Mornings in Jenin (31 page)
2002–2003
ARI MADE GOOD ON his offer a few weeks later, taking Sara to Ein Hod. The two of them asked David to go along and all three walked through the village. Modern sculptures dotted the terrain. A few artists, mostly French Jews, worked outdoors on landscape paintings and residents walked about in shorts and summer dresses. “This is your family’s home,” Ari said, pointing to a splendid stone house with beautiful gardens and fruiting trees.
“Can we go inside?” Sara asked.
“Let us ask.” Ari knocked on the door.
A pretty Jewish woman in her early thirties appeared. Realizing that the strangers at her door were there on an errand of Palestinian nostalgia, she refused them entry.
“I know what this is about. You must understand this is our home now.” She emphasized the word
our
. “Besides, my baby is sleeping.” With that she closed the door and the would-be guests left.
Sara took photographs of the stables, where Ganoosh and Fatooma once lived. She had promised her great-ammo Darweesh to visit that stone building of his fondest memories. Three of his sons, Amal’s cousins, had been part of the resistance and lost their lives in the fighting. The others were imprisoned, and Darweesh had wished for death to come to him during that time. But he survived in his wheelchair—in an innermost, lowermost space.
David and Ari found Basima’s grave where the cemetery had been, just above the village. Most of the headstones had been removed. But a group of white-streaked red roses peeked over the tall grass.
“This is approximately the spot where we buried her,” Ari said. “Dalia planted these roses.”
Sara caught up with Ari and David. In their last days together, Amal had told her daughter about the grave and the roses. The story still fresh in her mind, she knew right away what the men were looking at.
“Should we say the Fatiha for my great-teta Basima?”
“Of course,” Ari said.
“Will you teach it to me? The Fatiha?” David finally asked.
“Of course.”
Before the day was over, Sara drove a bit farther to Haifa’s shore. She had promised her amto Huda to take pictures of the sea. In all her life, Huda had not been able to fulfill her girlhood wish of going to the ocean “just to sit, since I can’t swim.”
In Jenin, Sara at last found the extended family she longed for. Huda became a maternal friend. Her great-ammo Darweesh had produced quite a large contingency of cousins—first, second, and third. But most of all, she loved Mansour.
A year after her mother died, Sara was still in Jenin, still helping in the slow rebuilding effort with occasional funds from wealthy gulf states. She took a job with a French nongovernmental organization and lived with Huda. Her uncle David came around often and so did Jacob. All very different people, they found one another in the memory of loss and the hope of rest, becoming something of a family.
Following his sister’s death, David stopped drinking. This is what he wrote on Sara’s www.aprilblossoms.com Web site:
I do not drink anymore, sister. Somehow you gave me this gift. I’ll never be wholly Jew nor Muslim. Never wholly Palestinian nor Israeli. Your acceptance made me content to be merely human.
You understood that though I was capable of great cruelty, so am I of great love.
Sara was eventually deported back to the United States, where she took a job with al-Jazeera news agency. Her cousin Jacob went with her to study at Amal’s alma mater, Temple University. It seems he was predisposed to mathematics, like his uncle Yousef.
During Sara’s stay in Jenin, she was able to sponsor a visa for Mansour, whom she grew to love as the brother she had never had. Osama was released from Israeli detention and both he and Huda encouraged their son to go. Thus, shortly after Sara returned to her home in Pennsylvania, she sent him a ticket to join her and Jacob, to live in the old Victorian house that her mother had restored and where Sara had grown up.
David wrote of this on www.aprilblossoms.com:
Huda and Osama tell me that Mansour is studying art and working part-time with Sara. “He’s doing well,” Huda said. “I get letters all the time. Look.” She showed me a pile of them. “Look what he wrote here,” she said, reading a passage that described his awe at a world without military occupation. He had never imagined how thrilling to the spirit it is to live by one’s own terms and move freely about.
I visit Huda and Osama often. She makes such sumptuous food and they are very good about keeping me in line when I crave the drink. “Have a hooka instead,” Osama insists, and we smoke together muaasal. The honey apple tobacco is by far the tastiest.
Yesterday I was there, and Osama remarked how our children live like siblings together in your Pennsylvania home. One
American, one Israeli, and one Palestinian. “How nice that is,”
Huda said, her tiger eyes the prettiest I have ever seen.
“Yes, indeed,” I said, inhaling the smoke of honey apple tobacco.
Love, David
. . . Love, Ismael
2002
I PLAN IT. I LIVE IT. I see it. I’ll make it happen. I’ll kill. I will.
But I can’t. I know I can’t. Love came to me in a dream and placed her lips upon my brow.
“Love is what we are about, my darling,” she says. “Not even in death has our love faded, for I live in your veins.”
My darling wife. Beautiful Fatima.
And I struggle to fall back into my dream to find her once more.
I know I cannot desecrate Fatima’s love with vengeance. Much as I want them to bleed, I’ll not besmirch my father’s name with the lies they will tell. I can’t leave Amal alone in the world. I haven’t kept my promises. I tried. To protect my wife and children. To set my sister’s life toward family and love. I tried, Baba.
Now I’ve gone so far. Can I turn back? The wheels have been put in motion.
“I’m not going to go through with it,” I say.
“He’ll not go through with it. The coward. But it will go through him,” they say.
It will go through me.
I’ll live this pain but I’ll not cause it. I’ll eat my fury and let it burn my entrails, but death shall not be my legacy.
“I understand, brother,” another tells me.
Someone else drives the bomb into the American building. It goes through me.
And I see on television what I saw in my darkness. It lives in me with the necrotic years that will not end. And my face is broadcast and printed around the globe.
“The world knows your face, Yousef,” they say, and a bullet is handed to me. “Do the honorable thing if you’re found.”
My gun and solitary bullet are in my pocket. I carry my death, the honorable thing, in my clothes as I, their terrorist, search for work in the dank realms of life. In Basra I am a laborer. In Kuwait, I haul stone. In Jordan I am nearly a beggar. Then, I am a school janitor.
How fate is stubborn and holds to habit
. I lay my head in a room beneath the library.
How fate is merciful
. And everywhere, I am alone with my father’s books, my bullet, Love and the memory of her, the past, and memories of a future.
I write so many letters to Amal. Stacks of them line my dirty walls. But what new hell will come to her if we are in contact and I am discovered. And oh, Ismael. I’ve carried your scar on my shoulders for so long that it has sunk into my own skin. Here it is.
I read April’s news and weep tears. I weep darkness and love. Here it is, at the library where I live: www.aprilblossoms.com.
Dearest Amal, with a long vowel of hope.
Sometimes the air is redolent with the sighs of memory. A waft of olive wind or the jasmine of Love’s hair. Sometimes it bears the silence of dead dreams. Sometimes time is immobile like a corpse and I lie with it in my bed.
And there I sleep, waiting for the honorable thing to come of its own accord.
For I’ll keep my humanity, though I did not keep my promises.
. . . and Love shall not be wrested from my veins.
Although the characters in this book are fictitious, Palestine is not, nor are the historical events and figures in this story. To accurately render the settings and history, I relied on many written sources, which are cited as references and, in some instances, quoted in the text. I am grateful to these historians who have set and continue to set the record straight, often at high personal and professional costs.
Writing this story and getting it published has been a long journey that started in 2002. It was first published under the title
The Scar of David
by a small press that went out of business shortly thereafter. Two years after this original publication, Anna Soler-Pont, of Pontas Literary and Film Agency, became my agent and began breathing new life into it. As a result of her efforts, the story was translated into twenty languages and Bloomsbury offered to release it again in English. I am immensely grateful to Anna and to Bloomsbury for this second chance. In particular, I wish to thank Alexandra Pringle, who believed in this story enough to take it on under such unusual circumstances. And I wish to thank Anton Mueller, my editor, for the literary insight and expertise (and patience with me) that made this novel so much better. I wish to also thank Janet McDonald for her excellent copyediting.
The seed for this book came from Ghassan Kanafani’s short story about a Palestinian boy who was raised by the Jewish family that found him in the home they took over in 1948. In 2001, Dr. Hanan Ashrawi sent an e-mail to me after reading an essay that I had written about my childhood memories in Jerusalem. The e-mail read: “A very moving article—personal, Palestinian, and human. It sounds like you can write a first-rate biography. We need such a narrative. Have you thought about it?” So, to Dr. Ashrawi, I owe the initial confidence to write. A year later, I traveled to Jenin when I heard reports that a massacre was taking place in that refugee camp, which had been sealed off to the world, including reporters and aid workers, as a closed military zone. The horrors I witnessed there gave me the urgency to tell this story. The steadfastness, courage, and humanity of the people of Jenin were my inspiration.
An award from the Leeway Foundation gave me a cushion to absorb the financial difficulties that I encountered while writing. I’m thankful to this wonderful organization and to all similar institutions that value and seek to support artistic expression. The love and encouragement of friends assuaged my many episodes of self-doubt, particularly when debt and publishing rejection letters began to mount. I will always be indebted to Mark Miller for his friendship and support that never wavered, not even in my grumpiest hours. I am also grateful for the love and editorial help of many, especially Mame Lambeth, who read this manuscript three times at different stages of its development, and David Mowrey, for being the best friend I’ve ever had, and for all the Saturdays when he graciously accepted my arrival at obscenely early hours of the morning for breakfast.
A warm thank-you to the following individuals, whose generous spirits, advice, and encouragement had an impact on the creation or direction of this novel (whether they know it or not): Dr. Evalyn Segal, Gloria Delvecchio, Karen Kovalcik, Peter Ciampa, Yasmin Adib, Beverly Palucis, Martha Hughes, Nader Pakdaman, Anne Parrish, William Kowalski, Dr. Craig Miller, and Anan Zahr.
Although I met him only once in person, and briefly so, the late Dr. Edward Said influenced the making of this book in no small way. He lamented once that the Palestinian narrative was lacking in literature, and I incorporated his disappointment into my resolve. He championed the cause of Palestine with great intellect, moral fortitude, and a contagious passion that touched so many of us in many ways. To me, he was larger than life, and though we all knew he was sick, I also thought him larger than death. Alas, I was wrong. The sad loss of him, felt by many thousands of us, is echoed in the pages of this story.
My most profound gratitude is to Natalie. Being her mother has been my greatest joy, and the miracle of unconditional love that she gives and accepts is my heart’s sustenance.
Abla:
teacher
Abu:
father; father of
Adan:
Muslim call to prayer
Aeeda:
cooked sugar used as a depilatory
Ahlan:
welcome
Ahsan:
better
Ammo:
paternal uncle
Al hamdulillah ala salama:
Thanks to Him for your safe return
Allaho Akbar:
God is bigger. Western press explains this phrase as meaning “God is great,” which is an erroneous translation that strips it of spirit and context. “Allaho akbar” is used in nearly every conceivable context among Arabs, and always as a humbling reminder that God is bigger than any event or circumstance and therefore faith in Him is the answer.
Ammoora:
adorable
Amto:
paternal aunt
Ana ismi:
My name is
Areej:
fragrance
Aroosa:
bride
Ashhado an la ellaha ella Allah, Ashhado an Mohammadun rasool Allah:
The shehadeh—the Muslim declaration of faith proclaiming the oneness of Allah and that Mohammad is his prophet
Aywa:
yes
Baba:
dad
Babboor:
an open flame used for heating and cooking
Babel Amoud:
Damascus Gate
Binti:
my daughter
Bismillah:
in the name of Allah
Bismillah arrahman arraheem:
in the name of Allah, most Merciful, most Compassionate
Dabke:
folkloric dance unique to Palestine, Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan
Dal’Ouna:
famous folk song and dance
Dinar:
a Middle Eastern currency
Dishdashe:
traditional long robe, worn by both men and women
Egal:
a rope-style tie, usually black, used to hold a hatta in place on the head
El baeyeh fihayatik:
a phrase of condolence that means “May your life be extended”
Ellahi:
my Lord
Fadeeha:
scandal
Fatayer:
a type of baked bread with either cheese or zaatar and olive oil
Fatiha:
the opening surah of the Quran
Fedayeen:
resistance fighters
Fellaha:
peasant woman
Fellaheen:
peasants
Fils:
coin currency
Fuul:
a bean paste, typically eaten with bread
Habibi:
my beloved (masculine)
Habibti:
my beloved (feminine)
Haj:
pilgrimage to Mecca; title of someone who made the pilgrimage to
Mecca (masculine)
Haje:
title of someone who made the pilgrimage to Mecca (feminine)
Halaw:
sweets
Hatikva:
Israel’s national anthem
Hatta:
male headdress
Hayo ala salat:
flock to prayer (part of the adan)
Hayo alal falah:
flock to your well-being (part of the adan)
Hijab:
female head covering
Hisbiya Allah wa niamal wakeel:
a phrase equivalent to putting a situation
in the capable hands of Allah
Hummus:
a traditional Arab snack made of chickpeas and tahini
Ibn:
son
Ibni:
my son
Inshalla:
God willing
Intifada:
a rising up or uprising; a shaking off of oppression
IsmAllah:
God’s name; used as praise and to ward away evil
Jibneh:
cheese
Jiddo:
grandfather
Jomaa:
Friday
Kaak:
a type of bread baked in long rolls with sesame
Kaffiyeh:
Palestinian headdress, usually checkered black and white or red and white
Kahwe:
coffee
Karaf:
gross
Khalo:
maternal uncle
Khalto:
maternal aunt
Khan el Zeit:
a street name in the Old City of Jerusalem
Khobz:
bread
Kitab:
book
Knafe:
a cheese and pastry delicacy in syrup
Koosa:
zucchini, usually stuffed
La ellaha ella Allah:
There is but one God
La hawla wala quwatta ella billah:
There is neither might nor power but with Allah. It is a saying to express one’s powerlessness to reverse tragedy.
Maalesh:
It’s okay
Makloobeh:
Palestinian dish with lamb, rice, and eggplant in a cinnamon and cumin spice mixture
Manakeesh:
bread baked with olive oil and zaatar
Muaasal:
molasses tobacco
Mulukhiya:
a stew of mulukhiya plant in chicken broth and garlic
Nye:
ancient Middle Eastern flute
Oud:
Middle Eastern instrument similar to the lute
Quirsh:
a coin currency
Quirshean:
two quirsh
Quran:
Muslim holy book
Rahma:
mercy
Rukaa:
a unit of prayer
Sabr:
patience; also the name of a tenacious cactus plant
Sahyouni:
Zionist man
Salam alaykom:
Peace be upon you—a common greeting
Salamat yakhti:
Greetings, sister
Salat:
prayer
Salata:
salad
Sanasil:
stone barriers that spiral up hills in Palestine to halt erosion
Shaheed:
martyr
Shawerma:
a sandwich of shredded rotisserie meat rolled into bread with salad and sauce toppings
Shehadeh:
Muslim declaration of faith
Sheikh:
a man of distinction in tribal traditions, usually by religious accomplishments
Sitti:
my grandmother
Surah:
chapter from the Quran
Tabla:
small hand-held Middle Eastern drum
Taboon:
large oven used for baking bread
Teta:
grandma
Thobe:
caftan
Thohr:
noon
Um:
mother of
UNRWA:
United Nations Relief and Works Agency
Wahhid Allah:
Proclaim the oneness of Allah
Wleidi:
my son
Wudu:
ablution before prayer
Ya:
oh
Yaba:
dad
Yahood:
Jews
Yahoodi:
Jewish man
Yihmeek:
protect you
Yumma:
mom
Zaatar:
crushed thyme, turmeric, and sesame
Zaghareet:
ululations
