Haifa Fragments. khulud khamis
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