Читать книгу Haifa Fragments - khulud khamis - Страница 10

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Colourful dresses and scarves were strewn all over the diwan when Ziyad came in with fresh grapes from Um Muhammad’s stall. Maisoon didn’t want to go to the henna party but she’d given in to her mother’s insistence. She finally settled on a long, light blue sleeveless dress with a pattern of small yellow flowers, a cleavage that wouldn’t insult anyone’s honour and a deep, rumman-stained scarf.

Not knowing anyone except the bride and her parents, Maisoon settled in a corner of the garden, smoking a cigarette and sipping her wine when a young woman approached her. She was tall and slender, her features blurred in the darkness.

“I wish I could smoke a cigarette like you do … you know … in front of everybody,” her voice was soft with a slight tremor.

“Ya salam,” Maisoon laughed “and why can’t you? Here, why don’t you have one?”

The girl shrank back. “Are you majnouny? What would they say about me?”

Maisoon shrugged her shoulders. “So how about some wine, then?”

“Hmmm …”

There was something unfamiliar about the way the words danced on the girl’s tongue—an accent Maisoon didn’t recognize. “Maisoon,” she said as the girl sat down on the stone next to her, brushing Maisoon’s sleeveless arm as she took the glass of wine from her.

“I’m Shahd,” and she giggled into the glass.

“And does Shahd go to school? What, tenth grade, eleventh?” Maisoon was losing interest in the girl.

“Actually, I’m twenty-three. I want to study medicine and become a daktora. Inshallah next year.”

Maisoon was looking intently at her now. The girl was defining herself according to the norms of society—by age and occupation or education. She didn’t look more than sixteen or seventeen with her slim body and virtually flat chest.

“Come, let’s dance!” In a sudden movement, Shahd grabbed Maisoon’s hand and dragged her to the middle of the garden, into the reflected lights. “It’s one of my favourites!” She took her scarf and wrapped it around Maisoon’s voluptuous hips. “Yalla ya amar, show us some of that hazz sharki.” Shahd was now laughing, swaying her arms and getting down on one knee the way men do.

Maisoon’s body froze, now what? Should she just do the elegant moves, dancing the way ‘good’ girls are supposed to? She looked down at the young woman whose name meant honey and allowed her body to decide. Closing her eyes, she let the music surge through her—dum-tak-tak dum-tak. Dum-tak-tak dum-tak. Deeper now and into her bones. Ach, to hell with all the women’s talk. She checked the scarf around her waist, making sure it was tied at the right height. When Maisoon opened her eyes, she no longer saw the women sprinkled around the garden, nor did she see the mother of the bride staring at her in horror. It was only her, Shahd, the music, and the wine spreading warmly inside her body. There were no men at the henna, so she felt at ease to let herself be led by the rhythm completely.

She was lost in her own world of the durbakki and didn’t see the way Shahd’s eyes were transfixed on her, hungrily devouring every movement of her hips. She wasn’t aware of Shahd’s slight shiver of the body.

By the end of the evening, Maisoon was spent. The women who at first had looked at her as if she were committing a sacrilege were all over her by the time the music faded.

“Ya salam! Mashallah, you dance like an Egyptian!”

“No, didn’t you see the way she moved her feet? That was Iraqi rakes. Where did you learn to dance this way?”

“Come to my daughter’s henna next month and dance for us!”

“My son is finishing his law degree this summer, he’s a very good boy. Come to our house for shai.”

It took Maisoon a while to wriggle out of the grip of the women. She found Shahd in that same unlit corner of the garden where they had first encountered each other. She was smoking one of Maisoon’s cigarettes, abandoned when dragged to dance. “Hey, you! This was all your fault! And anyway, you’re not supposed to be smoking in front of them.”

Shahd didn’t look at Maisoon—instead, she stared at her own bare feet. Her sandals were somewhere around. “I don’t know … I lost track of time and Mansour is already gone to the checkpoint.” Her eyes reflected a mix of uncertainty and fear, “Mama will worry about me, and Baba … and my permit was only for the day …”

The words checkpoint and permit hung in the air. That’s why I couldn’t place the accent. Maisoon dropped next to her, and reached for the burning cigarette. “Tayyeb, I live nearby, why don’t you come for some hot shai with na’ana and we’ll work something out.”

Shahd straightened her back and looked at Maisoon. “Thanks for the cigarette.” Then, very slowly, her face lightened. “Yalla, what are we waiting for? Shai sounds just like what I need right now.”

“Watch your step,” warns Maisoon, though she knows the words to be useless; the street is dimly lit. She hears Shahd recalling Allah in whispers as her sandals squash something decomposing, one of the less delightful parts about living in the middle of the souk. The night air smells of rotten vegetables mingling with the odour of fish. “It’s not far from here, come.”

Twenty minutes later, they are settled on Maisoon’s old diwan, sipping shai with na’ana. Shahd has managed to call her neighbours and ask them to deliver a message to her family letting them know that she’ll be staying in ‘the city’ tonight, not daring to mention the word Haifa, as the mukhabarat were probably on the line.

Shahd flicks through an old album of traditional Palestinian dresses, while Maisoon sketches her.

“You have beautiful hair,” Maisoon says absentmindedly, “I’ve never seen such a colour.” Shahd’s long shiny hair is the colour of black olives. Her eyes a deep brown, almost black, are sprinkled with violet dots that dance when she laughs.

“Are you a painter?”

“Oh, you mean the sketch? No, no, it’s nothing really. Just something to do with my hands, you know, like smoking … I’m almost finished, but it’s not good. I couldn’t catch the light in your hair.” She passes the drawing to Shahd.

It’s almost midnight, but neither of them feels like going to sleep. When Shahd asks, “How come your parents let you live on your own?” Maisoon doesn’t sense any judgment.

“Well, I am a grown-up woman. I didn’t want to stay at home with my parents and wait until I got married, especially as I’m not planning on getting married any time soon,” she pauses, then adds “or ever.”

The teacup in Shahd’s hand quivers. She doesn’t know if the ‘or ever’ is said as a sign, or if Maisoon is one of those ‘free, independent’ women who don’t believe in marriage. Or if she is doing this just to spite her parents. Or, maybe … but this is a dangerous space which she can’t yet explore. A space which demands careful navigation. There are moulds already made for her; their clearly defined boundaries are not to be crossed under any circumstances. For those who do—the price is always too high to pay. But this woman here, Maisoon … she lives on her own, breaking taboos herself. But you’ve only known her a few hours. And she dances like a goddess. Oh and that body—so full of sensuality … stop it.

Maisoon finishes her tea, disappears into the kitchen, and returns with a bottle of red wine, no glasses. “Here, open this while I change into something more comfortable. I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”

Shahd has never opened a bottle of wine before, but she doesn’t need to be a daktora to figure it out. After several attempts she succeeds. Maisoon emerges from the bedroom wearing a men’s old gallabiyya, hiding all those lush curves.

Maisoon holds the bottle to her mouth and tips her head back, Shahd studies her neck, one, two, three gulps and it’s passed to her. Shahd balances the bottle between her legs as she lights her third cigarette.

“So, why did you invite me over? I mean, you don’t even know me, and you could get into trouble for having me at your place. I could have asked the parents of the bride to stay at their house.”

“Tfaddali, my home is your home. But seriously, you just looked really desperate and I wanted to help.”

They finish off the bottle, laughing into the night, laughing at the shock and horror on the old women’s faces when Maisoon began to dance. Their conversations are disconnected threads coloured with wine. It’s almost dawn when they finally fall asleep on the diwan.

The following morning Maisoon calls Ziyad to see if she can borrow his car.

“Why borrow? I can take you anywhere you want to go.”

“I need to get to Tal E-Zeitun to take a friend home. And I might be late.”

Ziyad has never heard of Tal E-Zeitun. When she tells him it is in the West Bank, the line goes silent for a few moments. He knows better than to argue with her. “I’ll bring the car in an hour, but I’m not going there with you.” He doesn’t want anything to do with the other side of his world.

It is well into the afternoon when they finally leave Haifa behind. Shahd is adamant that they shouldn’t go through the checkpoint; she is sure they’d use her expired ta’ashira to put her in administrative detention. Maisoon doesn’t know which is more dangerous: facing the soldiers or going through the no-go area.

“Look, see that small mound with the olive grove? There’s a dirt road we can take.”

This is just unreal … it’s not happening to me, is all Maisoon’s brain is capable of coming up with.

“Don’t worry, it will be fine, inshallah. I’ve done this before.”

Ten minutes later, they are on the other side of the olive grove—on the other side of the green line. Maisoon is in a daze.

During the 40 minutes it takes them to reach Tal E-Zeitun, the reality begins sinking in. I’m not welcome in this part of the world. I’m not one of them. I’m a citizen of the state that occupies their land. I have a blue ID in my wallet. I’m a traitor. I have running water and I don’t need to worry that my home could be demolished at any moment, or that soldiers could raid my house in ungodly hours of the night. What am I doing here, putting myself in danger. If the mukhabarat find out, I’m the one who’ll be spending the night in jail.

Maisoon pushes aside the immediate implications of her crossing the border and tries to focus on Shahd’s family and how they’ll welcome her. It is not her first time in the West Bank; but it is the first time she is going to the home of a Palestinian family living on the other side—so close yet worlds apart. Will they accuse me of betraying our people? Our land?

“Hey, you’re thinking too much,” Shahd says as they enter the mukhayyam, the refugee camp. “Look, there’s Sami, my little brother. You can just pull up here and park on the side of the road. It’s difficult to drive inside the camp; the streets are too narrow and you might run over one of the kids playing in the street.”

Um Loai welcomes them with warmth. She hugs Maisoon tightly and thanks her in so many poetic words for bringing her daughter home safely.

Settling down in their narrow salu, Maisoon’s anxiety melts away with the heat. Um Loai serves lunch on a big silver platter; mhammar and bamiah.

“It tastes just like my mother’s cooking, yislam ideeki, khalti,” Maisoon says in between bites.

Um Loai smiles, “Of course it tastes just like your mother’s cooking, habibti.”

After some kahwa sada, Shahd takes Maisoon for a walk through the camp. They meet the neighbours along the way, Maisoon expects some hostility once Shahd tells them she’s from Haifa, Aruset El-Bahar, but she receives nothing but warmth. Until now, her only encounters with Palestinians from the other side have been sporadic and distanced—mainly communicating with them through the fence at checkpoints or at olive harvests she has occasionally taken part in. But all those past encounters were never on equal ground. She was the privileged one coming to help the helpless. Walking through the camp with Shahd, she slowly relaxes and soon feels comfortable, her ears taking in the untainted form of the ancient language of this land.

When they return to the family house, Shahd’s father is home. Abu Loai is polite but Maisoon can see that his smile is forced. He is in his mid-fifties, has strong arms and huge hands.

“Ahlan wasahlan, ya binti. This house is your house.” His words sound sincere. “Um Loai here tells me you’re from Haifa? I used to work in Haifa, in construction. You know, before they closed us up in these cages like untamed animals. Back then, we could at least make a living with dignity. But now …” he looks down at his hands. His voice is empty of anger, his eyes dimmed with resignation, his hands reading uselessness.

Um Loai walks in with shai just as Maisoon is getting ready to leave. “It’s getting late, binti. You can’t go back home, the checkpoint will be closing and you don’t know your way around.”

Maisoon hadn’t thought of any logistics until now. She doesn’t even know how to get back to the checkpoint. She feels trapped but she has no alternative. She thanks Um Loai for her kindness and dials Ziyad’s number but can’t get through. There is no signal.

The small salu is turned into a bedroom at night, shared by Shahd and her two younger sisters, Ina’am and Shirin. Maisoon feels guilty when Shahd tells her sisters they have to share a mattress, but the girls just giggle and ask for a story.

“Kan ya ma kan, but not so long ago, there was a young girl who lived in a small small place. The place had just one gate from which you could come and go, and the gate would only open for half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the evening. But to leave the place, you had to have a special magic card. Now this girl lost her card … then she found a secret passageway …”

The girls fall asleep midway into the story, and Shahd motions Maisoon to follow her outside. “I want to show you something very special.”

They walk through the dark, narrow alleyways. Small clusters of young men stand in doorways and on corners talking and laughing. Older men play shesh besh and smoke nargila. Here and there veiled women stand in twos and threes, talking in hushed voices. They pass a man in his sixties, sitting in the doorway of one of the haphazardly built two-storey houses. Even in the dark Maisoon can tell there is something wrong with him; his eyes follow her with an unsettling hollowness. Shahd tells her that Abu Fayyad lost his mind after his son exploded himself on a bus in Haifa back in 2003. Maisoon shivers and crosses her arms.

Near the edge of the camp, music streams toward them from a compound made up of three buildings. Small lights—red, green, white—run their length, creating a feeling of celebration. Patches of colours—paintings done in children’s strokes, butterflies, flowers, animals—decorate one wall, while another reflects political resistance art—mainly Handalas, hands tearing at a wall, symbols of freedom. Across one wall, Maisoon can read in beautiful Arabic calligraphy Dar El Amal. House of Hope.

“This way,” Shahd takes Maisoon by the arm, leading her to one of the buildings.

Inside, they are greeted by a young man busily sweeping the floors. “Salam, Shahd. Oh! We have a visitor?”

“Masa’a el-kheir Qais. This is Maisoon, from Haifa. She’s stuck here for the night.” Shahd winks at Qais, who smiles back at her. “I don’t know why they keep you, Qais. Really, I’ve never seen such a sloppy cleaning job.” She quickly ducks to avoid the broom.

Maisoon watches them and wonders if Qais’s smile is more than brotherly warmth.

They walk through a corridor with colourful drawings tacked to the walls, passing closed doors. The compound has three examination rooms in all, a spacious reception room, and two offices for the doctors. After the clinic, they go inside the second building—the kindergarten. Shahd tells her that it only opened a few months ago, and they are still getting organized. The third building will serve as an open house, with a big hall and several large rooms. They are setting up a library and a computer lab, and are planning an art room. The hall serves as a place for the teenagers to spend time together instead of roaming the streets.

Later as they are lying in bed, Maisoon asks about Qais.

“His family is rich. One of the richest in the Triangle,” Shahd rolls over to face Maisoon. “The whole family went to England in the 1980s. Qais told me that his father didn’t want the children to grow up as second-class citizens. Even though they had a comfortable life in exile, they wanted their children to remain connected to the motherland. So Qais spent every summer here. He fell in love with Palestine and when he was still in medical school, the idea of a clinic began to form in his mind.” Ina’am mumbles something in her sleep; Shahd waits a moment before continuing in a whisper. “His father told him to speak to the sheikh of their community in exile. They raised enough money to open a clinic. Salaries and accommodation weren’t an issue, as a number of young Palestinian doctors and medical students were interested in internships, and local families offered up their crammed living spaces to host them.

“The clinic has been open for almost a year now. And I’m pretty sure Qais is there from seven in the morning until after ten at night, six days a week. He has a diwan in his office and tries to catch some sleep when he can but I don’t think that’s too often. He’s so bright … and his heart belongs here.” Shahd whispered into the darkness. “That’s where I work. Qais knows I want to become a daktora.”

Ziyad was cooking a shakshooka in Maisoon’s apartment when she came home the following afternoon. “You didn’t come home last night,” he said without looking up from the pan.

“And you stayed in my apartment,” she walked toward him and hugged him, resting her head on his back. His body was stiff. He turned around and held her tight in his arms. Too tight …

“Go and take a shower, Maisoon. I’ll make us some shai, we need to talk.”

As Maisoon rubbed the loofah over her body, any desire to share her experience of Tal E-Zeitun with Ziyad was scrubbed away.

“You can’t act like this, disappearing for two days. Without letting me know you won’t be coming home, turning your phone off. And with my car, too!”

They were sitting on separate diwans, Maisoon’s toes reaching Ziyad’s thighs. He was massaging her feet using too much pressure. She closed her eyes. It was a one-way monologue. So she settled for replying to him in her mind. You don’t own me, you don’t own me, you don’t own me. I can turn off my phone and disappear for two days. Tayyeb, maybe not with your car, but I can do what I like. You don’t own me, Ziyad.