Haifa Fragments

169–173.

1

The alarm clock went off at 3:45. Maisoon fumbled in the dark, brushing her arm on something warm and hairy. Yamma! She forgot Ziyad was spending the night. Again. She scrambled out of bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and stole a look at him. He looked so unruffled when he slept, nothing like the waking Ziyad, full of unspent energy. Butterflies could have flown in and made a bed in different parts of his body. A lingering scent of their love-making, mingled with the remains of cheap red wine filled the room. I can’t go to the checkpoint smelling like this.

Where you going, habibti? It’s the middle of the night. Ziyad’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Maisoon stopped dead in her tracks. It was Saturday, so any excuse would be flimsy. She decided to tell him the truth and deal with it later. I’m going with Tamar to the checkpoint to pick up little Ahmad. He’s got an appointment at the hospital this morning. She immediately headed to the kitchen, turning on the water heater on her way.

Maisoon loved her dilapidated kitchen with its falling-apart wood cabinets—the kind they don’t make any more. A window overlooked the souk. It would soon come to life, with vegetable and fruit vendors setting up their stalls, greeting each other Assalamu Alaikum and Sabah el-kheir. The strong, bitter smell of kahwa with cardamom would soon permeate the souk, penetrating the thin, uneven cracks between the stones. Maisoon’s apartment was located on the second floor of an old building in the middle of Wadi Nisnas souk, right above Um Muhammad’s stall.

Mais? Ziyad’s voice echoed from the bedroom, Do you seriously have to go? Min shan Allah, it’s Saturday! It’s my only day off and I wanted us to spend it together. Can’t someone else pick up this kid and drive him to the hospital?

No, Maisoon’s reply came flat from the kitchen. She walked over to the bedroom and took a deep breath. The schedule was made last week and I signed up for today’s morning shift. People are counting on me. As an afterthought, she added, This is important to me, Ziyad. And the kid has a name. It’s Ahmad. Without waiting for a reply, she went back to the kitchen to make a cup of kahwa for herself.

Half an hour later, Maisoon was snuggled up in a warm blanket in the back seat of Tamar’s car, sipping her kahwa. She looked over the steam at Tamar. Her age was hard to pick although she had no visible lines on her face, her curly hair was more white than black. I don’t get you, Tamar. You’ve been doing this for what—almost twenty years now? Where do you get the strength to go on? Maisoon admired Tamar, no matter how impossible the situation she always came up with a solution. She was tiny, but when she needed to she could look imposing—even the soldiers at the checkpoints went out of their way to make sure everything went smoothly when Tamar was around.

I just wake up every morning knowing I have no other choice, she said, glancing at Maisoon from the rear-view mirror. So, how’s Ziyad? They were heading east, driving through the green of Marj Ibn Amer Valley.

Maisoon kept her gaze on the distant hills, He’s fine . . . I guess, she sighed.

He’s fine. You guess. You’ve been with him for over two years now, ya binti, and you guess he’s fine?

The Arabic words sounded a bit off coming from Tamar, although Maisoon had heard her speak Arabic on numerous occasions. There’s no wedding any time soon, Tamar, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m not ready to give up my freedom . . . yet.

Is it because he’s Muslim you think you’ll have to give up your freedom? Well, let me tell you. I’ve been around for quite some time and living in a Muslim village for the past six years. In case you haven’t noticed yet, Mais, they’ve abandoned their tents and camels. And they even own refrigerators! A smirk was forming on Tamar’s face.

Oh Tamar, please! Stop making fun of me! It’s just that . . . Maisoon’s voice faded; she was careful to veil her thoughts.

The rest of the journey to the checkpoint passed in comfortable silence. For several months now, Maisoon would join Tamar on her Machsom Watch early morning shifts. Tamar’s regular partner was going through chemotherapy and often couldn’t make it. They were doing well with long silences. Tamar would drive and Maisoon would either watch the scenery or steal some sleep.

At around one in the afternoon, Ziyad heard Maisoon’s voice float up and through the bedroom window.

Assalamu Alaikum, ammi Abu Nidal . . . no, thank you, I’m tired and if I drink your kahwa now my heart would start racing. I really need to get some rest. Her voice sounded drained and the feet shuffling upstairs were not a good sign.

Not again, Ziyad thought. The bastards probably didn’t let the kid in. He braced himself, forcing a smile as Maisoon walked in with several small bags: homemade olive-oil soap, spices, kahwa with cardamom, bottles of olive oil.

Salam. You still here? she said as she slid into the armchair in the salu, closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the chair. We waited for three hours at the checkpoint. Three hours, Ziyad. They kept telling us that he had the wrong permit.

Ziyad was standing by the window, studying Um Tawfiq hanging laundry on her balkon. Um Tawfiq always took her time to hang the laundry, making sure all the clothes were meticulously lined up, the socks all facing the same direction, hanging according to colour. Tiny soldiers: white socks with deep blue stripes exercising to the gentle rhythm of the wind. On the line opposite, some brown socks danced to that same rhythm. What do you mean, the wrong kind of permit? he asked.

I don’t know, Ziyad. They just wouldn’t let him in. Tamar tried all of her contacts, but it didn’t work this time. I think the soldier at the post was a fresh one. Probably not familiar with the drill. They’re supposed to let the kids in, Ziyad! Everything was set up, we had the confirmation letter from the Israeli doctors and the official letter from the hospital. But they just wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t even look at the papers we had.

Ziyad hated these moments. He felt distanced from it all. It was happening in a different world. He came to her and kneeled beside her, stroking her cheek. You know, maybe next week. Maybe they’ll let him in next week.

Maybe? Maisoon looked at him in astonishment. Is that all he could say? But she was too tired to get angry. All her rage had been spent at the checkpoint.

You know the saddest thing, Ziyad? I could see little Ahmad on the other side of the fence. The whole time—three hours—he was just looking at our side of the world. At first you could see his eyes filled with hope, he even smiled at me. But as the time passed, and he saw Tamar screaming into her mobile, his hopes began to evaporate. When we finally got into the car to go back, he didn’t look disappointed. It was something much worse. I think he lost his faith in the goodness of people today . . . and he’s just a little boy, Ziyad.

Ziyad tried to detach himself from little Ahmad. Your father called while you were out. I know, I shouldn’t have answered, but who thought he’d call after . . . anyway, I think he was just as surprised to hear my voice as I was to hear his.

Maisoon sat upright. Her father had kept his distance for over four months, ever since she announced that her ‘partner’ was from Ar’ara, the heart of the Muslim Triangle.

He loves you . . . you know.

Oh, he does . . . ? So you’re on his side now? Maisoon’s voice was flat.

I’m not on anybody’s side, Mais, min shan Allah. I just think his reaction was reasonable. That’s how things are. This is how it’s been for ages. You can’t expect him to change his beliefs—the values he grew up on—just because you decided you’re going to be with a Muslim man. It doesn’t work that way.

What do you mean that way? It works that way for me!

Ya Rab, Mais! We’ve been through this so many times, why can’t you just let it go?

Let go of what? Maisoon’s voice was beginning to falter, trembling like the crystals of sugar stirred in her morning kahwa. She didn’t want to repeat the words said so many times in so many ways. So she let it go.

Getting up from her chair, she walked to the kitchen, feeling relieved at the sight of the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. It was one of her small triumphs. Defying the mould Ziyad wanted her to fit into. And her father. And Um Tawfiq. She opened the fridge, hesitating. Hummus and labani with some of the olive oil she’d brought from the checkpoint. Ziyad, could you go down to Abu Adel and get some bread?

While he was gone, Maisoon took her time washing the dishes. The simple, cyclical repetitions allowed her mind to drain. While she concentrated on the movements of her hands, thoughts of her activism, her father, Ziyad—were all forced into a corner of her brain.

When Ziyad came back, they ate in silence, her fingers cautiously avoiding his while dipping her bread in the labani. Ziyad stayed in the apartment for another hour, reading on the diwan. When he saw that her silence would last the day, he gathered his things, gave her a hug, and left. She didn’t resist—not when he hugged her, and not when he turned to leave. It was their way of staying together.

2

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 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 hajez. Her eyes reflected a mix of uncertainty and fear, Mama will worry about me, and Baba . . . and my ta’ashira was only for the day . . .

The words hajez and ta’ashira 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