***
When Teacher Mohammad and I got off the bus at the central station, there were no soldiers waiting, no searches or demands for travel papers. From the bus we had seen Tel Aviv, a city so modern and clean it was hard to imagine it existed in the same country as my village. The city of Herzliya, although smaller, was filled with lively cafés, music and freedom.
‘The military government doesn’t rule here,’ Teacher Mohammad said.
An Israeli driver pulled up alongside us in his Mercedes. ‘Do you need a taxi?’
‘To Herzliya High School.’ Teacher Mohammad motioned for me to get into the back seat.
‘Is it cool enough back there? Do you want the air conditioner turned up?’
I looked around. Who was he talking to?
‘Thank you,’ Teacher Mohammad said. ‘We are accustomed to the heat.’
I couldn’t drink it all in fast enough. We drove past castle-like whitewashed homes with flowering red, purple and pink bougainvillea growing up their walls and bursts of colour in elaborate gardens. Mama would’ve loved to see those gardens. Mercedes and BMWs were parked in almost every driveway.
‘Is this what paradise looks like?’ I asked.
Teacher Mohammad patted my knee. ‘We can only hope.’
Waves crashed onto sandy beaches as the taxi approached the white stone school covered in red bougainvillea, and I thought of Baba and his brother swimming in that ocean. Inside the school, we passed a gym, theatre, cafeteria, library, art studio, music room with a piano, and enormous classrooms.
‘How can I compete?’ I thought of our village school that was so small we attended in shifts, shared books, worked at broken tables, read from cracked blackboards, and rationed chalk.
Teacher Mohammad walked with determination. ‘Genius is born, not taught.’
‘Surely preparation plays a part.’ I wanted to return to the village immediately.
‘Many great men can attribute their success to the fact that they didn’t have the advantages other men had.’
The auditorium, where the written part of the competition would be held, was the size of my whole school. Heads turned. A multitude of eyes scrutinised me. My weather-beaten clothes hung from me, while the Israeli contestants wore dresses, or suits and ties. I didn’t belong here and wondered again why I had allowed myself to be talked into coming.
The registrar examined me through reading glasses perched on the tip of her beak-shaped nose. ‘I need your ID.’
I held my card in my calloused hand. Although the word ARAB was clearly written on it, the registrar didn’t need to see it to know. My people were homogeneous.
‘You’re the only Arab here.’ She directed me to a chair close to her. Did she think I’d cheat, or was she afraid I’d murder someone? The boy on my left chewed on the edge of his eraser. The girl behind me sounded like she couldn’t catch her breath. I counted 523 students. Nervous energy filled the room. The proctor passed out the papers.
‘You have two hours to complete this test,’ he said.
***
Forty minutes later, as the other contestants’ heads were still down, their pencils and erasers moving furiously, I turned in my completed test.
‘The questions were too easy,’ I said to Teacher Mohammad, who had waited outside the auditorium. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘It’s your genius that gives you the ability to reduce the complicated to the simple.’ He patted me on the shoulder and, for a moment, I smiled.
***
Mama was waiting for me outside the tent with her arms folded across her chest. ‘Where were you?’
I hadn’t told her because she wouldn’t have approved. ‘A maths competition.’ I forced a smile, hoping it would be contagious. ‘I’m trying to win a scholarship to the university.’
She didn’t smile back. Holding my breath, I waited for her response. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Anger gurgled in her voice. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d sounded so angry. ‘He who aims too high will get a sore neck.’
‘It’s important to me.’
‘We. Are. Not. Rich.’ She articulated each word individually. ‘We have expenses. Who knows if Abbas will ever be able to work again? I can’t send Nadia to work. Who’d want to marry her?’
‘Teacher Mohammad promised to help.’
Mama’s face turned the colour of blood. I’d never be able to convince her. But Baba was right. I had a much better chance of success if I went to the university. I let it drop for now. I probably wouldn’t win anyway. The Israelis would never allow the son of an Arab prisoner to win.
I wrote to Baba about how I finished the test first and how I feared that maybe I had done something wrong. Baba wrote back that the smart mind moves fast, like a bullet.
CHAPTER 21
Teacher Mohammad handed me the letter. Clutching it tightly, I slipped my dirty index finger into the corner above the sealed flap, ripped along the top seam and extracted the parchment paper.
Dear Mr Hamid,
On behalf of the Faculty of Mathematics at the Hebrew University we are pleased to inform you that you are one of the ten finalists. You are invited to participate in a live mathematics competition. It will be held on 5th November, 1965 at 5pm in the Golda Meir Auditorium at the Herzliya High School.
Sincerely,
Professor Yitzhak Schulman
‘Well?’ Teacher Mohammad was excited and anxious.
My heart beat behind my eyes and in my ears. The world seemed to stop. I’d write to Baba immediately.
‘Success is not about never falling, but about rising every time you fall.’ Teacher Mohammad’s eyes glazed over. He was consoling me.
‘I qualified.’
He broke into a full smile. ‘You cannot go back and make a new start, but you can start now and make a new ending.’
I wrote to Baba as soon as I returned to the tent. He was thrilled. Whatever happened, he wrote back, he was behind me one hundred per cent.
The night before the competition, I couldn’t sleep. Cold rain pummelled our tent, leaked in through the holes and wet my blanket. The wind blew with enough force to lift it off the ground. I went to work exhausted.
By the evening, I could hardly keep my eyes open – until Teacher Mohammad and I arrived at the school. A parade of luxury vehicles pulled up at the front door and the prodigies disembarked, dressed as if they were being judged on appearance.
Wearing my bloodstained work clothes – a shirt and drawstring trousers – I stood out like a donkey at the starting gate of a thoroughbred race. I wanted to disappear, but then I thought of Baba moving sand in the Negev heat, and I knew I’d stay.
The ten contestants sat in the middle of the expansive wooden stage in chairs arranged like a horseshoe around the blackboard. I was a lowly Palestinian sitting among the brightest Israelis in the country. None of them spoke to me.
The heavy red velour curtain parted and revealed the spectators. Their curious eyes moved from contestant to contestant, as if intelligence was something that could be determined from a seat in the audience. I felt they were staring at me. I wished I had a change of clothing. Mama would be upset if she knew I was up here covered in blood and sweat from work. Of course, she didn’t want me here at all. Maybe she was right.
‘Hello, I’m Professor Yitzhak Schulman, the head of the maths department at the Hebrew University. Welcome to our first state-wide maths competition.’
Applause.
‘On stage are ten winners. Each has shown tremendous ability.’
Professor Schulman explained the rules. Each student would have a three-minute turn to solve each problem. If a contestant made a mistake, that contestant would leave the stage. The last five contestants would win scholarships to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and compete for various monetary stipends. First place, of course, would be the largest.
Contestant number one rocked back and forth. His kepah, which was attached to his wiry black hair with a bobby pin, bounced with
every movement.
The examiner approached the microphone. ‘Let C be the unit circle x2+y=1. A point p is chosen randomly on the circumference of C and another point q is chosen randomly from the interior of C. These points are chosen independently and uniformly over their domains. Let R be the rectangle with sides parallel to the x and y axes with diagonal pq. What is the probability that no point of R lies outside of C?’
By the time contestant number one picked up the chalk and began to write, I’d already solved the problem on the imaginary blackboard in my head. I could win. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the opportunities others had. I possessed the gift. But what if the Israelis gave me impossible-to-solve problems? Who’d defend me?
‘The probability is 4π2.’
‘That’s correct,’ the announcer said.
The room erupted into applause.
When contestant number two stood, her left shoulder was higher than her right.
‘Find, with explanation, the maximum value of f(x)=x3-3x on the set of all real numbers x satisfying x4+36≤13x2.’
Sweat beaded up on her forehead as she stared at the empty board. The sound of the bell resonated off the walls. The audience gasped. Contestant number two lowered her head and exited the stage.
I was contestant number three.
The blood pounded through my veins as I walked to the blackboard. The eyes of everyone mocked me. I picked up the chalk.
‘Let k be the smallest positive integer with the following property: there are distinct integers m1, m2, m3, m4, m5 such that the polynomial p(x)=(x-m1)(x-m2)(x-m3)(x-m4)(x-m5) has exact k coefficients. Find, with proof, a set of integers m1, m2, m3, m4, m5 for which this minimum k is achieved.’
‘The minimum is k=3, and is attained for {m1, m2, m3, m4, m5}={-2, -1, 0, 1, 2},’ I said as I wrote. Putting the chalk down, I turned and looked directly at the audience. The Israelis in the centre of the front row stared with their mouths open.
The announcer looked at me, as if in shock. ‘That is correct.’
Round after round, I managed to remain focused, solving every problem I was given. My heart nearly stopped when the sixth competitor slipped up. I had won a scholarship. Now, I was competing for the best monetary package. Ten rounds later, it was only contestant number eight and me.
Contestant number eight went to the board.
‘An arrow, thrown at random, hits a square target. Assuming that any two parts of the target of equal area are equally likely to be hit, find the probability that the point hit is nearer to the centre than to any edge. Express your answer in the form (a√b+c)/d, where a, b, c, d are positive integers.’
Contestant number eight closed his eyes, rocked back and forth, and only stopped to blot his palms on his black slacks. He began to write.
The bell sounded. The room went silent. Contestant number eight wasn’t escorted off the stage because if I didn’t solve my problem correctly, the contest would continue.
Teacher Mohammad sat on the edge of his chair and gripped the arms.
‘Factor this polynomial: 7x3y3+21x2y2-10x3y2-30x2y.’
I took a deep breath and began to write on the board, stating the answer out loud as I did so. ‘x2y(7y-10)(xy+3).’
When I finished, I looked over at the examiner. His mouth was open.
‘That’s correct,’ the announcer stated.
Teacher Mohammad’s fists went up in the air. Contestant number eight approached me and extended his hand.
‘Sharpest mind I’ve ever encountered,’ he said.
My lips trembled and my eyes welled up. Suddenly, we weren’t a Palestinian and an Israeli; we were two mathematicians. Contestant number eight patted me on the shoulder. ‘My name’s Zoher. I look forward to seeing you at the university.’ My emotions caught in my throat, and I could only nod.
The announcer hung a medal around my neck while a photographer from the Yediot Ahronot snapped my picture. My stomach churned. Other contestants came and shook my hand. I was caught in a spider web of emotions. The room filled with extraordinary energy. The Israelis, the people who were holding Baba in prison, were applauding me.
The next day, a big picture of me with the medal around my neck appeared on the front page of the Israeli newspaper. The caption read, ‘Arab Boy Calculates His Way to Victory’. I sent the article to Baba. He sent me back a caricature of himself in which a huge smile covered three-quarters of his face.
The night before I was scheduled to leave for the university, sleep wouldn’t come. I knew that the stipend I’d won was only meant to subsidise my living expenses, but what about my family? Could I leave them alone? For the last six years I’d been the man. Could they support themselves without me? I’d be gone for at least three years.
The morning I was to leave to begin my studies, Mama sat at the entrance to the tent. ‘I won’t permit you to live among the Israelis.’ She wagged her finger at me. ‘They could kill you.’
‘They’re not all bad,’ I said. ‘Look how Yossi helped.’
‘Helped? After they failed to kill me.’ Abbas shook his head. ‘I gave them a chance. I won’t give them another.’
My siblings sat around the tent, gloomy and with tearful eyes.
‘I’m going to study science and maths,’ I said for the hundredth time.
‘Man doesn’t need to know more than is necessary for his daily living.’ Mama’s arms were clasped in front of her chest.
‘I already know too much to ever be content working in the slaughterhouse, Mama. I want to discover the unknown. I want to make my living from science and maths.’
She rolled her eyes as if I were the stupidest person in the world. ‘If you leave us now, don’t ever come back.’
‘My studies are the answer to our problems. If I make it I’ll be able to provide for the whole family.’
‘You know nothing of this world!’ The words burst from her mouth. ‘Your dreams are just dreams! The Israelis rule and they’ll never see you as anything more than the enemy; a Palestinian. It’s time you opened your eyes and learned the ways of the world.’
‘One day I’ll make it up to you.’ I looked down at the ground.
‘We’ll never have enough money,’ she said. ‘Don’t do this to us.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Please—’ she started and then she was crying. Mama lowered herself to the ground and covered her face.
‘Here.’ I handed her the majority of my stipend. ‘Buy a goat and a chicken. Plant vegetables. There isn’t much land, but at least that way I know you’ll have food.’
‘Do you have money for yourself?’ she asked.
‘If things become too difficult, I’ll stop my studies and return. Please, just allow me one month.’ I held my breath and waited for her response.
Finally, she nodded. I wrapped my arms around her and she whispered into my ear, ‘Stay away from the Israelis.’
I waved goodbye.
‘You’re putting your life in danger,’ Abbas said.
‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take.’
As I walked to the bus stop, the breeze on my back pushed me to go. I knew from whence the wind came.
Thank you, Baba.
PART TWO
1966
CHAPTER 22
The symmetrical arrangement of the buildings calmed me. I walked along the concrete pavement of the third row, past eleven buildings until I reached building twelve of the Shikouney Elef Dormitory.
I tugged at my homemade trousers, trying to get them to cover my ankles, but there was no way. Mama had made them for me three years before when I was a full head shorter. But these clothes that had started as used sheets, and the few things I had stuffed into a crumpled bag under my arm, were all I had.
The aroma of tomato sauce wafting from the first room on the left welcomed me. It was a communal kitchen and a girl in a tight scarlet top and jeans, with oven gloves on her hands, was lifting a pan of vegetable stew. Her shoulder-length hair bounced as she sp
un around. ‘Hello,’ she said to me in Arabic.
I couldn’t find my voice so I nodded.
‘Excuse me.’ She carried the pan past me into the corridor.
Hebrew voices came from the hallway. What were they doing in our building? They must be soldiers. I wanted to hide. But where? The window had bars. The kitchen door opened outwards. There was nowhere. The last thing I wanted was trouble. I thought I’d prepared myself for a life surrounded by Jews, but now that the reality confronted me, I realised how mistaken I was.
My stomach sank as they entered the room – but they weren’t in uniform.
‘Shalom. Mah neshmah?’ How’s everything? Zoher greeted me in Hebrew, extending his hand.
I hardly recognised him dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt.
‘Tov, todah.’ Fine, thank you, I replied in Hebrew, almost forgetting to breathe. Another young man stood in the doorway.
‘He’s the maths whizz I told you about,’ Zoher said to him.
‘I’m Rafael, like the angel, but everyone calls me Rafi.’ The blotchy-skinned man extended his hand. ‘Be proud. Few people impress Zoher.’
I shook his hand.
‘We’re starting a study group,’ Zoher said. ‘My brother survived the programme and I inherited his notes. Care to join forces?’
What did they want to do? Make me fail? Hurt me? Maybe Zoher was angry that I beat him. This had to be a setup. I had never heard of an Israeli inviting a Palestinian to participate in any group. I didn’t want to provoke them. Zoher did have a sharp mathematical mind, and the notes. Did I have a choice?
I forced a smile. ‘Why not?’
‘This Sunday at 6pm,’ Zoher said. ‘Room four.’
Rafi and Zoher would be living next door to me. Never did I imagine that I’d have to live in the same building as Jews. What if my roommate was one? I’d have to sleep with my eyes open.
‘Where is the bathroom?’ I asked.
‘Behind you,’ Rafi said.
I waved goodbye and entered the toilets. There were three permanent stalls, three gleaming white sinks and three rectangular mirrors in which I could see my reflection. How could I live like this when my family stood outside in a tin tub and washed with water they carried all the way from the village square? Baba’s face stared back at me from the mirror.