“When Majid was 15 I told him about that night and he asked me if she had a name. I told him I named her Maisoon. He gave her back to me when you were born but he made me promise never to tell you so you don’t carry her history, his history, our history in your name … But I don’t have the right to take this with me to the grave. Majid will understand one day.”
1 A Glossary appears on pp 169–173.
“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 20 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.”