***
At the house that evening, Jameel, his parents and I sat around his coffee table and waited for Deborah to play her new oud.
She tried to strum it standing, but it was awkward.
‘Ouds were meant to be played sitting down,’ I said.
She sat in the chair across from me and tried again, but the oud rotated.
‘I’ve got to get used to holding it.’ She shook her head and looked at me. ‘It wants to slide off my lap. It wants to point itself at the ceiling instead of the audience.’
‘Put it against your chest, not your belly,’ I said. ‘It’ll stop it from rotating on you.’ It was so unfair. She couldn’t even play her new expensive oud. She would probably get bored with it in a day and never use it again.
‘Like this?’ She had it on her lap.
‘Yes, but hold the neck more vertically.’
She strummed and it stayed in place.
‘It’s hard for me to get used to a fretless instrument. I’m used to the guitar’s frets stopping the strings in exactly the right place for the pitch.’ She complained as if it was a big problem. She strummed it a few more times.
‘Why don’t you start with the Maqam Hijaz?’ I said, softening a little. Perhaps she was sincere in her admiration of our music; perhaps she deserved a chance.
‘The what?’
Of course, she didn’t know. ‘A maqam is a concept related to the Western ideas of “scale” and “mode”.’ I looked at her. ‘The Maqam Hijaz has an Eƅ, Bƅ, and F number in the key signature, and the tonic is D.’
She played the notes.
She looked up at me with those pretty eyes. ‘How was it?’
‘Your plucking pattern is off.’ I sounded like Baba. ‘The plucking motion should come mainly from your wrist. Yours is coming from your forearm. Hold your pick like it’s an extension of your hand.’
‘Like this?’ She strummed the chords.
‘Keep your wrist at the smallest angle you can, without it being impossible to play.’
She took my advice and strummed the chords again.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Don’t allow your elbow and wrist to take over.’
She played the Maqam Hijaz perfectly. I smiled the way Baba always did when he was able to teach me a melody.
Everyone clapped when she finished.
‘I wish I wasn’t going home next week,’ she said.
‘Home?’ Didn’t all the Jews believe Israel was their home, the one God had promised them?
‘Home; you know, California,’ she said.
***
The day before Deborah left, she stopped by our room with a box.
‘I thought we’d have a last dinner together, American style.’ She smiled. ‘Pizza, Coca-Cola and Sonny and Cher.’
She put the box on Jameel’s desk and plugged her cassette player into the wall. Cher’s voice singing ‘I’ve got you babe’ burst from the recorder. Deborah handed us each a slice of pizza. We had just begun to eat when I heard a knock on the door.
It was my brother Abbas. He looked into my room. His eyes locked onto Deborah’s Star of David and the colour drained from his face. I pushed him outside and pulled the door partially closed. He put his hands over his ears.
Abbas had the ferocity of a lion. ‘You’re partying with our enemies.’ He shook his fists, and took some deep breaths.
‘That’s my roommate Jameel. He’s Palestinian like us.’
‘And the blonde with the Star of David around her neck?’ Abbas spit the words out. ‘I suppose you expect me to believe she’s Palestinian as well.’ He placed a letter in my hand. ‘It arrived yesterday.’
I didn’t recognise the sender’s name, ‘Aboud Aziz’, but I did recognise the sender’s address. The Dror Detention Centre. I pulled the letter out of the open envelope.
Dear Ichmad,
You don’t know me, but I’m in prison with your father. He’s had a fall. Visiting days are the first Tuesday of every month from noon to 2pm.
Sincerely,
Aboud Aziz
I’d promised Baba that I wouldn’t visit, but, in my heart, I knew I was looking for an excuse. What if Baba was being tortured and only pretended that he was fine?
‘Should I go?’ I asked Abbas.
‘Do you still have a conscience?’
How could Baba, who was so apolitical, who loved to tell jokes, survive in prison? What if the other prisoners beat him for being too accommodating to the Israelis?
‘He told me not to come,’ I said. The pit in my stomach grew heavier when I realised it was the first Monday of the month. ‘I’ll leave tomorrow,’ I said. After eighteen years, the need for Arab Israelis to obtain permission to travel had just ended.
‘Mama sent this for him.’ Abbas handed me a paper bag filled with almonds. ‘I need to return.’
‘Stay the night,’ I said. ‘Sleep in my bed.’
‘Absolutely not. I refuse to fraternise with the enemy.’
‘Wait.’ I brought him to the kitchen to give him the stash of food I had saved for my family. ‘Please stay.’ I handed him the bag of frozen food and he was gone.
‘What’s going on?’ Jameel asked when I returned.
‘My father’s had an accident. I need to visit him.’
‘Who was that at the door?’ He put the last bite of pizza crust in his mouth.
‘My brother.’
‘Aren’t you going to invite him in?’ He headed for the door.
‘No,’ I said, louder than I intended. ‘He went home. My mother needs him.’
‘Aren’t you going?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Yes, I’d go tomorrow. Abbas had given me the money.
While Jameel slept, I washed my shirt and trousers in the sink and hung them outside on the line to dry. I wanted to borrow something from him, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. With a damp rag, I wiped my sandals.
***
When I heard the muezzin’s call to prayer, I showered and washed my hair with soap. At the front gate of the campus I caught the first of the five buses I’d need. I’d get the notes and homework assignments from Motie, Zoher, Rafi and Jameel when I returned.
As I rode, I wondered what would happen if the other inmates found out that Baba built houses for the Jews. Had anyone from our village been arrested recently? The Israelis would definitely want that spread around. Images of Baba being beaten by both the Palestinian inmates and the Israeli guards entered my mind, and my grip on the bag of almonds Mama had sent tightened.
The relentless sun on the suffocating bus left me dizzy and parched. It reminded me of that first journey, years earlier, as I was careening, unprepared, out of the innocence of childhood.
I studied maths, chemistry, physics; anything I could to occupy my mind. But, despite my efforts, by the time I arrived at the prison I was nervous and sick. Stumbling towards the pen, I wondered how badly Baba must be hurt that the other prisoner felt compelled to write. Would I even recognise him?
I forgot my discomfort when I heard a piercing cry coming from the pen. Instinctively, I rushed towards it. A guard rammed his Uzi into a prisoner’s ribs as the prisoner lay curled in a foetal position in the dirt. Was that Baba? I didn’t want to look, but the wailing forced me. The man stopped moving. Was he dead?
I ran to the entrance and waited impatiently while the guard called name after name. If he had died, would they even call his name? I thought of Baba’s name being called every month and no one being there to visit him.
The sun was like a hot poker. Many people sat in the sand. An older man with a cane fainted and his family gathered around him and wet his head with water from a bottle. Why couldn’t they build a little shade for us? They surely had the labour. Babies and children cried, and I continued to wait. My mouth was parched and my skin burned. Two hours later, the guard finally called Baba’s name.
‘Who are you here to see?’ the guard at the door asked.
‘Mahmud Hamid,
my father,’ I said, looking at the floor.
‘Oh, you’re Mahmud’s son? Great voice. He’s been teaching me how to play the oud.’
I looked into his face and handed him the bag of almonds. He looked into it. ‘You can’t bring anything in, but, if you want, I’ll give it to him later.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘You’re all set here,’ the guard said. ‘Unfortunately all visitors have to be searched.’ He turned around. ‘Yo Bo’az, this is Mahmud Hamid’s son; take care of him.’ He turned back to me. ‘Nice meeting you.’
‘You, too,’ I said and walked towards Bo’az.
I entered the room with scores of other men. Bo’az patted my body down with my clothes on and let me proceed.
Baba appeared in the window. His face looked like leather with deep crows’ feet and vertical lines across his forehead. I felt weighed down. Were all his letters lies? Baba smiled and I saw a glimmer of the father I remembered.
‘Did something happen to Mama or one of your siblings?’
‘I heard about your fall.’
Baba shook his head. ‘I tripped – had a slight concussion. I’m fine now.’
‘I thought the worst.’
Baba smiled. ‘I’m so proud of you. A college student. Did you have to miss classes to come here?’
‘I can make them up. I’ll come every month,’ I said.
‘Absolutely not. I don’t want you missing a single class. In life, if one wants to achieve something great, he and his loved ones must make sacrifices.’
When it was time to leave, Baba looked into my eyes. ‘You’ve made me so proud.’ He put his hand to the window and I did the same. I watched as he was escorted through the door, and then I cried like a child.
CHAPTER 27
Professor Sharon wasn’t in class. Instead, a freckle-faced man with golden dreadlocked hair dressed in ripped jeans and an untucked shirt leaned against his desk. ‘I’ll be filling in for Professor Sharon during his military reserve duty.’
I prayed Professor Sharon’s duty would last the twenty more days until the semester was over.
After class, while walking by the professor’s office, I caught a glimpse of a clean-shaven soldier in uniform speaking with Professor Sharon’s substitute and stopped dead still. I remembered Baba curled up in a foetal position while the soldier pounded his machine-gun into his ribs on the floor of our house. I thought of the sneering, ruthless commander, a soldier who looked very much like the soldier in Professor Sharon’s office.
The world tilted, hard. The eyes, the nose, the lips – it was Professor Sharon, clean-shaven. I stared. When he noticed me, I dropped my eyes and stumbled away.
It was years ago, and the room had been dark, except for the harsh light directed upon my family. I couldn’t be certain. I recalled again the hate-filled commander who had sneered, spat and thrust his machine-gun into Baba’s flesh. That soldier was Professor Sharon. I shook my head. No, it wasn’t. Could not have been.
Maybe.
***
Fifteen days later, I entered the classroom and froze mid-step. Leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, Professor Sharon locked his eyes onto mine. If there hadn’t been students pushing into the class, I’d have turned around and left. My heart pounded. There were only a few days left in the semester, I told myself.
Professor Sharon handed out a take-home practice exam, which, he informed us, we would correct together in class.
‘I wanted to correct them myself.’ Professor Sharon’s voice was serious. ‘But due to the increasing Arab hostility, I’ve moved your exam to the day after tomorrow.’
For the last few years there had been mounting tensions between Israel, Jordan, Syria and Egypt over water and land rights. A prolonged chain of border violence had ensued.
***
Jameel and I were sitting at our desks in my dorm room, inhaling the aroma of stewing vegetables drifting in from the nearby kitchen, when I heard Motie’s signature knock, three rapid taps, on my door.
‘Come in,’ I called to him in Hebrew.
‘Bring your practice exam to the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it out of the way. We need to start studying for the real thing.’
On the kitchen table were five plates and a large bowl of cooked white fluffy grains.
Rafi and Zoher were already sitting at the table.
‘Ever had couscous?’ Zoher asked.
I shook my head.
‘We’ll study Moroccan style.’ Zoher scooped couscous onto everyone’s plate and Rafi covered it with a ladleful of vegetable stew. ‘My mother’s couscous was the best in all Casablanca.’
As we ate, we solved the test questions together.
***
On the day of the exam I entered the large auditorium and sat in the back of the room. I was staring at my desktop in an attempt to clear my mind, when I heard an unfamiliar voice inform us that Professor Sharon would not be present. A weight lifted from my heart.
I turned over the exam, looked at the first question, then the second and third. Maybe there was a mistake. The Israeli to my left was checking the cover of the exam as well. This test was exactly the same as the review test.
***
The car park outside the halls was filled with activity. Parents loaded suitcases into their car boots. Students carrying shoulder bags and backpacks gathered at the bus stop, in the hallways and in the road. The school year was over.
***
My first thought when I heard the knock on my door the next morning was that it was a mistake. The halls were empty. Jameel had already left and I was about to go back to my village for the summer.
A Jewish Israeli student stood there with his hands on his hips. ‘Professor Sharon wants you in his office. Now!’
A bolt of fear shot through me. I was unable to respond.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ the student sneered.
My first instinct was to flee, to return to my village. Professor Sharon must have been waiting for the semester to end to confront me. But then I started to think. Maybe he wanted to congratulate me on my test score. I was sure I had got all of the questions right. If he knew something about Baba, why would he wait until the end of class?
I was still tempted just to finish packing my bag and go back to the village instead of meeting with him. But then I remembered my promise. This was not about Baba, I kept telling myself as I walked towards his office. He didn’t even know who Baba was. With a trembling hand, I knocked on his door.
‘Come in,’ Professor Sharon called.
A picture of Einstein hung above his desk with the E=mc2 equation underneath. How bad could he be if he admired Einstein?
‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ Professor Sharon hulked over his desk with a menacing look on his face.
What was he talking about?
‘You cheated on the exam.’
Had I heard him correctly? This wasn’t about Baba.
‘This was on the floor near your seat.’ He waved what looked like my answer sheet from the review test in the air.
‘My review test is in my room.’
‘Go and get it. I’ve informed the head of the department. Unless you have an explanation, you’ll be expelled. We have a zero-tolerance policy.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re like your terrorist father.’
I didn’t want to go down this road. I knew that anyone in Israel who was accused of supporting the PLO was deported or imprisoned or murdered. He had the power to decide my fate. Every millimetre of my body wanted to yell, What we do is defend ourselves against Israeli terrorism.
‘Why don’t you Palestinians just give up? No one likes you.’
‘Should the Jews in the concentration camps have given up?’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Professor Sharon’s face was blood red.
‘Did Hitler and the Nazis like the Jews? Who liked the Jews?’
‘Shut up!’ His voice was not his ow
n.
‘No one liked the Jews, but you fought back, even when everyone around you was trying to exterminate you. We Palestinians are like you Jews.’
‘There’s no comparison!’ He cut the air with his finger. ‘Get out of here.’
I had allowed myself to lose control. What was I thinking, talking to him that way? He’d tell everyone about Baba. I opened the door and ran out.
I was searching frantically for my practice test, when I heard a knock. My muscles tightened. The door pushed open.
‘Professor Sharon has become lazy,’ Zoher said. ‘I wonder what he was thinking.’
I continued my search without responding.
‘Here’s black paper and tape,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s supposed to cover their windows.’
I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What?’
‘To block out the light in case of war,’ he said.
For the last few months, with the rising tensions, everyone had been talking about the possibility of a war, but I hadn’t taken it seriously.
I sat on the edge of my bed and covered my eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Professor Sharon accused me of cheating.’
‘You’re the smartest in the class.’
‘Who’s going to believe me, an Arab?’
‘It does seem far-fetched.’ His voice was calm.
Professor Sharon would tell everyone about Baba. I wanted to be gone before they found out.
‘Please, I need to pack.’ I threw my books into a paper bag and ran out of the door, leaving Zoher sitting on my bed. I needed to think, alone.
‘Wait,’ Zoher called, but I was already down the hall.
On the way back to my village, the military were everywhere. The police had blockaded the road between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem to stop vehicles and paint their car lights blue-black, so that if a war broke out, their enemies wouldn’t see the lights. When I finally arrived in the village that evening, Mama was coming down the hill.
‘Was there fighting in Jerusalem?’ she asked.
I lowered my head. ‘I was thrown out of the university.’
‘Good. We need to buy rice, lentils and potatoes,’ she said, ‘and fill up our pitchers with water.’
I followed her down the dirt path that ran between the houses to the flat ground towards the village square. The square pulsated with nervous energy. Women scurried from place to place with baskets of purchases balanced on their heads. The queue to the shop reached the tea house.