by Rula Jebreal
“Calm down, Miral. Don’t worry about your school. I’ve already alerted them,” the man replied.
“What do you know about my school? Who are you? Are you a spy?” Miral cried hysterically, raising her voice and trying to give herself courage. Just then a middle-aged woman entered the room, carrying some cups and a steaming teapot. The fragrance of mint tea filled the room.
“Don’t insult me!” the man said, coming closer to her. “But you’re right, we haven’t yet introduced ourselves. My name is Hani. I saw you at the demonstration, and I’m the one who brought you here.”
“Him, a spy?” the woman said. “That’s all we need.” She poured the tea and told Miral, “Drink a little. It’ll make you feel better…. You’re in our house now. Don’t worry.”
“I took the liberty of checking your papers, and that’s how I saw that you lived at Dar El-Tifel. I called the school and told them what had happened. It seemed the right thing to do,” Hani said, sipping the hot tea. He had a deep, gentle voice.
In an effort to apologize, Miral said, “No, yes, it was right…it’s fine. You did the right thing.”
As soon as she had recovered somewhat, Hani called a cab and accompanied her to the main door of the school. On the way there, neither of them uttered a single word. Miral was still in the demonstration, thinking of Hadil and of her absurd death; Hani gazed at the walls of the Old City and then the elegant white and pink stone houses of the Sheikh Jarrah district, which stood in such contrast to the atmosphere of violence and cruelty people were breathing only a few kilometers away.
When the taxi stopped, Miral got out, managing to say no more than “Thanks” before Hani disappeared.
In the course of the following days, Miral fell into a state of deep depression. She felt responsible for Hadil’s death. Some girls, among them Aziza, tried to console her, but others kept their distance, avoiding her as a way of underlining their disappointment and fear.
The faculty of the school was in a state of agitation as the administration wanted Miral to be expelled. She had broken all the rules and put the school itself at risk. For Miral, the worst possibility was that she would be sent to live with her aunt in Haifa, which would mean giving up her political activity, her teaching job at the Kalandia refugee camp, and her friends. Hadil’s death had not slowed, but rather had strengthened, her growing desire to take an active part in the struggle. It was difficult for her to give her teachers a rational explanation of what was going on inside of her. She belonged to that portion of humanity that would not accept resignation. And even though she knew that from that day forward it would be increasingly difficult for her to leave the school in order to teach at the refugee camps and to help the children dream, her thoughts continually returned to Khaldun. The boy was too restless, too imprudently courageous to survive in this world.
Miral also understood what Abdullah, her old gym teacher, had said to her years before: “If you want to comprehend this conflict in its full extent, to realize its local and regional implications and understand who its real movers are, you must get to know it thoroughly, from the bottom up.” At the time, they seemed to be nothing but abstract, distant words, but now they proved prophetic.
While she waited for the school’s decision, Miral spent the days stretched out on her bed, staring into space. It was a struggle for her to wash or eat. Aziza brought her yogurt and fed it to her, tried to embrace her and caress her the way they had done when they were children, as though to make up for the physical affection they weren’t getting from their parents. Aziza’s familiar hands relaxed and comforted Miral, but a feeling of embarrassment mingled with shame often arose in her when she looked Aziza in the eyes, for fear that her friend could read her firm intention to continue her political activity. She constantly asked Aziza about the children in the refugee camp and especially about Khaldun—how he was, what he was doing—and when Aziza revealed that he was deeply worried about her, Miral realized that the time had come to act. She had already decided on the one person who, more than anyone else, would be able to help her on that road: Hani.
In the meanwhile, an emergency meeting was held at the school, and there Miriam and the other members of the school council voted unanimously to expel Miral. She was held to be directly responsible for the unrest in the school, which had led to several students’ skipping classes in order to participate in demonstrations, thereby endangering the general security. The Hadil episode was the last straw.
Hind intervened to block that decision, explaining to the gathering that the present moment was one in which the students, all of them, had the greatest need for the council’s support and understanding. She maintained that the girls should not be punished for their civic passion, that she herself was the person directly responsible for what had happened, and that therefore the final decision would be up to her alone. The vice-principal, Miriam, attempted to object, pointing out that Hind was ill, that Miral would be hard to handle and difficult to control, and that there was a strong possibility that her presence would compromise the school. Hind replied that she would talk to Miral immediately.
And so she called the girl into her office.
“Miral, do you know how I’ve managed to keep this place open?” Hind began. “I’ve convinced everyone that education is the best means of resistance. Do you have any idea how often we’ve had to start all over, from scratch? When I found the first orphans on the street, I had only 128 dinars. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all my children, and I love you all very much, especially you. This school is the difference between you and the children in the refugee camps. I’ve invested a great deal in your future, and your father has done the same. Don’t waste this opportunity. This is your chance.”
Then Hind informed Miral that two possible courses of action remained open to her: she could either sign a pledge never to leave the grounds of the school without precise authorization to do so, or she could pack her bags and leave immediately for Haifa, where her father had agreed to take her. Should she remain at school, the slightest violation of the rules would result in her immediate expulsion.
Miral nodded her acquiescence with tears in her eyes; she understood that she really had no choice, but at the same time she tried to explain to Hind that the anger and the sense of injustice fermenting inside her compelled her to do something. “We can’t stand around with folded arms, waiting to be liberated by someone else. It’s not fair to delegate the struggle to the young people from the refugee camps—we’re called to do our part, too,” she declared.
“You’re right, Miral,” Hind replied. “Each of us is doing something for Palestine. I’m responsible for making sure that this school remains open. Thousands of families depend on me. Many girls would be on the streets otherwise, and that’s something we can’t allow to happen. You must keep in mind that political involvement on the part of any one of you could seriously compromise this place. By and by, you’ll see that there will be ways for you to do your part. Our future state will need pragmatic, intelligent young women, not martyrs.”
They stared at each other for a long time. Hind’s stern eyes betrayed the love she felt for her rebellious “daughter,” while Miral’s glowed with impatient pride.
4
Miral had been too stunned and confused by her friend’s death to remember the exact location of the house where Hani had taken her after the demonstration, but she was sure she could find someone to show her where Hani lived. She went to the Armenian Quarter—one of the most fascinating in the Old City, despite the wounds inflicted on it during the heavy fighting in 1948—and tried to get some information from a group of children playing ball in a square illuminated by the lukewarm morning sun.
“Sure, we know him,” the oldest of the group replied to her question. “But who are you? And what do you need him for?”
“Tell him Miral’s looking for him. He knows me.”
The boy kicked the ball, which shot away over the smooth stone. Then he sized up
Miral with what was, despite his youthful age, the scrutiny of an adult.
“Wait for me here, I’ll go and call him,” he said, going off with his hands in his pockets. His oversize trousers gave him a comical appearance.
Left to wait, Miral gazed up at the white roofs of Jerusalem, which provide a kind of contrast to its bloody history. “God, how I love and hate this place,” she thought. Perhaps one day, the city would become the capital of two states, one Israeli and one Palestinian. Although her birthplace was Haifa, as she contemplated the Dome of the Rock, gleaming in the rays of the sun, she longed to merge with her adopted city.
After a few minutes, the boy returned with Hani, who looked thinner and much taller than Miral remembered. He had brown, tousled hair and was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a gray sweater. Despite his melancholy eyes, he possessed a radiant smile.
“I can see that you’ve recovered very nicely,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I’m glad. Have you had breakfast? Come with me, I know a place near the Damascus Gate where they make the best hummus in town.”
“No, thanks, I don’t want to disturb you. I just need five minutes of your time to talk to you about something important,” Miral replied.
“So let’s take a little walk. We’ll have a better discussion on full stomachs,” he said.
The Old City was in ferment, filled with tourists in town for Passover and Easter. It was a mild day, and a fresh, pleasant breeze caressed the undulant Judean Hills.
“So what’s this important matter?” Hani asked.
“Well, it’s about a person I know, a boy who lives in Kalandia refugee camp. He seemed very sharp and articulate. I’ve read one of his stories, which shows real promise, if he has the chance to do something with it. He’s received a scholarship to go to school in Damascus, but I don’t think he’ll accept it. He doesn’t want to abandon the intifada. He’s always the first to throw stones or use his slingshot against the Israeli tanks, and I’m afraid he’s going to come to a bad end.” Miral stopped, and they stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. Hani seemed to have the ability to read people from the inside, to understand what they were feeling. He started walking again, slowly.
“What makes you think I can help your friend?” he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper.
“I saw the way you moved. Even when the fight was going on, you seemed sure of yourself. Please, could you talk to him? He needs a father figure—his own father was killed many years ago.”
“Do you love him?”
“No no, where did you get that idea?” she replied, blushing in embarrassment.
“What’s this boy’s name?” Hani asked.
“Khaldun.”
Hani smiled and raised his eyes to heaven.
“What’s going on? Do you know him?”
“Miral, we have to trust each other. And if we want to keep talking seriously about these things, we must get to know each other a little better. Come with me, I’ll take you to a safer place than this,” Hani said, turning onto a narrow street where the houses were so close together that only an oblique ray of light was able to filter past them. They entered a café that occupied the corner of a low building and consisted of a single large room filled to the ceiling with smoke. Several old men were inhaling slow, endless lungfuls from their narghiles, while the younger patrons of the establishment drank cardamom coffee or mint tea. There was a large counter covered with colored ceramic tiles in red, yellow, green, and on it stood a large silver tray filled with oriental sweets. Behind the counter, two young men prepared the infusions and other beverages. Hani was apparently very well known in this place, because everyone greeted him with a nod or a smile and the proprietor shook his hand.
Miral and Hani sat at a table that was somewhat removed from the others. “I see you’re very popular here. Wouldn’t it be better to talk outside, in the open?” Miral asked.
“How suspicious you are. It’s good to be like that in these times, but you can relax now,” Hani responded ironically, continuing to smile as he placed a hand on hers. “These people here can be trusted—they’re my friends and comrades,” he added.
“Do you belong to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine?” Miral asked, speaking very softly.
He looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, Miral, I’m the PFLP officer responsible for Jerusalem—the secretary—and I know Khaldun well. His father was one of the best men we ever had, and he would have been very proud of his son. I didn’t know he liked to write. I saw him in action once, during an Israeli raid on the camp.”
Miral smiled. She’d been lucky to find Hani. “Super!” she said. “What part of Palestine do you come from? Your accent is a mixture of Jerusalem and other places.”
He thought for a moment, as if Miral had asked a hard question.
“I was born in Lebanon. We are Christians. My parents were Palestinian refugees in 1948, forced to leave their lands and their house in Jaffa. We were able to reenter Jerusalem through Jordan a few months before the 1967 war, so at least we’re refugees here, in our homeland. Now I believe only in our cause. Do you know what intifada means?”
“Sure. It means raising your head up, rebelling to preserve your dignity.”
“That’s right.”
He had the same look of melancholy that had struck her the first time she met him. Miral added, “I’m frightened to think that a lot more blood is going to flow, and even after that, God knows how many sacrifices we will still have to make.”
Ever since the death of her friend Hadil, Miral had felt a need to talk about politics with an adult. In fact, Hani was her senior by about ten years, but she felt he had great authority.
“Of course, it won’t be easy, Miral, not for us and not for them. They’ve built their happiness on our unhappiness, on our diaspora, and that can’t get them anywhere. Now our destinies are intertwined. A great many of us will still be compelled to leave the country, and some of us will die, but in the end the international community will force the Israelis to sit down and negotiate with us.”
That was just what she wanted to hear. “I’d like to do something more than what I’m doing now. It’s frustrating, what I see every day in the refugee camps and in the villages, the continual humiliations at the checkpoints—I feel so helpless in the face of all that. It’s not enough for me anymore to go to a refugee camp three times a week and teach kids a little English. I’m angry. The whole world should know what’s going on here.”
Before he spoke, Hani ran a hand through his hair, pushed the bangs from his forehead, and took a deep breath.
“Miral, you’re young, but this struggle is making your generation grow up in a big hurry. You have to think over a decision like this carefully before you make it. You’re talking about going down some roads there will be no turning back from. Besides, what are you going to do about your school?”
Miral, too, seemed to weigh her response for a while, thinking her way to the bottom of her heart. “I know it won’t be simple, and after I graduate it will get even harder. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to stay in Jerusalem, but for right now, I think our struggle is crucial, and I want to be part of it.”
Hani considered Miral’s words and found them sincere, free of rhetoric, and he could tell that she was not just blowing off some passionate steam. At the same time, however, he was afraid to give her too much hope. He had already seen too many young people fall in the struggle or wind up in Israeli prisons.
“All right. As you must know, you’re going to have to be very well informed politically, so I’d like you to think about that, at least for a little while. When you’ve made your decision, let me know. As far as Khaldun is concerned, let me speak with my organization. We’ll try to get him out of the refugee camp. Let’s meet again, you and I, in a week, okay? I’ll get in touch with you through a girl in your school.”
In her heart, Miral had already made her decision and didn’t need a single minute more, but it still seeme
d reasonable to take a few days to reflect. The two said good-bye in front of a white stone wall that dazzled in the sun. Hani stood still for a few moments and watched her walk away, gracefully slipping through the crowd of people returning from the souk and heading for their villages. As he walked back to the Armenian Quarter, he considered her qualities. “She’ll be a good politician,” he concluded. “She’s a little excitable and impulsive, but with some training, she’ll learn to control herself.”
Miral couldn’t stop thinking about the words Hani had said to her, or about his dark eyes, which seemed to look into the bottom of her soul. They shared a passion for politics and a commitment to social work; they both admired the left wing of the PLO for the moral rigor it had demonstrated. Hani, however, was critical of the left’s intransigence, especially regarding peace negotiations with Israel.
On the way home, Miral felt more serene, more solid somehow, and, more than anything else, physically attracted to that young man. On her way home the following weekend, she decided to pass through the Armenian Quarter and enter the Old City through Herod’s Gate. She felt as though she were entering a new phase of her life, filled with energy and enthusiasm, and as she crossed the gate, she again went over her choice in her mind, knowing that she would have to live with that choice in secret. “I’m not turning back,” she thought.
5
The man was staring into Khaldun’s eyes. He had just made the boy a proposal, one that could change the course of a life. Khaldun looked around at the shack where he had spent the last three years, at the muddy streets, at the garbage, at the children running after one another in the midst of open sewers. What was there left for him to do in this place? Sure, it was his home, his land, but it was also his hell. What future could he have here? He would grow up and grow old in a shack, and maybe he would die prematurely, but for useless reasons, and he wanted to be of use, to do his part. He felt the adrenaline rising in his veins; he would have liked to play soccer whenever he wanted and to be a real combatant when he grew up. Khaldun nodded in agreement.