Baba receives the telephone call advising that the groom is on his way. We hear the incessant bleating of car horns in the distance, the beeping becoming louder when the cars and service minibuses enter our street. Tariq and I rush to the window and see boys and a group of men surrounding Ahmad, performing al-zaffeh, the traditional wedding song. A man pounds down on a large drum strung around his waist. His eyes are ablaze in his ruddy face and some of the men and women form a circle and dance the dabka around him, beating the ground with their feet as though they wish to alert the earth that it, too, should rejoice in Ahmad and Jihan’s union. The party clap and sing around Ahmad, chanting:
Our bridegroom is the best of youth, the best of youth is our bridegroom.
Our bridegroom is Antar Abs, Antar Abs is our bridegroom.
The sun which is in the sky, know that we have a bridegroom on our earth today.
Our bridegroom is the sun of the dawn, he asked the bride’s hand and wasn’t shy.
We help Jihan negotiate her dress down the flights of stairs. I notice her hands are shaking. Baba squeezes her hand tightly and gives her a tender smile.
When we reach the ground floor, Ahmad steps into the doorway. He kisses and hugs Baba and Mama. I take in his goofy smile as he looks at Jihan and I marvel at how fragile his love for Jihan has made him. Happiness swells within me.
‘But where are your parents?’ Baba asks.
‘Mama was so excited, she forgot her card and she couldn’t get through the checkpoint,’ Ahmad replies.
‘Oh, what a shame,’ Baba says.
Mama laughs. ‘I don’t blame her. I nearly forgot my purse, I’ve been so anxious!’
‘They’re waiting for us in Ramallah,’ Ahmad says.
My immediate thought is that all the cleaning Mama made us do was for nothing. There will be no in-laws to admire the scent of disinfectant in the house and the sparkling kitchen cupboards.
Jihan takes her seat beside Ahmad in the back seat of the wedding car. White ribbons and streamers which are attached to the trunk flap in the gentle breeze. We climb into a service minibus. Mama sits beside Tariq, Mohammed on her lap. Sitti Zeynab sits beside me and Baba sits alone. Samy, Amto Christina and Amo Joseph, along with some of the other Bethlehem guests, fill the remaining seats. The driver of the wedding car, Ahmad’s best friend, beeps the horn and pulls out from the kerb. We follow close behind. Other guests have hired a couple of service minibuses and are tailing us, followed by the party of people who have accompanied Ahmad. The drivers honk and bleat through the streets and people look at us and wave.
Abo Mazen has brought along a small daraboka and begins to play. We start to sing and cheer. I lock eyes with Samy and he grins at me.
We drive along Wadi Al-Nar. When we reach the Container checkpoint my stomach twists into knots. The line of cars and taxis is impossibly long. It’s sensible that we’ve left before noon given that the wedding starts at five. Ramallah is only about twenty-two kilometres away but it may as well be one hundred.
The soldiers examine identity cards. Jihan turns back to face us through the rear window, raising a troubled eyebrow. There’s a weary expression on her face and she leans her head on Ahmad’s shoulder.
Thirty-five long minutes pass. Mohammed cries for every single one of them. He refuses to go to Baba or me. Sitti Zeynab, trying to make him smile, flashes him a toothless grin and he screams the roof down. Tariq jumps up from his seat and hops on one foot, making the monkey sounds that usually send Mohammed into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. But Mohammed is in no mood for Tariq’s games. The other passengers bleat out useless comments. ‘Check his nappy.’ ‘Maybe he’s hungry.’ ‘An earache?’
Mama is fed up. She hands Mohammed to me and storms out of the minibus, ignoring Baba’s shouts for her to calm down as he follows after her.
‘How much longer?’ she demands of a soldier. ‘My son is crying! It’s our daughter’s wedding! We want to pass!’
‘You must wait,’ he says and slowly walks to the wedding car. He motions for the driver, Jihan and Ahmad to exit the car.
‘But her dress will get dirty!’ Mama cries.
‘Go back,’ he says crossly. ‘This won’t take long.’
‘It’s enough!’ Mama suddenly screams hysterically. ‘Do we look like terrorists to you?’
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Baba nervously reassures the soldier. ‘She’s going back. No trouble.’
‘Mama!’ I yell out from the window, over Mohammed’s cries. ‘Please come back!’
Baba quickly takes Mama’s arm and leads her back to the service. Satisfied, the soldier turns back to the car. Mama sinks into her seat and stares moodily out of the window. Mohammed continues to cry and I rock him in my arms, not daring to burden Mama with him.
‘Ya Nur, wipe your tears,’ Amto Christina says. ‘We’ll pass eventually.’
Ahmad steps out of the car first. Jihan tries to get out, but her dress is so big that she has to first lift up the layers at the front to avoid stepping on the satin. Ahmad leans down to help her and she eventually manages to get out without tripping on the dress.
‘Her dress. The dirt . . .’ one of the guests says with a cluck of her tongue.
‘That’s why white dresses make no sense,’ Samy says to me.
Ahmad places a protective hand on Jihan’s arm. The soldier says something to Ahmad and Ahmad reaches into his pocket and produces his identity card. Jihan opens her small white clutch and retrieves her card too. The soldier glances at the cards and then nods, flicking his hand to indicate his permission for them to reboard the car.
Sitti Zeynab turns to Abo Mazen and orders him to play. ‘God knows we’ll send Jihan off with laughter and dance,’ she says and starts to clap her hands. We all start to sing.
‘Yallah, stop crying and join in, Nur,’ Sitti Zeynab scolds. ‘Things could be worse.’
‘Yes Yaama,’ Mama says automatically.
When Ahmad and Jihan have settled back in the car Jihan turns to face us from the back seat and waves energetically.
‘Hooray!’ we cry and continue singing and tapping our hands against the backs of the chairs to the beat of the daraboka.
Qalandiya terminal is next to come. Our service joins the tailback of cars, minibuses and taxis at the vehicle crossing. We disembark. Mama rushes over to the wedding car and helps Jihan out. Mama, Amto Christina and I try to lift Jihan’s wedding dress off the ground as we lead her through to the passenger crossing.
We enter the terminal. It’s a maze of revolving metal doors, metal detectors and metal corridors. It reminds me of a farm pen I saw on a television show once. The queue is long and people stare at Jihan and Ahmad and offer their congratulations. When it’s Jihan’s turn, we help her negotiate her dress through the revolving doors. Mama is frustrated and is swearing out loud. Ahmad is grim but calm. Jihan is obviously annoyed but manages to joke about the situation.
‘Are you going to come to my rescue when they pass the metal detectors under my hoop?’ she teases Ahmad.
‘I’ll break their legs if they dare,’ Ahmad says but we all know his bravado is meaningless. We laugh for his sake anyway.
When Jihan squeezes through a metal door and the buzzer sounds loudly, a soldier approaches her and quickly passes a metal detector over her body.
‘It’s my jewellery,’ Jihan explains.
‘I’m sorry, I have to check,’ the soldier says. He is young, probably nineteen, with a smooth face and big grey eyes.
Jihan looks back and calls out to us: ‘At least I know my husband isn’t a miser. Look how much I’m buzzing.’
‘She has a point,’ Baba says to Ahmad. ‘She has enough gold on her to hold us all up until tomorrow.’
An hour later we’ve all passed through the checks to meet our service minibuses on the other side. We help Jihan back into the car and Mama hands her a bag filled with deodorant, scented nappy wipes and perfume.
‘Here, freshen up,’ she insists.
We enter Ramallah soon after, singing loudly, blaring our arrival to the streets. It’s a Friday, the most popular day for weddings, and we’re not the only wedding party on the roads competing for the attention of onlookers.
We arrive at the reception. Ahmad’s parents are waiting and the small crowd outside the hall claps and cheers. Guests go inside and take their seats. We all kiss and hug Ahmad’s parents and family. Ahmad’s mother implants a lipstick mark on Mama’s cheek and one of Ahmad’s aunts has breath that stinks of garlic.
The hall owner leads us to the wedding party room.
‘See you inside the hall,’ I say to Samy and he follows after Amto Christina and Amo Joseph.
Khalto Somaia, who met us at the front, takes Sitti Zeynab inside to sit her down. I follow Mama, Baba and Tariq into the wedding party room, Mohammed in my arms. Ahmad, his parents and his cousin, Suzanne, join us.
‘I’m so nervous!’ Jihan says.
Mama is pressed close to the mirror, wiping the lipstick mark off her face. ‘You’ll be fine!’
‘Baba, remember to wave to the guests when you enter,’ Jihan says.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘And make sure the cameraman gets a shot of you smiling to him and waving.’
‘Yes, habibti.’ Baba turns to Ahmad’s father. ‘Like an army general, eh?’ They both laugh.
Jihan focuses on Tariq next. ‘Tariq, you’d better not play up! Remember how we practised? You walk in with Suzanne, Hayaat and Mohammed. When you reach the dance floor, someone from the hall will show you all where to stand.’
‘Who’s Suzanne?’
‘Ahmad’s cousin. You know that.’
‘Mohammed can’t walk.’
Jihan rolls her eyes. ‘Hayaat is holding him, silly.’
‘Well, I don’t want to hold her hand!’
‘We’ve already discussed this,’ Jihan says through gritted teeth.
‘Well I won’t. She’s a girl.’
‘Tariq.’
‘She won’t bite,’ Ahmad says, giving Suzanne, who looks just as aghast as Tariq, an affectionate hug. Suzanne looks at Tariq and hisses.
Tariq pokes his tongue out at her and Jihan flashes him a menacing look. ‘I’ll clobber you if you play up!’
The hall owner enters. ‘It’s time,’ he says.
We line up outside the double-doors, our nervous chatter suddenly drowned out by loud music and the sound of the MC announcing Ahmad’s parents. The doors open and they walk into the hall, which erupts into clapping.
Mama and Baba are next. ‘I’m so nervous!’ Mama exclaims, leaning her head against Baba’s shoulder. He kisses the top of her head. Their affection startles me. I feel warm and tingly inside. ‘I’ll still look like the silliest person in the bridal party,’ he says, ‘so you have nothing to worry about.’
When the MC calls our names we step through the large double-doors onto a long red carpet. The hall is enormous. More than three hundred guests watch us walk up the carpet to join the bridal party. Mohammed, overwhelmed, is quiet in my arms, too busy looking at everybody. Tariq and Suzanne are barely touching each other’s hands but are at least standing beside one another. Everybody is watching us, looking at our faces, clapping and smiling. Sitti Zeynab is at the head table and we exchange grins. I’m nervous and shy but exhilarated by the buzz in the air and the joyfulness of the music.
We take our place next to Mama and Baba and the MC invites everybody to stand up in preparation for Ahmad and Jihan’s entrance. The doors open and the couple enter slowly, the zaffe leading the way. Two men with large drums strung around their waists pound down hard. Another man plays the oud. Two others jump and dance in front of Ahmad and Jihan, leading them to the dance floor in the centre of the hall. The guests clap and cheer and leave their seats to join the zaffeh. I join a dabka line and we make our way in a circle around Ahmad and Jihan, who are dancing in the centre.
Samy runs up to me and cuts into the dabka line, taking my hand and relieving me from the sweaty palm of the oversized woman beside me. He leans close to my ear. Yelling at the top of his voice to ensure I hear over the deafeningly loud music, he says: ‘Ahmad’s father tripped when he came in!’
I let out a hoot of laughter. ‘No!’
‘It was hilarious. His foot caught on the carpet and he stumbled forward. He was fine though. But his face was bright red!’
Some people in the crowd suddenly lift Ahmad onto their shoulders and then raise Jihan on a chair. I gasp, praying she won’t fall.
‘The chair has a satin sheet on it!’ I tell Samy.
‘So?’
‘So her dress will slip! She’ll fall! She looks terrified.’
‘No she doesn’t. She’s laughing. Ahmad looks more worried. Those two guys holding him up don’t look as though they have enough meat on them to hold up Mohammed.’
But they don’t fall. The lights of the chandeliers shine on Jihan’s warm, animated face as Ahmad holds her hands in the air and the crowd chants and claps.
The rest of the night passes like a comet. Samy and I dance every dabka. We hang out with my cousins from Ramallah. Nawal is also thirteen and Hakim is fourteen. When we tire of dancing, we grab our desserts and sit at the edge of the hall, away from the crowds of people still feverishly dancing around Ahmad and Jihan.
‘So yeah, we snuck into Jerusalem,’ Samy boasts, taking a big bite of his cake.
‘No way!’
‘You didn’t?’
Samy nods and gives Nawal and Hakim a casual shrug. ‘It was easy. Jumped the Wall and we were in. We had Israelis with us. Hayaat instantly liked them but I wasn’t fooled for a minute. Just ignore Hayaat rolling her eyes there. At least one of us had to be shrewd. I had to break them down first. Assess whether they were from Mossad or the Shabak. I know these things, on account of my father. I can detect an agent a mile away. They were okay in the end.’
‘Wow,’ Nawal coos and I want to gag.
‘So tell us more,’ Hakim says, an awed look in his eye.
Samy picks at a tooth and then tilts his head to the side. ‘Well, we managed to get to the Old City but there was a huge protest. There were tanks and planes and a missile or two.’
‘Samy!’
‘Hayaat, you passed out, remember? You weren’t in the thick of the action. I never explained the situation fully to you.’
‘No, but Yossi did and he never mentioned planes or missiles.’
Samy gives me a dismissive wave. ‘He didn’t want to agitate you any further.’ He turns to Nawal and Hakim. ‘After Hayaat lost me—’
‘Excuse me, you lost me.’
‘Let him finish,’ Nawal says.
‘Yeah, Hayaat, we want to hear,’ Hakim adds.
I scowl at them and fold my arms over my chest. ‘Fine, go on. I’m always up for some storytelling.’
Nawal and Hakim flash Samy smiles of support. Samy, puffing his chest out, gives me a triumphant look.
‘A soldier grabbed me! Threw a sack over my head and dragged me to a jeep.’
‘What did they do to you?’
‘Did they torture you? We know a guy, Sofyan, who got busted in Jerusalem without the permit. They beat him up badly. What did they do to you?’
‘Tell us, Samy!’
‘I managed to escape. I took advantage of the chaos and slipped away. The soldier must have been new on the job. He didn’t tie my hands and feet up. But he did threaten to attach electrodes to my nipples and set dogs on me. When he threw me in the back of the jeep and went away to round more people up, I took the sack off my head and snuck out. The air was filled with smoke and the planes were really loud so I was able to escape back onto the streets to rescue Hayaat.’
‘Rescue me. What about Yossi?’ I shake my head in disbelief but he ignores me.
‘Wow! You’re so brave,’ Nawal gushes.
‘That’s amazing!’ Hakim declares.
‘Some questions,’ I say. ‘Did the soldier leave you al
l without anyone to guard you? Did he just leave the jeep open? Are you telling me he wanted to give you some fresh air? And why is this the first time I’m hearing about—’
‘Oh look, they’re starting the speeches,’ Samy says, standing up. ‘We’d better go. My aunt will have a fit if I’m not at the table. She’s really into manners, you know how it is.’
‘Yeah, we do,’ Hakim says with a sigh and Nawal nods enthusiastically.
‘Come find us when they’ve finished,’ Nawal says. ‘I want to hear all about how you rescued Hayaat!’
I storm off and Samy follows me, collapsing with laughter.
‘I don’t see the joke,’ I say.
‘Oh, come on, it was fun! Did you see their faces?’
‘Rescuing me? What are you going to say? You arrived in a Batmobile?’
He claps his hands. ‘They’d probably fall for it! Anyway, the wedding was getting boring. I had to spice it up.’
I grunt and he laughs again.
‘Come on, let’s see how far we can take it.’
‘Well, if you get to escape from the jeep I get to drive Yossi’s car between two tanks.’
He gives me an incredulous look. ‘That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?’
After the speeches, Samy and I combine our efforts and sufficiently traumatise and impress my cousins. When we’ve had enough, I take a seat next to Sitti Zeynab, leaning my head against her shoulder.
We stare out at Jihan and Ahmad, who are being kissed goodbye by a long line of guests.
‘I’ll miss her, the rascal,’ Sitti Zeynab says to me and dabs her eyes. ‘But she looks so happy. God grant them happiness and many babies. God protect them and their families and Um Ahmad . . .’
For once I let her continue without interruption.
The evening eventually approaches its end. We have to leave earlier than usual to ensure we pass the checkpoints before they close.
‘Yallah, yallah,’ Baba says anxiously. ‘We can’t risk being stuck in Ramallah. We must return before they close the gate.’