So far, it was a typical script—until…
“I’m not happy with my wife.”
Bloody hell…
“I feel comfortable talking to you…”
OK…. “Um…well, thank you, Majid. Um, it’s time for me to be going now…” I said, rising from the table.
“But sister…I just feel like you understand me somehow. I mean, look, you talked to me and I didn’t eat you.”
Oh Lord…
“Well, yes, but it’s getting late, and I have to go to another appointment…Thank you Majid.…
“Please take my number,” he interrupted, scribbling the digits on a slip of paper. “Promise to call me. Please call me any time!” He paused, rethinking his plan. “Actually, don’t call in the morning, though.…only during the day…”
Sure thing, Luigi.
There was no doubt about it. So far, quite a few Muslim men had been very, well, friendly to me, and it was something I’d chalked up to the famous “Middle Eastern hospitality.” At the same time, though, there seemed to often be an undercurrent of romantic interest that made me feel nervous and wary, mainly because I was completely unaccustomed to it back in the United States.
I had started wearing the hijah, or Islamic dress, when I was nineteen years old and in my first year of university. It consisted of a large, square scarf tied in a triangle like a babushka doll, and long trench-coat like garments called jilbabs. I certainly was not a hot co-ed on campus, and aside from a few adolescent crushes in middle school, I went straight from high school to marriage. All of this made me ill-prepared for the blatantly flirtatious nature of that seemed to afflict many Middle Eastern men…the interest, the subtle inquiry in the eyes, the turn of conversation, somehow and inevitably to the possibility that I just might be available (even though they knew I was married). It threw my confidence off balance, and it made me feel guilty, as if it was my fault somehow for being out and about alone—or that perhaps I was throwing off a weird vibe. It also pissed me off.
As I turned to walk away, again toward the Damascus Gate over the slippery cobblestones, I felt my body react to the experience with a weird surge of adrenaline that made my heart pound and my hands shake. It was literally the first time I’d been really hit on since I’d started wearing a hijah—and that was what—seventeen years ago. I was rattled…Call me, indeed!
But in truth, I was also a bit elated. After so many years of proper behavior and decorum, which in essence consisted of the famous Muslim adage to “keep your eyes down,” and expecting to always be “protected” by my husband, I would have imagined that some kind of disaster would befall me in a situation like that in Bethesda. After all, we practice strict segregation even at home, separating non-relative male “guests” and the “women of the house” like the majority of religious Muslim families we knew.
In my case, that meant it was normal for the women in my husband’s family to often—for lack of a better word—hide in our own homes. When male guests were around, I would make the tea, arrange some cookies on plate, and then ring a specially designed bell for pick-up, signaling my husband or another relative to come and fetch it, lest I (gasp) appear before strange men.
I never really believed that this was the right, or even the Islamic, thing to do. In fact, it irked me and made me feel fake, subservient and used. It certainly didn’t make sense in any way; after all, I went out all the time to the store, school, the bank, and other public places where men could see me. However, all the Arab women I knew in my circle and family acted the same way, and that was enough for me. If it was culturally expected, it became just another one of the things I did to fit in.
But like many things done for the wrong reason, it eventually caused a problem. And for me, following this custom resulted in my metamorphosis from a girl very good at affecting a fake-prissy propriety into someone with a real fear of the world. I was frightened to venture into the unknown, and developed an exaggerated fondness for well-beaten paths. Although I fit the part of a “good Arab wife,” I didn’t really believe in many of the behaviors that made me seem to be such. By visiting Bethesda alone and not asking “permission” from anyone first (or even telling anyone where I’d really be), or by visiting any other “non-essential” place, and especially by talking to “strange men,” I was walking into the realm of unthinkable behavior, at least by Safa standards.
Although a part of me felt the prevailing wisdom against such wandering out was correct (sure enough, a guy had talked to me! He flirted! How could I put myself in such a situation!), it was also a revelation. Nothing else happened. For the first time I realized that years of exaggerated prudence had blurred the real lines of caution. I certainly wouldn’t go overboard and tempt fate (and pepper spray would remain my trusty friend), but it was up to me to find my own limits.
It was then that I realized just what had resonated so much with me that day in my daughter’s Taekwondo class. The truth was, I would have loved to join her, but when I thought about it, I knew my husband and most everyone else I then looked to for religious guidance would disapprove. After all, such action would involve contact with the (presumably, male) teacher, training with men, talking.…certainly, it was improper. Amani was still young and the rules didn’t apply (yet). So, although I bowed to propriety, I knew that she, too would soon be of age to bow—a thought that had filled me with a dread I could only now name. It was a lesson learned (one I could have only learned alone), and it was one fear I would never again allow to restrain either me or, I prayed, my daughter.
I took my leave of Luigi and his marital problems and walked out of the gate and started back up the Via Delarosa, leaving the cloud of fear and guilt behind me. Looking up, I could see that the Jerusalem sky was already tinged with the golden hue that signaled the turn into dusk, and the evening’s coolness descended in the air. It was then that I realized that I could breathe more comfortably than I had in a long time.
Maybe there was something miraculous about Bethesda after all.
CHAPTER 17
Car Trouble
It took me a long time not to judge myself through someone else’s eyes.
-SALLY FIELD
My long afternoon in Jerusalem didn’t go unnoticed. Although nobody really criticized me for it, I could sense that the family—especially my mother- and father-in-law—seemed to be unhappy with my mobility. I fully understood why. After all, my mobility was something that even the men in the family couldn’t attain.
It was rare in for most families in Safa to own fully functioning cars, simply because they were so expensive. Instead, of those who owned cars at all, most of them preferred what was known as “mashtooh” or unregistered cars, due to the incredible expense and limited utility that registered cars bring.
Owning a car in the West Bank is frustrating. As a rule, cars are double-taxed by the Israeli government, in spite of the fact that Palestinian cars can’t be driven inside Israeli territory or Jerusalem. They are limited within the West Bank to so-called “Arab” towns and roads (many of them nothing more than dirt tracks). Worst of all, though, is the fact that as a driver you can get ticketed by both Israeli police, who patrol the nice highways and watch the interchanges, and by the Palestinian Authority police who can only operate inside Palestinian towns. Add to that the facts that car prices are ridiculous, that gas is beyond expensive and that there really aren’t many places left where Palestinian cars are allowed to go. They are prohibited from Jerusalem, any cities inside Israel proper (including all of the Palestinian villages inside the Green Line), Tel Aviv, Nazareth, any of the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea, or the Negev. This left Palestinian drivers with the big four West Bank cities of Hebron, Bethlehem, Ramallah and Nablus (although it used to be possible for West Bank Palestinians to visit Jericho and the Dead Sea, recently access has been increasingly denied by roving checkpoints that turn back Palestinians from visiting this last body of water, too).
Given all of this, most villagers, my h
usband’s family included, used mashtoob cars, which could be had for a fraction of the cost, usually because they were stolen by middle-men (Jewish and Palestinian) from inside Israel. Thus, mashtoob cars were unlicensed and uninsurable, they could only be driven safely inside the village (as the Israeli and Palestinian police rarely entered small villages like Safa), and were basically only good for grocery shopping and local transport.
Now, if I was unique in my mobility compared to the family men, I was positively alien compared to the women, so I should have expected a bit of an adjustment as they realized this. Although I tried to fit as much as I could into the domestic lives of the women around me, there was no ignoring the fact that I would be different than the average village wife, who might literally spend the majority of her life at home.
I could work where I wanted, buy the groceries I liked, pay my electricity or phone bill, go shopping, and even sneak around visiting all of the random places my heart desired. Yes, for the most part, I could avoid or somehow circumvent the restrictions most Palestinians were forced to deal with, whether male or female. Surely that aroused some envy. And even if my father- or brothers-in-law or students didn’t begrudge me the priceless mobility my passport bought me, it wasn’t as easy to shake off the feeling that I was somehow doing something wrong.
Like a tiny rock stuck in your sandal, my car became a symbol of everything that made me objectionable and foreign, and at first I didn’t quite realize that every time I ventured out of Safa with or without the kids, I was pushing the limits of acceptable behavior. Although I knew it wasn’t typical for women to come and go as they pleased, I somehow imagined myself exempt from the rules. Only it wasn’t that easy—a fact I soon realized as I read an email from my husband, Ahmad, in Seattle, chiding me for “running around” the country—although we’d previously agreed that I would be looking for something about my experience in the Holy Land to write about (a task that might be a bit difficult without actually “running around”).
Although he did cool down after I reminded him of this fact, I still felt the sting of his words—and a lurking apprehension about the way the family was obviously “reporting” the things they didn’t like about me behind my back, Still, I defended myself as much as I could in an email, and things seemed to smooth over until I made my next “transgression,” the fallout from what I considered to be one of the most beautiful nights of my life.
The Old City at night is breathtaking: its walls all floodlit and glowing up to heaven, the golden Dome of the Rock’s roof is illuminated, bright and dazzling against the starry sky. But that’s just the view from the outside. Inside the city walls, the crowds have disappeared, and gone are the noises of the market; the blaring Arabic pop songs, belching tractors, and honking horns all die down and you are left with an almost complete silence that suits the place. It’s really the best way to pretend—if for a few moments here and there—that you are walking the streets of ancient Jerusalem.
The city probably looked much the same at night as it has for centuries: dark, empty alleyways, shuttered shop doors, and trash-strewn streets resembling the grounds of a state fair just after closing. The feeling I had, though, was one of pure exhilaration, as if I were doing something incredibly daring just being there—a fact reinforced by virtually every guidebook on the market, official and unofficial; all warning against the perils of being stuck in the dark alleyways of the Old City at night. Unfortunately, the Old City probably was dangerous at night; especially if you happened to be hanging around the “wrong place.”
That meant it wasn’t a good idea to be an Palestinian dawdling in the Jewish Quarter, nor was it advisable for a Jew to hang out in the Muslim, Christian, or Armenian Quarters (although the Armenians generally closed their gates to outsiders at night). As long as you knew the lay of the city enough to know who “owned” the neighborhood, the risk of anything untoward happening to you was relatively low. More, if you were a local-looking mom with her kids along in the Old City, it led to a sense of respectability that virtually guaranteed protection from attempts at sexual harassment or other danger.
As for the kids and me, we found it heavenly, particularly the night that we discovered the Temple Mount in all of its glory; the crowds were gone, and just the sound of the wind whistling through the palm, olive, and pine trees remained. There the Dome shined like a jewel under the soft indigo sky, and I sat talking to Bushra—a friend from America who had recently relocated back to Jerusalem—while our kids played hide and seek in the giant courtyard next to the fountain, spraying up into the air, adding to the soundtrack of the place. The kids loved it, and as I sat chatting with my friend I felt relaxed and at peace. Yes, I felt very lucky to be in this beautiful place.
The drive home was another matter altogether. I’d been warned against driving at night in the West Bank with my yellow plates. During the day the kids and I were readily identifiable by my headscarf and hatta (the hallmark black and white scarf that is the unofficial symbol of the Palestinian people) which I’d draped over my dashboard, lest we in any way resemble a car full of Israeli settlers. But at night it was a crap-shoot—we could be anyone.
That meant I not only had to get us through the checkpoints successfully, I also had to worry about attacks that I’d heard happen to people driving along the roads—especially at night. I was new enough in the country not to know the actual degree of danger we could be in. Did the attacks happen every day? Every month? Every few months? Once again, there was no reliable guide to who or what was actually dangerous, and the more time passed, the more I realized that the ability to live with uncertainty was an integral characteristic of life here in the Holy Land. It was a skill I would have to develop, and fast. It was with this in mind that I first pondered the question of the sunroof.
My favorite part of my Volkswagen Polo, other than its yellow plates, was the retractable roof. Not quite as open as a convertible but more so than a regular sunroof, the entire top of the car opened up like an accordion in a way I hadn’t seen on any cars back in the United States.
I loved it normally, but on the highway out of Jerusalem I felt a little differently. As a beautiful four-lane, well-lit highway, snaking through the heart of the West Bank, it was a source of irritation: signaling the triumph of the settler movement, the vast developmental gap between the occupiers and the occupied (who couldn’t take advantage of the nice, shiny stretch). But once you passed the huge settlement blocs just south of Jerusalem, it narrowed and funneled into a dark, winding, pitch black, back-country road, marked with giant, tire-popping pot holes. It also held the specter of lurking, pissed-off Palestinian teenagers with pockets full of stones. This was the “Arab section” of the roadway, serving the major cities of Bethlehem, Hebron, and the countless smaller towns and villages south of Jerusalem.
Because this was my first night drive outside of the village, I was scared as hell and grew increasingly nervous as I drove on toward the village and into the darkest, most winding part of the road. During the day, my scarf made it clear that I wasn’t an Israeli settler, but at night it would be easy to be mistaken for a tasty target. Many Israelis—some entire families, in fact—had been stoned here, shot at, or even ambushed and killed, and I suddenly had an awful vision of the car engulfed in flames with the kids inside. I closed the roof.
It was actually the cause of an old practical debate, this potential projectile problem. Sure, having the roof closed was obvious; I’d rather have a Molotov bounce off it than land inside. But the windows—that was where the debate came in.
Which was worse? A rock flying inside an open window might miss its target, but a good hit to a window would mean adding thousands of tiny pieces of glass to the mix. I always let the kids keep their windows open, and by the time I neared the Aroub Palestinian refugee camp, a warren of ugly cement homes built up on top of one another, it seemed especially dark and foreboding behind the giant chain-length fence (installed by the Israeli Army in an attempt to quell the rock
throwing from the residents).
I was at my wits end as, eyes wide, trying to scan the sides of the road for any threats, I readied myself for the last stretch of road to the village. And that’s when Amani announced she had to go to the bathroom, immediately!
I won’t lie. I contemplated letting her pee in her pants. That’s how frightened I was by the stories everyone had told me about the highway. Instead, I pulled over and lifted her over the guardrail so she could quickly go, but by the time we reached the looming guard tower at the turnoff toward the village, I was giddy with relief. Little did I know that the dramatic events of the night were just getting started.
I drove through the fog that usually descended on Safa after dark; it was misty, dense, and blown across the buildings, streets, and fields in the village in large clouds. As I neared home, all of the neighboring houses—including that of my mother-in-law, were dark. Great, I thought, relieved. I don’t have to talk to anyone until tomorrow.
I pulled the car into the garage, exhausted but happy that the day had turned out just fine. I’d just put Karim to bed and set about changing into my pajamas when I heard it. Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone was pounding their fists on the steel garage doors. What the…It was far past midnight, and, afraid the noise would wake up Karim, I quickly finished dressing while hurrying to the garage to open the door.
“Jenny!” Iftahi al bab! “Open the door!” I pushed the button and opened the garage doors, their loud motors rolling up before the figures of my mother- and father-in-law, standing outside in the cold wind.
As soon as the door was high enough to pass under, they both rushed in, obviously angry that I was so late, but maybe a little unsure of how to deal with me and my “transgression.” Unable to yell at me properly (I feigned incomprehension), they resorted to camping out on the couches, obviously intending to spend the night in my living room where they could keep a closer eye on me, a woman out of control.
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