Miral (24 page)

Emotion overcame her and she started to cry: for the passing of her father, and for Hani's sudden, violent death. Hind was right, Miral thought: for a time she must get away from Jerusalem and from mourning. She would have liked to talk to Hind at length, to confess everything to her, to tell her the
whole
truth, that she had fallen in love with Hani, that she had taken part in all the demonstrations, including the violent ones, throwing stones and Molotov cocktails against Israeli tanks, that she had been a militant member of the PFLP. But Hind looked at her with eyes full of comprehension, and there was no need to talk further; Hind had understood everything from the first time Miral had opened up to her about her political involvement. Hind hugged her. No words could have said more than that.

M
iral was scheduled to leave the following morning. She had already said good-bye to Rania and her aunt Tamam in Haifa and was now gathering everything as she prepared to leave her life in Jerusalem.

On her way back from Haifa, a trip she had made many times, she tried to memorize the places that were most dear to her: the Mount of Olives, which seemed to wear a coat made of eucalyptus, pine, and especially olive trees covering the entire hill right down to the foot of Jerusalem's ancient walls; and the golden dome, which emanated warmth to the entire city. Nor did she want to forget the strong odors of the market.

She would never be able to forget her bright, fierce city. She didn't know what was waiting for her in Europe, but she did know this was her only choice for a future. It would be easier than continuing to live in her own country, where every place reminded her of all that she had loved and lost. As she was packing her suitcase, assisted by Aziza, she placed in it all her music CDs, her photographs, and the few articles of clothing that constituted her whole wardrobe. Hind came to her room and presented her with an overcoat to help protect her from the cold European winter.

Aziza said, “If you have problems, if you can't make it, come back home. Don't be afraid of being judged. We're sisters.”

Miral wanted to retain, fixed in her memory, the images of the white walls of Jerusalem, its city gates, Dar El-Tifel school. For forgetting all that—even if remembering should prove painful—would mean that one day, however far off, she would plunge back into remorse. She would not let time erode the voices and echoes of her past, and even the silences, the many leaden silences of her life. She wanted to remember everything.

The room, the window, and even the bed that had seen her grow up and mature; that pillow, on which she had laid her head, had absorbed her tears of grief over the deaths of her loved ones: Nadia, Jamal, Khaldun, Hani.

Tomorrow she would weep elsewhere, on a different pillow, far from everything, and perhaps she would laugh as well, for her life would change radically once she got far away from Jerusalem. Miral was afraid of losing her identity, even though she knew that remaining in Jerusalem would mean losing herself.

Before she fell asleep, an image came into her mind, as clear as a crisp photograph. She was on the stretch of level ground that led to the Kalandia refugee camp. A path of intense yellow flowers with red centers, nourished by rains, had grown up amid the rubble and the scrap metal. She hurried down that path, as though it would lead her to a happy future. But the road of flowers was a mirage, a dream: all that remained for the people in the refugee camps. When Miral opened her eyes, she realized that the dream was both an illusion and a prediction.

The dream was a representation, a symbol, of her name, which is Arabic for a beautiful yellow tulip, one of those that can be seen sometimes, when they manage to bloom, after an extremely rare rain in the Sinai or the Negev. Miral is the attachment of roots to the earth; let the walls of Jerusalem and all the holy places and museums and state buildings come tumbling down, and the flowers, which are the land's true children, continue to spring up. They would never disappear.

Jerusalem was still given over to celebrations on the day that Miral left. Convoys of cars flying Palestinian and Israeli flags were everywhere. It was the first time since the accord had been signed that people were celebrating in both the eastern and western parts of the city at the same time. Late that afternoon, Miral waited for her taxi outside the school, looking expressionless in the midst of her friends, who were all gathered around her. She had tried her best not to cry, but now, as she watched Hind hang the Palestinian flag from her balcony to join the celebration, Miral could not hold back her tears. Hind came down and embraced her. “Miral, continue to make me proud.” Before Miral climbed into the cab, Hind paused and touched her arm. “My dear girl, you are leaving nothing behind. Everything you need is already inside of you. You will never forget who you are and where you come from. The things you've lived through here will help you to be successful anywhere, whatever you decide to do. Nothing is decided, Miral, but nothing happens by chance either. You're the master of your own fate.”

While the taxi was driving off, Miral glanced back for one final look, in time to catch a blurred glimpse of Aziza and the other girls, running after the cab, and her old headmistress, standing by the gate, waving. Miral had no idea that it would be the last time she would ever see Hind.

“Where to?” The taxi driver's voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Ben Gurion Airport.”

“Where are you traveling to, miss?”

“Europe,” Miral replied, as she passed the Dome of the Rock, which was gleaming in the sunlight. On their way through the Orthodox Jewish neighborhood, she saw religious settlers holding weapons and protesting the imminent signing of the peace accords. Some of them were carrying banners with an image of Israeli prime minister Yitzhak Rabin and underneath it the words “Traitor, you have betrayed us.” Her city, Jerusalem, was once again hovering between peace and war.