“You are a guest and I’ve put my problems in front of you.” Yasmine straightened and began pulling herself together. “Please forget everything I said.” She wiped away a tear. “My husband will be home soon, he’ll be angry if he knows what I’ve told you.”
“I won’t tell him. I won’t tell anyone, not even Khalid.” Alison searched Yasmine’s face. “Unless you want me to tell him?”
“He needs you to tell him?” Her voice turned angry again.
Alison made a mental note to tell Khalid to call his sister.
The rest of the day crawled by. Yasmine didn’t mention again the issue of Khalid or her situation, yet an unease hung over dinner as they ate a small meal of hummus, bread, and sliced tomatoes. The children crowded around and finished every scrap of bread. Yasmine’s husband ate with them, eyes downcast, fatigue on his face.
That night, Alison lay on the floor mat in the small sitting room. She rolled over, half-expecting Khalid to be there but remembering with a slight shock that he was back in Seattle. Dead tired, she expected to fall asleep immediately. Yet she lay awake, her mind reeling with thoughts of Yasmine, her distraught face and all the children by her knees. So many children! Couldn’t she see it was too many? And why did Yasmine have to marry so young? Alison wished Khalid were there to explain it.
An image of Alison’s new white apartment hovered in her mind. Their simple life now seemed extravagant. She recalled Khalid announcing he wanted to send money to his sisters in the West Bank. Alison vaguely remembered that both her grandfathers had at one time sent money back to Syria. Her father had told her this proudly, an act to admire—taking care of your kin—never framing it as a burden.
Alison opened her eyes to a streak of moonlight making its way through the window. She was pregnant. What was she doing lying on this uncomfortable mat? Why had she come?
In the morning, these questions remained in Alison’s mind. She busied herself packing and repacking her things. Yasmine prepared breakfast, a repeat of the meal the night before. The family gathered around their shared plates, and Alison ran out of things to say.
At ten o’clock, Alison waited with her backpack in the cluttered courtyard. Through the open door, Yasmine was visible doing laundry in an ancient washing machine. Her method, only one step up from hand washing, required adding and draining water with a hose and transferring wet laundry between compartments.
Yasmine hung the laundry on a wire outside while her children hovered around her. She invited Alison to stay longer. “Why are you going? Sleep here another night.”
It was easy to say no. Alison had seen enough of their despair and crowded poverty. She looked at her watch and imagined Belal in a taxi. Meanwhile, Yasmine washed another load of laundry and hung it up to dry. Alison studied the shadows on the concrete walls until, finally, Belal showed up just before noon.
As she said salaam, Alison handed forty dollars to Yasmine. “It’s from Khalid.”
They both knew this was a lie. Yasmine stared at the folded bills for a moment, then reached for them. She kissed Alison forcefully on each cheek, and at last, Alison left with Belal, who was wearing the same clothes from the day before.
“Did you sleep here in Dheisheh last night?” she asked.
“I told you, I have a friend, he lives here.”
“But why are you so late?”
Belal looked at her. “We stayed up late playing cards.”
“Why do you guys do that? Always playing cards.”
“What else is there to do?”
As they rode in a taxi back to Aida Camp, Belal lit a cigarette and sucked it hard. Alison told him about Yasmine being so angry at Khalid.
“It’s the occupation,” Belal said. “It makes everyone a little crazy.”
“I can imagine,” Alison said even though, despite her all her studies, she couldn’t grasp how it would feel to live there. She tried to picture Khalid as a boy growing up in the camp. Had he run barefoot in the alleyway? Had his family been poor like Yasmine’s?
Then Alison’s insides sank as she remembered the letter from Fatma. She had forgotten to give it to Yasmine—one small thing that might have made her happy.
Meanwhile, Belal talked on about life there. Alison wanted to ask him how often he worked, if he planned to marry, and how he paid for all those cigarettes. Instead, she let him vent his frustrations until he finally said, “The occupation is in every cell of my body.”
The next morning, Belal arrived at Huda’s, cigarette in hand. “Where you want that I take you?”
Alison, who had been waiting in the courtyard studying her map of Jerusalem, stood up and announced her destination. She would go with Belal to shop in the Old City. Together, they would visit Damascus Gate, Via Dolorosa, and the Dome of the Rock. They would have lunch at a particular café in the Christian Quarter.
Without looking at her, he flicked his cigarette onto the ground. “I cannot go to Jerusalem. Impossible.”
Alison stared at him for a moment; then her brain clicked back to what he had said about checkpoints and restrictions. “Oh yeah.” She bit her lip. “I forgot how difficult it is.”
“Difficult? It is impossible. First, I need to get permission. It takes months. They would never give it to me.”
“Have you tried?” Alison sat back down.
“They don’t give permission to men like me.”
“But it’s only ten minutes away!”
He looked at her and shook his head. “If I go to the checkpoint and show my ID, the soldiers will take me. I told you this.” Belal reminded her of his brother in prison and how upset his mother would be if both her sons were arrested.
“Stop.” Alison held up a hand. “I don’t want you to go to prison.”
“Sometimes people walk through the hills between the olive trees. My mother does this to see her sister. But it’s dangerous. The soldiers will shoot at me.”
Alison pressed a hand to her temple. “It’s not worth it.”
He took out a fresh cigarette. His lighter refused to light. He flicked it frantically and then threw it on the ground. “A person has to think a thousand times before going to Jerusalem.”
All at once, a numbness swept over Alison’s body. “I can go alone,” she said.
In a minivan headed to Jerusalem, Alison stared out the window at an olive orchard and imagined Belal’s mother striding through the trees. This thought stuck with Alison until the minivan stopped at Salah e-Din Street. She got out and walked toward Damascus Gate; the sight of it sent a shiver through her. It was by far the most impressive of the entrances to Jerusalem’s Old City, its archway a patchwork of stones reaching high up the ramparts. Pouring in and out of the gate were dual streams of people. Old Arab women sat on the ground outside the gate selling herbs. Lurking about were a dozen or so Israeli soldiers, several poised above on the ancient wall walk, inspecting the scene below.
Alison took the stairs down toward the gate. Inside was a bustling souk. She looked down at the timeworn stones beneath her feet. Once again, she was in the Old City of Jerusalem. She relished an emotional rush as she followed the cobbled alley deeper into the labyrinth of the Muslim Quarter past stacks of pottery, barrels of spices, and endless brass baubles. As she walked, Alison wondered if the medieval souks of Old Damascus had been similar, and she tried to imagine her Teytey Miriam walking in alleyways like these, shopping for her Arab foodstuff.
With renewed vigor, Alison took in the narrow shops selling flat loaves of bread, hand-painted plates, and rough woolen kilims. She noted the arched doorways and cavernous alleys. But it was the mix of people that interested her most. Most fascinating were the older Palestinians in their traditional dress. The elderly women wore long black thobs with red cross-stitch, just like Khalid’s mother.
In the Christian Quarter, Alison passed by carved heads of Jesus and bought olive wood rosaries for her mother and Grandma Helen. After walking up and down the Via Dolorosa, she found her way to the Church of
the Holy Sepulchre. Christian pilgrims from all corners of the globe were lining up to see the tomb monument. Out a sense of duty, Alison lit a candle, made a small donation, and said a short prayer for her parents and Grandma Helen—the ones who would most appreciate the gesture—as well as a special prayer for her Teytey Miriam.
By the time she reached the Jewish Quarter, Alison had meandered through the Old City for several hours. Around her were signs in Hebrew and boys in yarmulkes. She entered a small English-language bookshop and bought the Jerusalem Post and the International Herald Tribune.
She walked aimlessly until she found herself looking down on the expanse of the Western Wall. She descended the stairs and entered the large open space full of Jewish worshippers and onlookers. It was hard to believe that this large area fit inside the walls of the Old City. She took in the scene from all sides, including the Dome of the Rock, visible beyond.
Exhausted, she dragged herself back up the stairs, pressing on until she found a small café where Arab men were smoking shisha and drinking tea. The cook nodded to her and pointed at the shawarma meat rotating in front of a flame.
“No thank you,” Alison said in Arabic. “A menu, please?”
The cook recited the food on offer. She ordered falafel, sat alone, and turned to her newspapers. In the Jerusalem Post was news of unrest: rockets launched from Gaza, the demolition of Palestinian homes, and Arab youth killed in clashes.
In the International Herald Tribune was an article about Israel’s “Separation Barrier” and how it violated a World Court ruling. She turned the page to an editorial about Yasser Arafat. Despite his government’s troubles and his confinement in Ramallah, he endured as a symbol and leader of his people.
Alison ate her falafel without tasting it and then turned to the man slicing the shawarma. She asked how to get to the Dome of the Rock. His directions led her straight to a little gate to the mosque. Her stomach twisted at the sight of a cluster of Israeli soldiers standing by.
The soldier next to the gate gripped his gun. “You want to visit the mosque?”
She nodded, and through the small entrance, she caught sight of the blue-tiled mosque.
He tapped his wristwatch. “They’re praying now. They’ll finish soon.” His English was clear and native-like. “Your bag.” He nodded toward her backpack, which she opened. “Your passport please.” Alison fumbled for it and felt the eyes of the other soldiers on her.
The soldier removed his sunglasses and flipped through her passport, looking for a long time at her photo. “Where are you from?”
“Seattle,” she said. “Washington State.”
He handed back the passport. “I was born in California.”
Curly blond hair poked out from his helmet. He was about the same age as Alison, and he continued on about how the climates in Israel and California were the same. It was a profound relief to hear a West Coast accent after spending days grappling over Arabic.
She skimmed the faces of the other soldiers, their guns strapped across their bodies. Alison turned back to the curly-haired soldier, and her eyes fell on his vest and the way he casually held his gun against himself. She glanced down at his boots.
“Is this your first time in Jerusalem?” he asked.
She said no. He asked about her last trip, and she told him a few of the highlights. He was looking at her closely, and Alison immediately regretted the conversation. Here she was chatting with her husband’s enemy. His enemy! She gave one-word answers, trying to wrap up their conversation.
“You can go in now,” he said finally.
Alison nodded and stepped through the gate and into the vast courtyard. The mosque stood directly in front of her; she walked toward it, her eyes on the gold dome.
In the minivan on the way back to Huda’s house, Alison leaned against the window, reviewing her day. She had seen all four quarters of the Old City and bought gifts for her family. For herself, she’d bought a beaded silver bracelet and a small woven kilim to hang on her wall back home. She had visited both the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Dome of the Rock, where she wandered around and studied the Qur’anic calligraphy on the tiles. She had accomplished what she’d intended. So why did she feel so depressed?
She dozed off and awoke to someone nudging her. At the checkpoint line, Alison clutched her passport and glanced at the tired faces. When it was her turn, she held up her passport and remembered the curly-haired soldier who had been so talkative. She decided Khalid would never know about that soldier.
On the other side of the wall, the graffiti depressed her further. She got in the nearest taxi and was soon walking toward Aida Camp. Alison entered the main alley where a smell invaded the air. It was an odd odor, scorched and ominous. People hurried past, pulling their small children along. A young woman ran by, shouting. There was a popping sound from the other side of the camp.
To the left was the nameless alley to Huda’s house. But instead of turning, Alison continued on. Except for a few teenage boys, everyone else was going in the opposite direction. People hurried past, their faces contorted with panic. With a shot of adrenaline racing through her, Alison pushed forward, aware of the smell in the air and of another popping sound. Were those gunshots? As Alison moved on, strangely drawn to the sounds and the smoke, the noise level became more intense, with shouts and a voice over a loudspeaker.
The wall loomed overhead, dwarfing her and the camp. The sounds were coming from around the corner. Propelled by some unknown force, she stepped forward, turned down an alley, and stopped at the scene before her: burning tires, a mass of teenage boys, and a cluster of Israeli soldiers beyond. Smoke clung to the air and stung her eyes. The boys yelled and threw stones, taunting the soldiers.
It was the sort of clash she had read about. The soldiers were in riot gear, and some of the boys covered their faces with checked kufiyahs to hide their identity. Flames from the tires rose up between the two sides. One boy pelted a stone at the soldiers, who merely stepped back, well protected by their shields and helmets. A soldier shouted over a loudspeaker, which seemed to further agitate the boys, who yelled slogans and threw more stones.
Alison stood, riveted. One soldier held up his gun, aimed it at the demonstrators, and fired. She flinched and snapped her eyes shut. Her body trembling, she took several steps back and cowered in a doorway. She held her breath and stared at the soldier, who aimed and shot again. Alison turned. A boy was on the ground clutching his leg.
She opened her mouth, her voice a scream: “You’re shooting at children!”
The soldier lowered his gun and shouted back in English, “You don’t have to live here!”
Alison became aware of a new sound, a hissing. The soldiers swiftly retreated, and the boys scattered. Even the boy on the ground was no longer there. Alison turned back as the white smoke expanded and filled the air. Disoriented, she didn’t know which way to turn.
Then it hit her: a burning sensation in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, but they began watering uncontrollably. Her throat was inflamed, and when she tried to open her eyes again, she couldn’t. Blinded, she stumbled back the way she had come, grasping the alley wall for support. Someone took hold of Alison’s elbow and spoke to her—a child. He led her back down the alley, through several turns. As she staggered along, the pain in her throat and eyes intensified.
They stopped. A doorbell sounded, and the gate squeaked open. Huda’s voice came next—a shriek—then rushing around. Alison found herself sitting in the courtyard with a wet washcloth on her face. Someone put a cold drink in her hand, and she finally opened her eyes, blinking repeatedly.
Belal was next to her. Ashes fell from his cigarette onto the cement. “Why you go to the demonstration?” He drew on his cigarette until it glowed very bright.
“I don’t know.” Alison’s eyes burned. “I wanted to see what was going on.” Her heart raced in a delayed reaction of anxiety, her mind finally processing the danger. With a sickening feeling, she remembered sh
e was pregnant.
“When you see people or soldiers in groups, you should run away. Just leave.”
“But the soldiers were shooting at children. They shot one!”
“Those were rubber bullets.” He put his cigarette out, grinding it into the cement floor of the courtyard. He looked at her. “What can you do? You think you’re going to stop the shooting?”
Chapter 20
Zainab shuddered when she saw what Nadia was wearing. Granted, her tunic was loose and fell to her thighs, but her jeans had strange rips up the sides.
“Put on a jilbab.”
“I’ll wear my jilbab over this.” Nadia looked at her watch. “Where is he?”
As they waited in the salon for Mohammed to take them to the US Embassy, Zainab fiddled with her prayer beads. She hated to see a girl with raggedy jeans under her jilbab. So vulgar and cheap-looking. She was engaged to be married, and everything she wore was a reflection upon her and the family.
“You cannot wear those jeans,” she insisted. There was still time, inshallah, to get Nadia and her clothing back on the straight path.
Zainab withheld comment when Nadia reappeared wearing a pink jilbab with sparkly trim. Nadia fussed over her scarf and fixated on herself from all angles in the hall mirror.
Mohammed finally showed up in a borrowed car, half an hour late. As they drove out of the neighborhood, crowded with cars and pedestrians, a rustle of papers came from the front seat; Nadia was flipping through her file. She had explained earlier: “Yama, it’s my proof that I won’t stay in America forever.”
Zainab wondered why anyone would choose to do that—stay in America forever.
They parked, and Mohammed and Nadia got out. “Auntie,” he said, “wait in the car.”
Zainab said nothing. All her energy went into the wad of worry inside her. Ya Allah. She reminded herself to have faith, then closed her eyes and made du’a for Nadia to get a visa.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 19