by Rula Jebreal
The man standing before him squeezed her shoulder. “Good, then it’s done. Be sure you’re there at seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said, before slowly walking away.
Khaldun thought about Miral, about the last time he’d seen her, as she was walking up the path that led to Jerusalem. She was the only person he would have been glad to talk to before he left. That night, stretched out on his cot, he remembered the stories the older people in the camp told about Deir Yassin and Tal el Zaatar, about the mutilated bodies lying in heaps and decomposing in the sun. He thought about his father, dead in Lebanon—Khaldun didn’t even know where he was buried—and for an instant he considered the possibility that Miral was right, that he should accept the scholarship to study in Damascus. He would be able to live in a house, a real house. The other inhabitants of the camp, his friends and neighbors, came to mind, and he reflected on the cruel destiny that united them. He wouldn’t be worthy of his family if he didn’t fight as his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather had done before him. That night he fell asleep certain he had made the right choice.
Said had awakened hoping that Khaldun would have enough time that day to teach him how to make a slingshot. He had waited for half an hour at the place where Khaldun usually played soccer with the older boys, but when Khaldun didn’t come, he headed back to his shack, kicking every empty can and bottle he found along the way. He saw Khaldun’s mother outside the shack, busy hanging laundry on a frayed clothesline.
“Good morning,” he said. “Do you know where I can find Khaldun? He’s not at the soccer field.”
When she heard her son’s name, the woman flinched. She carefully adjusted a threadbare sheet before turning to the little boy. “Hello, Said. Khaldun’s not here. He went to study in Damascus, and he couldn’t say good-bye to anyone because he had to leave this morning at dawn, but he asked me to give you something.”
Said watched the woman disappear behind the rusty tin panel that served as her front door. After a few moments, she reappeared and handed the boy a plastic bag. He took it, thanked her, and slowly walked away. As soon as he turned the corner, he sat down on a rock and opened the bag. To his great surprise, he found himself holding the military trousers that Khaldun always used to wear, the ones that had belonged to his father. Said was pleased to receive those pants as a gift, because he knew how proudly Khaldun had worn them. There was another package in the bag, something wrapped up in old newspaper. When he saw the slingshot, he was touched, and as he ran to the place where the other kids were playing soccer, his eyes were bright with tears.
Miral had spent the whole morning thinking about the demonstration that was to take place that afternoon in Ramallah. Before she went there, she decided, she’d make a quick trip to the Kalandia camp to distribute some books to the kids and, with any luck, say hello to Khaldun. During lunch she announced that she was not feeling well and that she was going to lie down for a while. She hurried to her room, took off her school uniform, dashed down the stairs, crossed the park while the teachers were still at lunch, and climbed over the wall.
Miral ran to the Damascus Gate, the point of departure for buses to the Occupied Territories. When she finally reached the path leading down to the camp, Miral saw Said, who was using a slingshot to launch rocks at the carcass of a vehicle, as boys of various ages stood around him admiringly. When Miral got closer, she noticed that Said was wearing Khaldun’s trousers—he’d had to roll the cuffs way up and tie the waist with a cord. His decidedly small stature contrasted with his serious, military-style movements as he manipulated the slingshot.
Miral greeted him as soon as she joined the group. The kid was busy taking aim at the only portion of window still intact in the tangle of scrap metal that must have once been a jeep. When he heard Miral’s voice, he gave a start, causing him to shoot so wide that he struck one of the other children in the back. General laughter broke out immediately and infected Miral as well, while Said, red with shame, was the only member of the group who wasn’t laughing.
After the laughter died down, Miral turned to Said. “Why did Khaldun give you his pants? Did you win them from him in some kind of bet?”
“He gave them to me before he left for Damascus. But I didn’t see him. His mother gave them to me.”
“Damascus?”
“Yes, he left this morning at dawn. He didn’t have time to say good-bye. But you must know more about it than I do. You’re the one who kept pushing him to go study there.”
Miral was undecided about whether to reveal that she knew nothing about Khaldun’s decision and didn’t think it was possible, but then she chose to act as if nothing was wrong. “Well, of course I knew he was supposed to leave, I just didn’t think it would be so soon. Would you mind taking me to his mother’s house?” she asked, trying to hide her surprise and satisfaction. Her grateful thoughts went to Hani, who had, it seemed, succeeded where she had failed.
When they arrived at Khaldun’s shack, Miral waited for Said to leave before knocking on the door. When Khaldun’s mother opened it, Miral said, “Good day. We’ve never met, but I’m a friend of Khaldun’s, one of the girls from Dar El-Tifel school. And I… I’d like to know how you’re doing…and how did Khaldun’s departure go?”
“You must be Miral. Come in and sit down,” the woman said, pointing to a straw chair.
Miral was surprised to discover that Khaldun’s mother knew her name. She instinctively liked the woman, whose sad eyes gave way to a lovely smile.
“Khaldun has spoken to you about me?” Miral asked as she took her seat.
“He told me a very beautiful girl might drop by and ask what had become of him. Would you like some coffee, dear?”
Miral nodded and the woman got up to prepare it, placing two tablespoons of cardamom coffee and one tablespoon of sugar in a small saucepan, adding water, and setting it on the fire, stirring slowly as she did so.
Miral watched her as she spoke. “I had a feeling this moment would come, but his departure caught me off guard anyway. Your son is a wonderful boy. I just hope he really goes to Damascus to study and doesn’t stop in Lebanon like the rest of the PLO. Would it be all right if I come to visit you from time to time so I can get news of him?”
“Of course, come and visit whenever you want. I’ve accepted my son’s moving far from me so that he can have a better future. I’ve got a letter for you. He asked me not to open it. From the way he talks, I know he has a very high opinion of you.”
Sitting in front of the shack, the woman and the girl drank their coffee in silence. Both knew it was impossible to change Khaldun’s mind once he had made a decision. In his mother’s eyes, Miral could read the sorrow of immense loss and the resignation of someone who had never had a choice.
“I have to go now,” Miral said when she had finished her coffee. “I’m glad to have met you.” The two embraced affectionately.
“Khaldun was right—you’re a smart girl and very beautiful, too,” the woman said as she handed Miral a yellow envelope.
By now it had grown late, so Miral decided to return to Dar El-Tifel and skip going to Ramallah, thus reducing the chances that the teachers would discover her absence. But when she mounted the wall and dropped down onto the school grounds, she realized that someone was sitting on a bench a few meters in front of her, beckoning her closer. It was Hind’s adopted daughter, Hidaya.
“I’ll bet you’ve been to some protest rally, as usual. You know how fond my mother is of you. I feel the same way. So I won’t say anything to her about this demonstration, but forget about the next one.”
Hidaya had always treated Miral and Rania kindly, feeling great affection for them, she who had grown up in the school and had enjoyed the good fortune of being raised by Hind personally.
“No, I swear,” Miral said to her. “I’ve only been to Kalandia refugee camp. I wanted to see this boy, Khaldun. Maybe you remember—Hind got him a scholarship to study in Damascus. But in any case, I arrived too late.
”
“He’s already left for Syria? Hind told me he refused the scholarship. She said she’d give it to one of the girls from the school.”
“I don’t know. His mother gave me a letter. Maybe it says where he is now,” Miral said, extracting from her bag the yellow envelope with the simple inscription “For Miral.”
“I’m afraid he’s made the wrong choice,” Miral went on. “He’s smart, but he’s impulsive, too, and too young to choose wisely. He often flirts with tragedy.”
Hidaya cast a glance at the school, at the well-tended garden and the girls’ athletic field. This place had been her whole life, and she had dedicated herself to it entirely. It was to her a fixed point, an oasis in the middle of a devastated land. “The intelligent boys are the ones who feel that they bear the heaviest burdens, because they’re able to understand. Sometimes that’s not much of a privilege,” Hidaya said. “Go to your room, and remember the agreement you made with Mama Hind.”
When the other girls were outside in the schoolyard and Miral was alone in her room, she sat down on her bed and opened the envelope. The handwriting, although shaky, was elegant in its way.
Dear Miral,
When you get this letter, I’ll be far away. But I’m not leaving forever. One day I’ll return to my land as a free man. I’ll cultivate the fields of my village or take up my studies again. I have no intention of running away. I know that I could, but I don’t want to. I feel like a man who has never had a chance to be a boy. Life in the refugee camps isn’t normal, as you know; here you grow up throwing stones, without reading books. The past comes back to me every night and wakes me up, and I lie there, sweaty and angry. Here I’m alone, but where I’m going, there will be many other boys like me. I don’t want to become a hero. It’s enough for me to be a soldier fighting for a country that doesn’t exist but is still mine.
What can I do with my life, with my time, with my future? This is a question I’ve often asked myself during sleepless nights in the camp, and it’s only now that I think I’ve found an answer: I am prepared to do the right thing, to fight for the things I believe in, whatever the cost may be.
I want to thank you because you were the only person who brought joy into my life. Your smile will keep me company on this difficult journey.
See you soon,
Khaldun
A big demonstration was scheduled for a few days later, a rally in which both Palestinians and Israelis were to participate. The flu, compounded by the prohibition imposed on her by Hind and Hidaya, kept Miral from going. She was dozing in her bed when she heard her name.
“Miral, are you awake?”
Hind was standing in the doorway, her white hair gathered at the nape of her neck, her features as calm as ever. Still groggy from sleep and medicine, Miral was surprised to see her and managed a wan smile. Then she remembered the demonstration and the fact that she was forbidden to take part in it, and her face darkened.
“I know you’re angry with me,” Hind said, entering and sitting down on one side of the bed. “And I know how much you wanted to go to the demonstration. That’s why I’ve come to tell you that it went well. There were a few minor incidents, but in general things were peaceful.”
Miral could not suppress a smile of satisfaction.
“A large number of people turned out,” Hind continued. “Many foreigners, and especially a great many Israeli pacifists, who marched side by side with the Palestinians, chanting the same slogans, singing the same songs. If I didn’t let you go, Miral, it is because I want to protect you. When you graduate and leave here, you’ll be free to do whatever you think is right, but for now, I just hope the situation has changed and intelligent girls like you don’t have to throw rocks anymore.”
Miral observed her. Hind had aged a great deal in the past two years. She seemed more fragile, yet in her eyes the pride of her family was intact, along with the legacy of its ancient strength.
6
Khaldun had been on the road for two days, hidden in a truck that was transporting oranges, with a boy two years older than he as his companion. Jostled about by the potholes in the road, they hardly spoke but smiled weakly at each other every time their eyes met. Khaldun had found a small crack between the metal sheets that covered the sides of the truck, and through this tiny opening he could get a glimpse of the landscape. He saw first a parade of endless orchards, villages perched on the slopes of hills, and meadows where flocks of sheep were grazing. Then the vegetation disappeared little by little, the grass became scorched, and the landscape appeared rocky and barren. He mused that one day he, too, would have a piece of land to cultivate, and in the meantime he was happy that he wouldn’t have to wake up the next morning in the squalor of the refugee camp.
Somewhat farther on, the truck made a hard, sudden stop, flinging Khaldun face-first into a mound of oranges. When he lifted himself up, the other boy started laughing at him as he watched the bright juice dripping down from Khaldun’s forehead. Khaldun made a sign to him to be silent, as the driver had warned them to do in case of unexpected stops. They heard voices outside, speaking in Hebrew. It seemed that they had arrived at the frontier. The two boys had been assigned to a space deep inside the truck, close to the driver’s cabin and covered with some planks that, in turn, were covered by a thick layer of oranges. Khaldun and his companion were practically lying down, with very little room to move. If a soldier had cast a hurried look their way, he wouldn’t have been able to see them, but in the case of a more detailed inspection they would have been detected. The rear door of the truck was open and some oranges must have fallen out, because Khaldun heard the driver complaining about his load. Instinctively, Khaldun picked up a few oranges and used them to block the opening in the side of the truck. The other boy did the same on his side. An Israeli soldier ran his hand all along the edge of the canvas covering. After a few minutes they heard the sounds of the door closing and the engine starting up again, and the boys breathed sighs of relief.
At last the truck reached the quay in the port of Acre and drove into the hold of a small cargo ship from Cyprus.
Khaldun felt the ship rolling. He wanted to get out of that truck, go up on the bridge, see the ocean, and inhale its smell. For more than two days, he and his traveling companion had seen little more than oranges. He was very fond of that fruit, of its delicate fragrance and distinctive taste. It was the symbol of his country, and one day he would own a big orange grove. But right now, in the heat and stench of the hold, the smell of oranges was like the smell of garbage. The sea was swelling, and the ship began to rock. Khaldun felt what little there was in his stomach rising, but he fought the nausea down and tried to think about something beautiful. It was impossible. The reek of ripe oranges was sickening. “I wonder when I’ll get my first rifle,” he thought, trying to escape from his surreal situation. A little straggly beard made his features look even harder. All things considered, he was happy; the day after tomorrow he would be a refugee no longer. He would be a political partisan, perhaps even a warrior, in a struggle that would sooner or later bring him back to Palestine as a liberator. In the end, he had chosen not to flee, not to go to Damascus to study mathematics or to Kuwait to work for the Arab oil tycoons. He was going to Lebanon, to study and to train.
“A new war will come, and this time it won’t last six days,” he said in an undertone, but no one could hear him, because the roar of the engines drowned out his voice. The ship disembarked its load of oranges and desperation in the port of a small city in the south of Lebanon. The fruit, by now quite ripe after its long trip, would end up being squeezed into juice by shiny steel machines and then sold in various parts of the world. For their part, the two boys would be fed into a different apparatus, the machinery of war, which in a few months would turn them into men, transforming their resentment into hatred, their adrenaline into courage, their adolescence into daring, and their sweetness into resolution. Khaldun lit a cigarette in an attempt to get the bitter taste of ora
nges out of his nostrils. The moon cast a long wake of light over the sea, like a bridge.
“First of all, I want all of you to bear in mind, always, that there is a great difference between the violence our people are compelled to utilize as a means of obtaining the land to which we are entitled and massacres such as those in Deir Yassin and Sabra and Shatila. If you understand this, you are already on the right path. I know that you will miss your homes. But look across the sea—that’s Acre, and beyond it Haifa—and you’ll feel closer to home.”
The military instructor, despite this gentle introduction, had no intention of being indulgent with the small group of boys, almost all of them minors, who had assembled on the training field for the first time. Khaldun looked around. Without uniforms, without weapons, more sheepish than strutting, they looked readier for a boat trip than for a battle. The man who was speaking was the only one wearing a military uniform. At the end of his brief speech, he made a sign to Khaldun, whose comrades in arms were moving in disorder toward the tent that served as a mess.
“You must be Khaled’s son,” the instructor said. “I’m the one who insisted they look for you, you know. I was at your father’s side when he was killed. He was one of the bravest men I’ve ever met. If we’d had a thousand fighters like him back then, we’d be drinking coffee on the seafront in Tel Aviv right now. You have his eyes—let’s hope you have his courage, too. If you do, you’ll get a chance to show it. Now you’d better go and eat, because soon the only thing left of that soup will be its smell.”