Wings of Refuge

by Lynn Austin

  “This is my son Jamil, my son Salah, my daughter Leyla, my daughter Najia, and my youngest son, Kamal. And this,” he said as a handsome boy about fifteen years old came into the room, “is my oldest son, Basam.”

  “How do you do?” Basam said, shaking Abby’s hand.

  He was neatly dressed in a shirt and tie, and after greeting Abby, he headed toward the door, preparing to leave. Marwan frowned and began yelling at Basam in Arabic, but even though Abby didn’t understand a word of it, she could tell by Marwan’s tone and Basam’s wry grin that it was all in jest.

  “He must leave for work,” Marwan explained. “He has a job clearing tables in a tourist restaurant.” He punched his son’s arm and tousled his hair before Basam left through the front door.

  “He is a smart boy,” Marwan said proudly, “and he loves mathematics. I hope he will be much more than a waiter someday.”

  “Will it be possible for him to go to college?” Abby asked.

  “I would like for all of my children to go to university. My people will need educated leaders to build a strong Palestinian homeland. But the Israelis think that all Palestinian boys are terrorists, and whenever they see two or three together, they assume they want to make trouble.”

  He motioned for Abby to take a seat on the sofa while he sat in a chair nearby. “Basam was arrested along with three of his Palestinian friends a few months ago,” he continued. Pain filled his eyes and his voice. “They took him to the jail and searched him, interrogating all the boys and humiliating them, for no other reason than that they were Palestinian. Of course they found no reason to arrest them, but the police didn’t care. They kept them locked up for five hours, frightened and shamed. I did not teach my son to hate. The Israelis are the ones who are teaching him. For this reason, many boys Basam’s age don’t want to wait so long and finish university. They want to fight for our freedom now.”

  Abby didn’t know what to say. But Marwan’s mood changed a moment later when a woman walked into the room with a tray of glasses.

  He smiled broadly and said, “This is my number one wife, Zafina.”

  Abby’s jaw dropped. “Do you have more than one?”

  Marwan laughed. “Alas, no—if I did, it would be over Zafina’s dead body!”

  When Zafina smiled shyly, Abby could tell she didn’t understand a word they were saying. She looked older than Marwan, although Abby knew that she probably wasn’t—simply worn from a life of hard labor with six children and few modern conveniences. She was a bit plump, like many of the Muslim women Abby had seen, and wore a long skirt and a loose long-sleeved blouse, her head covered in a white scarf. Abby wondered why Marwan and the children could wear modern clothing, while the women were costumed like biblical characters.

  “Thank you,” Abby said as she accepted a glass. She took a sip of the sweet mint-flavored tea.

  Marwan’s youngest son, Kamal, plopped down on the sofa beside her. “Hello,” he said with a grin like his father’s. He was a beautiful child about four years old with large dark eyes like Marwan’s and curly black hair.

  “Well, hello. How are you?”

  “Hello,” he repeated.

  “That is the only English word Kamal knows,” Marwan said, laughing.

  “You have a beautiful family,” Abby told him.

  “Thank you. Do you have any pictures of your family?” Abby pulled them out of her purse, proudly displaying prom photos and graduation pictures of Emily and Greg.

  As Abby and Marwan talked about their children, his sons Jamil and Salah, who were about seven and eight years old, were engaged in a continual wrestling match—punching, hitting, pulling each other’s hair. On a school playground, their behavior would have quickly earned them a detention, but Marwan and Zafina ignored them completely. It wasn’t until Jamil formed his fingers into a gun and began making shooting sounds at the faces on the television news that Marwan hollered at him in Arabic and chased both him and Salah from the room.

  Zafina sat on the floor before a low table, chopping vegetables for their dinner. She had a two-burner hot plate beside her and pans and dishes all around her, the rug beneath her protected by a plastic tablecloth. Leyla and Najia, who were about ten and twelve years old, helped her prepare dinner. As Abby watched them, she found it easy to imagine Leah preparing meals in much the same way in her first-century home.

  When dinner was ready—spicy chicken and hot pita bread and several kinds of vegetable salads—Zafina and the children found seats wherever they could, and everyone ate with their plates on their laps. Then, just as Moshe Richman and Ari had shared the stories of their ancestors at the Sabbath dinner, Marwan shared his story.

  “How would you feel if soldiers came to your home in America and told you that the land your fathers and grandfathers have owned for centuries is no longer yours?” he asked. “That is what the United Nations did to the Palestinian people in 1948. They said that Palestine would be divided in half, that people who had lived in Europe and Russia and other countries would own half of it from now on, and the Palestinians who had lived and farmed there for centuries would have the other half. Of course we rejected this partition and went to war—wouldn’t you?

  “The Zionist soldiers ran my grandfather off his land when the war began in 1948. ‘You must leave, it is not safe,’ they told him. When he returned after the war, he found that his home and his village had been destroyed. The soldiers told him, ‘You can’t live here. You abandoned the land and fought for our enemies.’ The world doesn’t want to believe it, Abby, but the Zionists committed many atrocities against our people during that time.

  “My father’s family was homeless, forced to live in squalor in a refugee camp. My father knew that this was no place to raise a family, so he eventually left the camps and settled in Jordanian-held territory on the West Bank. Life was very difficult. My father had no land of his own, so he was forced to work for other people. Then in 1967, Israel declared war by attacking Egypt’s airfields. You know the outcome. When the war ended, the West Bank was no longer part of Jordan but of Israel. Once again, my family lived in occupied territory. And we were not alone. More than one million Palestinians in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip lived under Israeli military rule. I was only two years old in 1967, so I have never known freedom. I have lived in captivity all of my life. All I want, Abby, is a homeland and freedom for myself and for my children. Is that asking so much?”

  “No . . . of course not. It’s what everyone wants.” But she couldn’t help thinking of Ari’s story, how he slept underground because of the Syrian shelling, just a few miles from where Marwan lived. As she gazed at Marwan’s family, she thought of Moshe Richman’s children, Dan, Gabriel, and Ivana. Must they all grow up as enemies? Without the peaceful solution that Benjamin Rosen vainly sought, would they go to war once again? Would Salah and Jamil, Dan and Gabriel kill one another someday?

  “The Jews have tried to cut off my people,” Marwan said, “but we are like the olive trees—even if you cut them down, the roots continue to grow. The Jews would like to get rid of us, but we were also planted here by Allah. And our Father is also Abraham, through his firstborn son, Ishmael. Even the Jewish Scriptures say that this land was given to Abraham and his descendants. That means we also have a God-given right to it. I am sorry for what the Nazis did to the Jews. I know that they took away the Jews’ homes and millions of their lives. But is that a reason to do the same thing to my people?”

  “No, of course not.” Abby’s answer seemed inadequate. Again, she didn’t know what else to say.

  Leyla and Najia gathered the dishes when everyone finished eating and disappeared from the room with their mother. “Could I help them wash up?” Abby asked.

  “No, please, you are our guest.” He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “Why is it that Americans don’t feel the same sorrow for the Palestinians that you feel for the Jews?”

  Abby hesitated. “Well, I don’t mean to offend
you . . . but too many Palestinians have used terror to fight back. When Americans read about things like hijackings, suicide bombers, innocent people losing their lives—it gives all Palestinians a bad name. In the past, some of your leaders, including Yasser Arafat, have condoned violence and terrorism. There has even been terrorism in my country that was linked to the Palestinian cause. Most Americans don’t realize that there are families like yours that simply want to live in their own homeland among their own people.”

  “I do not condone the use of violence, Abby. I never will. But I know the frustration that many of my people feel. Not only was our land taken, but also our freedom. We now have self-government in some towns like Jericho and Bethlehem, but it is not enough. They offer us too little, too slowly. Didn’t your ancestors in America also fight a war for their freedom? And because your enemy had superior weapons, didn’t you also use . . . What do you call it? Guerilla warfare?”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Abby had to admit that Marwan had broken all the stereotypes she once held of the Palestinian people. He wasn’t a hate-filled, gun-wielding terrorist but a thoughtful, intelligent man who loved his home and his family. “I’m learning that the solution to a lasting peace in the Middle East is much more complicated than the nightly news portrays back home,” she said.

  “Many of my people are tired of waiting for that solution. Tell me, what would you do if someone took away your homeland and your way of life?”

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But I think I understand a small measure of your anger. I know what it is to have something you love stolen from you.” She paused, still finding it difficult after all this time to talk about Mark. “A few months ago, another woman stole my husband. When she did, she also stole my home and my life. All the memories of what I had are changed, tainted. But unlike you, I don’t think I want that life back.”

  “I am sorry,” Marwan said. “Adultery is also a sin for Muslims and a very great tragedy when it destroys families.”

  By the time they finished their dessert of Arab pastries and strong coffee, it was late. “I should be getting back to the hotel,” Abby said. “As you know, morning comes pretty early. Thank you so much for inviting me, Marwan.” She started to rise, but Marwan waved her down.

  “Wait. Before you leave I must tell you something. For an Arab to invite someone to eat with him is a pledge of friendship and trust, so I must be honest with you and keep that trust. I like you very much, Abby, and I am glad we are friends. But I had another motive for inviting you here tonight. I wanted you to see my Palestinian people for who we really are. It is my hope that you will return to America and tell your people that we are not all terrorists. We simply want a homeland.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your honesty.”

  Abby waited. Marwan seemed to be considering whether or not to say something else. His youngest son had come to sit on his lap after they finished their dessert, and Marwan absently stroked the boy’s hair.

  “I wish I did not have to tell you this,” he finally said, “but the Israelis have not been completely honest with you. They also have hidden motives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marwan kissed his son’s cheek and lifted him to the floor, telling him something in Arabic. Then Marwan stood. “Come with me, Abby. I will show you.”

  They went out through a back door, across a tiled courtyard, then up a darkened flight of stairs to the flat, open rooftop of Marwan’s house. The night was clear and very warm, the air fragrant with the smell of frying garlic and onions. They stepped around plastic buckets and scattered children’s toys in the darkness, then Marwan crouched behind the waist-high wall that formed a railing and pulled Abby down beside him. He pointed to the street below.

  “See that car?” A dark sedan was parked on a narrow side lane down the street from the house. “It followed us here. Someone is waiting inside it, watching this house. When we leave, you will see that the car will follow us to the hotel.”

  A cold chill ran through Abby that had nothing to do with the night air. She never should have accepted Marwan’s invitation. Agent Shur at the airport had implied that she was involved with Palestinian extremists—now perhaps she was.

  “Why are they following you if you’re not involved in terrorism?” she asked.

  Marwan’s large eyes looked luminous in the darkness. “Not me, Abby. They aren’t following me. They are watching you. They have been ever since you arrived. It is because of the Israeli secret agent who died in the airport.”

  “But . . . but that’s crazy! I didn’t have anything to do with his death! Hannah believes me, and Benjamin Rosen was her cousin.”

  “I know. I believe you, too. But the Israelis obviously don’t.”

  She shivered again. “I think I’d better go.” Abby nearly ran down the stairs and back to the brightly lit living room. Marwan’s children were sprawled on the rugs and the sofa, watching television.

  “I am very sorry if I have upset you,” Marwan said, kneading his hands together.

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll be fine.” But Abby felt frozen inside as she thanked Marwan’s wife for the dinner. His youngest son, Kamal, gave her a kiss good-bye, and Abby thought again of her little Jewish friend, Ivana.

  Abby’s legs trembled as she walked to the car. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at the car parked down the lane. On the short drive back to the hotel, Marwan was silent until they reached the top of a hill. “Look in your side mirror, Abby. The car is following us with its headlights turned off.”

  Abby looked. She saw the car. She couldn’t stop her tears.

  “I am very sorry to have frightened you,” he said. “I don’t think you need to be afraid of them, since you have done nothing wrong.”

  “I’m more angry than scared, Marwan. And I’m glad you told me. I just hope that your family doesn’t get into trouble because of me.”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “We live in occupied territory. We have no rights. My family will learn to be strong.”

  Abby remembered how frightened her daughter had been after their house was ransacked. If what Marwan said was true, if Abby was still a suspect in Ben Rosen’s death, then the robbery was probably part of this nightmare. She had an overwhelming urge to run to her bungalow and call home, to hear her children’s voices and assure herself that they were all right.

  “There is something else I must tell you,” Marwan said as he stopped the car in front of the hotel.

  His dark face was so somber, Abby wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

  “They have deliberately deceived you. Dr. Bazak is not who he says he is. He is a government agent assigned to follow you.”

  “No! I don’t believe you!” She saw immediately that her response had wounded Marwan, and she hurried to explain. “I mean, I don’t want to believe it. Hannah is my friend. I . . . I can’t believe that she would deliberately lie to me.” But Abby remembered the way Ari followed her everywhere, staying in adjoining rooms, enduring Hannah’s lectures about Jesus, assigning Abby to his work areas. Then she remembered his gun, hidden beneath his khaki work shirt. Her stomach rolled.

  “Why don’t you ask Hannah?” Marwan said. “She knows the truth. If she is really your friend, she will tell it to you.”

  Abby climbed out of the car on shaking legs, then stood on the front step as Marwan drove away. She watched for a long time, waiting for the mysterious sedan to pull up, waiting to see if Ari was behind the wheel. The car never came.

  Maybe it wasn’t the Israelis at all, she thought as she started down the path to her bungalow. Maybe it was one of Marwan’s Palestinian friends trying to scare her. He had admitted that he wanted to win sympathy for his cause. But no, she would never believe that Marwan was a terrorist, he—

  Abby stopped in her tracks. How had Marwan known about Benjamin Rosen? Even if the report of his murder had been in the newspaper, how had he known about Abby’s part in it? Or that Ben had be
en a spy? Surely the press wouldn’t have printed those details. And if it was true that Ari was also a spy, how did Marwan know?

  She started to run as each bush and shrub suddenly seemed alive with danger. When she saw lights in Hannah’s bungalow, she bounded up the steps and pounded on her door.

  “Abby! What a nice sur—”

  “I want to ask you a question,” Abby said in a trembling voice. “Promise me you will tell me the truth.”

  “Of course, but . . . my goodness, you’re shivering! Come inside!” Hannah pulled a sweater out of her closet and wrapped it around Abby’s shoulders, then helped her into a chair. “What on earth is wrong?”

  “Is it true that Ari is a spy like Ben was?”

  Hannah was very still for a moment, then she slowly lowered herself to the bed. “Yes, Abby. It’s true. Ari works for the same agency Ben did.”

  The truth jolted Abby like a slap in the face. The people she trusted as friends had been frauds—watching her, following her, betraying her trust. She could barely speak. “All this time . . . you’ve been lying to me?”

  “No, Abby. I never lied—”

  “Yes, you did! You said Ari was an archaeologist, one of your students! Are you a spy, too?”

  “No. Never. And everything I told you about Ari is true. He has a doctorate in archaeology, and he was once my student. He resigned from the Institute five years ago and joined the Agency. This is the first dig he has worked on since then.”

  “But . . . you let him follow me? I feel so betrayed, Hannah. I thought you were my friend. I can’t believe you would let him spy on me.”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry, but it wasn’t like that. I had no choice in the matter. I’m being used, too. The Israeli government would have assigned someone to follow you whether I approved of it or not. I know Ari, and I thought it was better that they sent him than some stranger. I have been defending your rights all along. That’s what most of my arguments with Ari have been about. He has been pressuring me to get out of the way and let him invade your privacy even more, but I won’t allow it.”