“Like we’re living in a tomb,” Belal said. “We can’t breathe anymore.” He threw the end of his cigarette on the ground and climbed into a taxi. Alison slid in next to him, and he continued to speak. “If any foreigner comes here, sees our life, he will know who is the victim.”
Alison nodded but didn’t know what to say. She glanced at the watchtower and then back at Belal. He offered her a cigarette.
She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
He turned to stare out the taxi window. “If the soldiers stop me, that’s it,” he said. “It is my mother who will be crazy. I am not afraid of prison. I was there before.” Once the taxi let them out, he said, “With my brother there, it will be too much for my mother—two sons in the prison.”
Alison remembered, yes, Khalid had spoken of a cousin in prison.
Ahead was the refugee camp, a crowded mass of crude concrete homes. She felt dizzy with the sight of the camp, the wall looming beyond, and Belal’s voice in her ears.
Belal turned down a narrow alleyway that snaked into the camp. Alison followed him, still hoping he would offer to carry her bag. Covering the rough cement walls of the alley was a patchwork of Arabic graffiti—slogans of the intifada, no doubt. All around were crowded makeshift homes in deep decline, built by the UN soon after the 1948 exodus of Palestinian refugees and never meant to last this long, decade after decade, refugees living in a hopeless cycle of dislocation. Alison’s eyes skimmed the dwellings; some had two or three stories added onto the original structures, slapdash construction built for the ever-growing families.
Barefoot children waved at her. “Hello! Hello!”
Alison smiled back while trying to keep up. Belal turned down another alley, then another. A gutter ran down its center, and she had to watch her feet to avoid tripping.
“Here,” Belal said. They stopped at a rusty blue metal door, embellished with a battered arabesque pattern. “This is my brother’s house.”
“Wait.” Alison caught her breath. “I thought we were going to Huda’s?”
“My brother is married to Huda.”
While Alison considered this, the door opened a crack, and a boy’s face appeared—one of the children from the alley. “Yama!” he called.
The door swung open into a small courtyard, and a woman appeared. She adjusted her scarf as children clustered around. She was Huda, with the same deep-set eyes as her sisters.
“Marhaba.” She gave a simple greeting, kissed Alison on each cheek, and welcomed them into the courtyard, which was compact compared to Fatma’s.
At first, Belal refused to come in, but Alison realized she wanted him to stay. “Come on.”
“As you like,” he said with a shrug.
Huda led them to cushions thoughtfully arranged on an old carpet. Alison sat and finally eased her backpack off her shoulder. She looked around, noting every detail: the worn embroidery on the pillows, the threadbare carpet, and the coarse cement walls. The area was tidy and the ground swept; laundry fluttered on a clothesline. The courtyard contained a single patch of green, probably mint. Facing the enclosure was a small house—Khalid’s childhood home. The tiny space was now home to another set of children all scattered about.
Huda and Belal sat on either side of Alison. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and savored the first puff. Huda, who seemed disheveled, as if she had just woken up, started with a series of questions about the family in Jordan. What was their news? How was her mother? How was Nadia? And the engagement party? Belal helped translate, as Huda’s dialect was that of the village, the same as Khalid’s mother, only faster and more run-together. Huda’s inquiry continued until she was satisfied her family was fine. Then Alison remembered what she had brought.
“A gift from America.” Alison handed her the leather wallet, which now looked small and trivial. Huda admired it for a moment and then set it aside. Alison felt slightly embarrassed about the gift and reached in her backpack for the letter from Fatma. As Huda read, her two teenage daughters appeared, both wearing pink headscarves. They sat at the edge of the carpet and glanced shyly at Alison. Huda snapped at them to make tea, and they jumped up.
Huda looked at Alison and smiled without speaking. Alison smiled back, knowing she was being examined and evaluated, a process she had already endured multiple times since her first visit to Margaret’s. Huda seemed pleased that Alison was there, yet there was a melancholy about her that neither Mona nor Fatma had. Even Huda’s smile seemed sad. Her eyes mirrored Belal’s, with the same dark circles beneath. Her face was lined, and even though she was younger than her sisters Mona and Fatma, Alison would have guessed she was the oldest of the three.
A dented teapot appeared on a scratched-up wooden tray. Belal and the teenage girls watched as Huda filled the glasses and passed them around. They didn’t speak as they sipped the hot tea, more minty than any tea Alison had ever tasted. Belal drank his in the same way he smoked his cigarette—as if it were his last.
“Hungry?” Huda asked.
“Yes,” Alison said.
Huda nodded, got up, and went into the house with her daughters. Alison was left with Belal, who smoked mindfully.
“You said your brother’s in prison?” she asked.
He nodded.
“What happened?”
“Who can know?” Belal exhaled a column of smoke. “Maybe someone gave his name to the Jewish. The soldiers picked him up at the checkpoint. They looked at his ID and took him.”
“How awful,” Alison said. “I’m so sorry.”
“He only did what everyone does in this hell.” Belal studied the end of his cigarette. “Maybe writing political words, maybe making demonstrations.” He looked at her. “He is fighting the occupation, my brother. We are all fighting in our own way.”
Before Alison could respond, Huda returned and told her to go wash up. Alison followed her inside to the bathroom, tiny and primitive but clean, with a flush hole in the ground for a toilet and a ceramic base to stand on. Alison washed her hands in the small sink and looked at herself in the cracked mirror. She was actually in a Palestinian camp—a real refugee camp. She dried her hands on the towel hanging on a nail. Her eyes scanned the room, the bright green tile and barest of toiletries: a single bar of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and a row of toothbrushes.
In the courtyard, Huda brought out a large platter of stuffed vegetables, steam rising from the top. Alison, the only one with a plate of her own, took a small bite of stuffed zucchini. When the hot rice touched her tongue, she realized how hungry she was. She ate silently, focusing on each bite, in the same manner as the family. She sensed this was not an everyday meal, but rather something prepared for her benefit.
Afterward, more tea appeared. Everyone sipped, a practice that seemed to be the main activity for all branches of the family.
Alison asked Huda, “Where’s your husband?”
Huda brightened. “He’s working.”
Belal lit another cigarette. “Today is the first day my brother works in a week.”
“How do people live?” Alison asked him.
“The United Nations gives rice, sugar, tea—enough to keep us alive.”
“Do you work?”
“What work is there for me?” Belal took a long drag on his cigarette. “I studied electrical engineering. Sometimes I work with my uncle, but we can’t go far outside Bethlehem.”
“Do you think you can show me around the camp?” Alison asked.
“Tonight you come to my father’s,” Belal said. “Do you want I take you?”
“That would be good.”
“I go now and come back.”
Huda led Alison to a small room with mats stacked in the corner. On the floor, Huda placed one of the mats and a pillow. By then, Alison was exhausted but too keyed up to nap. After Huda left, Alison studied the cracks in the ceiling, the bars on the window, and the poster of the Dome of the Rock. She flipped through her guidebook and thought about places to visit. Plus, there was Ya
smine, the last sister to meet.
Later, she rejoined the family in the sitting room. She tried to follow the conversation, but failed, always two beats behind. By then, Huda’s husband had come home. He was gray-haired and older than Huda. He smiled slightly but had the faraway look of a man who had given up.
It was dark when Belal finally came back for Alison. She was anxious to get out of the small house, crowded with children. “You come with me,” he said.
Alison was surprised to see the entire family go out the door with them. The children’s chatter filled the alley, full of shadows and uneven textures. Within minutes, they arrived in the courtyard of Belal’s house, where his parents were waiting.
“She is my mother, he is my father.” He gestured to his weary-looking parents. Belal’s mother kissed Alison, and his father, in a white kufiyah, simply nodded. Once Alison realized he was the brother of Khalid’s mother, the resemblance was unmistakable—they had the same serious mouth and wide forehead.
Dominating the courtyard was a large tree dotted with lemons, a single sliver of beauty in a sea of concrete. Through a door, Belal’s mother ushered Alison, Huda, and her daughters. In the salon, Alison faced bright florescent lights and a circle of women, all standing up. Hands were shaken, cheeks kissed, and tea served. For the first time, Alison appreciated the ritual of tea, as it broke up the monotony of socializing. On the wall were the typical Islamic plaques and a framed photo of Jerusalem, as well as a portrait of a young man: Belal’s brother—the one in prison. No wonder the mood was somber.
An old woman entered the crowded room, and everyone stood up again. Alison fumbled with her tea.
Huda whispered to her, “It’s Hajja Zarifa.”
The name was familiar, a relative of Khalid’s—Hajja Zarifa. Khalid’s grandmother. Her face and hands were old and leathery; she wore an embroidered thob with a thin leather belt around her fat middle. Bright-orange hennaed hair slipped out from under her wispy white scarf. On her wrinkled face were strange blue tattooed markings.
Instead of greeting her in the usual manner, the women bowed their heads and kissed her hand. Alison waited her turn, and as Hajja Zarifa came closer, she thought the woman looked a hundred years old.
Huda shouted in her ear, “This is the wife of Khalid! The Syrian!”
Alison wondered what this elderly woman could understand. Hajja Zarifa gave Alison a toothless smile and a kiss on each check. She pulled back and looked at Alison with her milky gray eyes. “Habibti!” She touched Alison’s belly with a bony hand. “How’s the baby?”
Alison blinked. “Alhamdulillah.”
Time passed slowly in the crowded salon as Alison struggled to understand their dialect. She had exhausted her own Arabic when, at last, coffee appeared, signaling the gathering was about to end. After drinking, the guests set the tiny cups down and said m’a salama, leaving only Huda’s family and Belal’s family. Alison moved to the door, but Huda told her to stay. It was nearly midnight when Belal’s sister served more tea and a tiny meal of bread, olive oil, and zataar.
Afterward, Alison walked with Huda’s family back to their house. The air was chilly and the alley dimly lit, almost serene at that late hour. The family walked heads down, huddled together, quiet for once. Huda carried her youngest child.
Out of nowhere came a sound—a voice over a loudspeaker. The group’s walk turned brisk. One of Huda’s teenage daughters touched Alison’s sleeve. “It’s the soldiers. They say the people must be in the house.”
The family was jogging by then, jerking the small children along. They rounded the final turn and stopped abruptly. The youngest girl let out a scream. In front of them were four Israeli soldiers in full army gear and helmets—machine guns pointing every which way. One soldier shouted in crude Arabic. Huda’s husband quietly explained that they were on their way home.
“Yalla! Imshi!” A soldier yelled. Hurry! Be off!
As the family hustled down the alley, Alison’s heart hammered wildly. When she touched the handle of the blue metal door, her fingers shook. She entered the courtyard, sat on the carpet, and caught her breath. Huda’s husband took out a white handkerchief and wiped his brow. The girls gestured theatrically to show how afraid they had been, and Huda chided her husband for allowing them to stay out so long.
When Alison finally lay down on her mat, her heart was still pounding. She had the small room to herself, while the floor of the sitting room was covered with sleeping children. The sounds of the refugee camp seeped into her room. From somewhere in the distance a vehicle roared and voices blared from a loudspeaker. She tried to conjure up other images from the day: Belal’s chain-smoking, Huda’s teenage daughters, and the tattoos on Hajja Zarifa’s face. But Alison’s mind couldn’t shake the incident with the soldiers.
The concrete floor was hard beneath her thin mat. She opened her eyes to the moonlight filtering into the room and regretted drinking so much tea. As the caffeine coursed through her, she longed for Khalid and wondered what he was doing back in Seattle.
When Alison finally fell asleep, she dreamt one of the soldiers was chasing her through the camp. She was enormously pregnant and held her belly as she ran down one alley and up another, looking over her shoulder at the soldier and his gun. She stopped at every blue door, pounded on it, and yelled for someone to let her in.
Disoriented, Alison sat up. Her skin was covered in sweat, and her heart raced. She lay awake for what seemed like hours, then fell back asleep after the morning call to prayer.
After breakfast, Belal appeared in the courtyard as Huda’s daughters were clearing away the dishes. The circles under his eyes were more pronounced than before. He asked Alison her plans for the day. She said she wanted to go into Bethlehem.
“Will you go with me?” she asked.
He pulled out a cigarette. “As you like.”
It put Alison at ease to know she wouldn’t face her excursions alone. This trip was so different from her last one, where the Holy Land itinerary had been preplanned and she merely had to follow along with a group. It had been a lighthearted trip during a peaceful time. There was no second intifada or death of Rachel Corrie, no September 11th or war in Iraq. Alison had been a carefree student, a freshman, for God’s sake. Now she was pregnant and married to a Palestinian man. During her last trip, she hadn’t fully understood what it meant to be Palestinian. Not really.
The sky was bright blue when Alison and Belal left Huda’s house. As they walked he asked, “You met the soldiers last night in the camp, right?”
“Yes—they scared me.”
“But they did nothing.”
“No, but it caught me off guard,” she said. “I even had a dream about it. A soldier was chasing me through the camp.”
“You are here one night and you have this dream?” Belal asked. “Everyone here has this dream.”
Neither of them spoke as they walked to the main road. Behind them towered the wall, imposing and ominous. For the first time, Alison noticed the surrounding hillsides swallowed by settlements—Israeli colonies of identical houses arranged in monotonous grids.
They passed an ornate building with a grand entrance. Alison asked what it was.
Belal expelled a ream of smoke. “It’s a hotel.”
“Next to a refugee camp?”
“Yes.” Belal turned his head to the building. “An empty hotel.” He went on to describe Bethlehem when he was a boy: how the city had been full of tourists; how he would go to Jerusalem with his brother, so easy, no problem. Now it had been years since he had been to Jerusalem.
They arrived in Manger Square: an open space with a handful of benches, a few trees, a row of souvenir shops, and the Church of the Nativity. They ducked into the church’s small doorway and walked inside. They passed a long row of columns and into a grotto, where they stood before the gold star on the floor. The experience was so different from Alison’s last visit with rowdy students and born-again Christians all angling to view the spot where
Jesus had been born.
Normally, Alison would have been moved to be in such a church, filled with meaning, the site of so much significance—historical and recent. But now she felt numb and empty. Something was missing.
They stepped out of the dark space and into the sunlight, where they shielded their eyes.
“What else you want to see?” he asked.
Alison pointed to the row of shops. They walked across the square, and Belal took out his lighter. He nodded toward the shops, a signal that she would go in alone. After she bought a few dusty postcards, they walked the winding cobblestone streets of Bethlehem, which were nearly empty. She told him the city was so different from the last time she was there.
“When you came?” He flicked the ashes of his cigarette to the ground.
“Spring of 2000.” The city had been cleaned up then for the Pope’s millennium visit. Doors and shutters had been freshly painted. Flowers spilled out of window boxes. Now the streets were dirty and neglected. Shop doors were covered with political posters in various stages of deterioration, forming a layer of lace across the city.
They continued past more shops and stone churches, ending up at the fruit and vegetable souk she had visited on her last trip. The weather had turned hot and still. There was only one person buying produce. Others were sitting and staring off at nothing. One man sat on the ground rocking back and forth. A Bedouin woman in a raggedy black covering sat nearby with her hand out. No, Alison thought, this was not how she remembered it.
She turned to Belal. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 17
Zainab sat in Fatma’s courtyard next to the jasmine vines. The low table in front of her held a pan of meat filling and a lopsided pile of dough. Next to her was Nadia, humming and smiling as the two of them worked together, Nadia rolling out balls of dough, and Zainab filling them. As she folded and pinched the dough, her thoughts floated to the events of the past week.
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