widow, even Mama, started to secretly fantasize about having a baby in the house.
Alwan watched Nur walk into the family room with a large suitcase. A kind of confession bent her posture into a plea. She was planning to leave very early the next morning. “I think I’m packed. The suitcase is nearly empty and, enshallah, I will fill it up on the way back. But you haven’t told me yet what you’d like me to bring back from Cairo,” Nur said.
“We don’t want anything,” Alwan began. “Just go and come back home saf
ely.”
Hajje Nazmiyeh protested, “Speak for yourself! Um Zhaq passed away last month, Allah rest her soul, and Abu Zhaq might be looking for a new wife. I need to prepare myself.” She was already laughing. “Get me some sexy bed clothes. Just in case Allah sends me a husband.” Both Hajje Nazmiyeh and the old widow shook with laughter, more so because Alwan was predictably scandalized; and when Hajje Nazmiyeh could take a breath, she said to Alwan, “Habibti, I was only kidding. My thing down there hasn’t been used in so long it’s probably rusted out.” Now the two women were laughing so hard the old widow peed herself. “Look what you made me do, you dirty girl! Calling yourself Hajje.”
Nur and Alwan couldn’t help but join them as they helped the old widow to her feet to get cleaned up. Hajje Nazmiyeh added, “If it wasn’t for peeing we might forget it was even there!”
The old woman hurried to the bathroom, yelling at Hajje Nazmiyeh between gasps of laughter, “Curse you, woman! You made me pee even more!”
“You know it’s true. I haven’t been a widow half as long as you and mine fell off a long time ago.” Hajje Nazmiyeh could hardly contain her silliness.
“Thank God no one else can hear her!” Alwan whispered.
The beekeeper’s widow returned, lighting frankincense in a small bowl. They stayed that way into the evening, in this world of women, of mirth and myrrh. They made dinner and Rhet Shel came home, tired from hours of play. They all ate together, Rhet Shel laughing whenever the adults did, even if she didn’t know what they were laughing about. She told them jokes, most of which made no sense, but they all laughed to include her in the tight circle. Alwan bathed Rhet Shel after the food was put away and, though Rhet Shel was too tired to stay awake, she refused to go to bed, feeling that the adults would have fun without her. Her tired eyes would fall then flutter at any change in the volume of conversation until at last sleep wrapped itself around her, snuggling close with her mother. Nur bade them good night early and went to bed.
As the quiet of night suffused their home, the old widow turned to Alwan, who leaned against the wall cradling a sleeping Rhet Shel. “When are you going to cut them off?”
Alwan was startled, but gathered her wits and memory. “I marked it on the calendar. The doctors said that they will have space for me in two weeks, enshallah, unless Israel attacks us between now and then and the hospitals fill up again.”
“Don’t look so down. It’s the best thing,” the old widow said. “Now that the tumors are so small, once you cut them off you might be cured!”
“What good are they anyway after the kids are too old to feed from them and there’s no man to suck on them anymore!” Hajje Nazmiyeh began, but Alwan had had enough. “Yumma, stop it!” she snapped.
“Okay, habibti.” Hajje Nazmiyeh was apologetic and tired. “Just don’t be sad about it. I was trying to make you laugh.”
“Forgive me, Yumma. I’m tired,” Alwan said. “Good night.”
“Yes. Okay. Well … yes. Okay. Good night, habibti,” Hajje Nazmiyeh said and tried to get comfortable on her mat. Then she grabbed a small pillow and threw it at the old widow to interrupt her snoring. “I hate it when she falls asleep before me. Her snoring is ridiculous!”
“Yumma, why don’t you sleep with us in the bed? Besides, your snoring isn’t exactly a symphony,” Alwan said, carrying Rhet Shel to the bedroom.
“I like it out here. Go to bed. I’ll be fine. Just leave me some things to throw at her when I need to,” Hajje Nazmiyeh said, reaching for more pillows.
Alwan laid Rhet Shel in bed next to Nur. A sweet sense of night washed over her and she walked into the outdoors. The alleyways were speckled with moonlight. She wanted to keep walking toward the ocean, but the sound of her footsteps dislocated the quiet. So she sat on the stoop of their home and leaned against the metal door. In the stillness there, she became aware of a hum of crawling, fluttering, and creaking little lives moving in the crevices of the peaceful darkness. She welcomed it all into her body, thanked Allah for the widow’s medicine, and asked Him to keep her on this earth a while longer.
SIXTY-SIX
Nzinga was married with three children by the time Nur completed her master’s degree. She attended the graduation ceremony (Nur’s third) with her entire family and they created a noisy island in the audience. Nzinga’s children waved signs with Nur’s name, and they all whistled and clapped when her name was called to receive her diploma. Nur smiled broadly and blew them a kiss from the stage.
Getting to Cairo was a long and exhausting journey, though much easier than Nur had expected. The Rafah border was open, and crossing it was relatively uneventful. Getting through Hamas security took only a few minutes, which was typical, and the Egyptians made her wait only a couple of hours. Then she was on her way, bouncing in the back of a taxi van heading to Cairo with other passengers. She rested her hand on her belly, rubbing a lullaby to the secret beneath her navel. She wasn’t the only woman in Gaza to ever be in such a predicament. However few or many, they all went to Egypt if they could, and returned with emptied wombs and hollowed eyes.
Nur looked at the time on her phone, eager to get to the hotel where Nzinga was staying. She still had at least two hours. The immense, ancient silence of the Sinai desert enveloped her, its rolling sand hills speeding past her window. She closed her eyes and watched her thoughts assemble into dreams.
There, Khaled picked up words off the ground, small beads scattered about, and strung them together, making a necklace. Is that for me? she asked. Of course, he answered. Was it always you in my dreams? Again, Of course. What should I do, Khaled? Help me pick these all up. Nur looked at the word beads. “Nice,” “Light of Jiddo’s Life,” “Smart.” She reached down to gather them, but fell forward. The taxi had slammed on the brakes. Nur’s head hit the seat in front of her. She was the only remaining passenger. “Golden Tulip hotel!” the driver yelled back.
Nur waited, impatient to see Nzinga, who was in a workshop until seven o’clock. It was six now. She walked out and roamed the streets of the Zamaalek neighborhood. Evening was casting its shadows and soon darkness walked the streets with her. In Gaza, she loved the thickness of black nights. They were kind and comforting. But here, the night was nervous and the darkness vibrated with threats she couldn’t see, despite a few street lights. Were they real or was it true that pregnancy made women more alert and protective of their bodies? She hurried back toward the lights of the Golden Tulip.
Nzinga was in the lobby, asking for her at the reception desk.
“Zingie!”
They embraced excitedly and tearfully. Whatever emotions had accumulated in Nur fell away. Everything washed out until there was nothing but a little girl with a baby in her belly holding tightly onto Nzinga’s hand.
*
They talked endlessly, and later, at a late dinner, there was still so much to talk about. Their conversation jumped between relationships and drifted across continents, and eventually ended up in the past. Nur said, “You know, foster care was adequate. I never faced or witnessed the horror stories you sometimes hear about. There was enough food, shelter, all the basics were there. No one abused me there. And yet, it was somehow intensely wounding.”
Nzinga listened with attentive, maternal eyes as Nur continued. “On the ride through the Sinai, it occurred to me why that is. And it’s the same reason why you are the one person in the whole world that I needed to see most at this hour.” Nur paused, moving her food around on her plate. “It’s all about having a thread that links your years. To have another living person who just knows you. Someone who has seen you from childhood. That’s the missing piece in Gaza. They love me there. I know they do. It’s almost instinctive. But I wonder how much they know me. They don’t see me as you do, Zingie. Flawed and scared and—”
“Wait a minute. That’s not how I see you,” Nzinga protested.
“I mean … I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t have this baby in Gaza and I can’t abor
t it, either. And there’s nothing for me in the States. My only connections there are institutions and a handful of friends that I’m not close to anymore.”
“Well, first things first. I don’t see flaws and fear when I look at you. I see strength, determination, smarts, sass, kindness, love. I can go on, but I bet that’s what your family sees, too. Second, I know you’re scared and this seems like an impossible situation. But it’s not. You’ve always lived your life the way you wanted. That’s the thing you got from not having family. You got a chance to own your decisions, make up your rules and live by them. But now you have the family you always wanted and you think it’s a choice between being true to the person you are, the person you made on your own, or living by new social rules to protect and love the family that also protects and loves you,” Nzinga said. “How am I doing so far?”
“You make it sound so simple, but it’s still an impossible choice,” Nur said.
“Am I right to say that, one, you want to remain in Gaza? And two, you want to keep and raise your baby?” Nzinga continued her distillation of Nur’s inner chaos.
“Yes.”
“We know you can’t deliver the baby in Gaza without being married. But how about raising an adopted baby in Gaza?”
Alwan had hinted to her of that possibility and of others, which Nzinga had also apparently considered. They talked through scenarios until the world did not seem so grim.
Because Nzinga’s family had been active in the anti-apartheid struggle and she herself had risen to prominence in her field of social work and community organizing, she had been able to arrange a fellowship grant for Nur through government offices. This was the news that Nzinga shared with her now. “You know, Nur, the African National Congress has always been supportive of the Palestinian struggle. So, many international government programs are open to Palestinians in particular,” Nzinga said.
The Blue Between Sky and Water Page 23