Amreekiya Page 8

  Amu glared at me and pulled my ear.

  The soldier’s lips were set to a thin line, and his blush not only covered his whole face but his neck as well. He tried to save face by deepening his voice. “Yes. Get za h’ll out of za ca.’”

  He patted Amu down, and a woman soldier searched me, pinching my body more than patting it, and then ran a metal detector over me. She was done before the guy, so she went to search the car, but he said something to her in what I assumed was Hebrew. She nodded and walked away. He searched the car thoroughly, messing everything up, moving the front seats back and forward, and he especially took his time to be rough with the suitcase and duffel bag I packed. He even ripped the bag on the side, and he took the suitcase out and placed it on top of the trunk. He examined my bras and underwear, holding them up high, so maybe four or five of the cars behind us could see them.

  “I’m not hiding bombs in those.” I rolled my eyes and folded my arms, looked off into the hilly distance.

  Amu pulled my ear again. “Ya Allah, majnoona, shut your mouth before I break it!”

  But I figured if I was going to end up living here, I might as well learn to stand up to the soldiers now.

  The soldier smiled, showing his front teeth. “Listen to you fazer, leetel girl.” He shoved the clothes back in the suitcase so hard I thought he would dent the trunk. He threw it in the backseat and came over to escort me to the passenger seat, squeezing my arm hard. He shoved me in the seat and told me I was a desert bitch, no matter if I spoke English perfectly, and someday I would have a husband who would beat me in the ground, if my father didn’t get to me first, and teach me some respect. He looked me straight in the eyes when he said it, and though I was trembling, I refused to look away.

  I considered spitting on him, but the consequences that would bring chilled me.

  As soon as he waved us off, Amu yelled about how crazy I was. “If you talk this way, you will end up killed by that scum right there!” He sighed deeply and unsuccessfully tried to even out his breaths.

  It only took minutes for us to arrive in Ramallah, now that we were past the Qalandia checkpoint, where Amu and I were separated and I stood in a line of women and children waiting to have my body and bag searched. My legs and feet were so sore that they were almost as wide as my head, and the thought of having to step out of the car was painful.

  My family didn’t live in a camp anymore; they had been living in the poorer part of Ramallah the last few decades. It had decrepit buildings all around, some half bulldozed, graffiti appearing intermittently. Everyone stared at us, taking the last few minutes of fresh air before the curfew. Amu had the nicest car here, one of only a few cars around. It seemed like the resentment washed from their faces when they saw that we were Arabs. I didn’t imagine there was much to do here; maybe this was the most interesting part of their month or even their year.

  Amu muttered the whole time about how now he would have to stay here because he couldn’t make it back to East Jerusalem before curfew, but I didn’t care about Amu’s discomfort or whatever he was feeling. I only cared that I was seeing the place where Baba came from for the first time.

  When we arrived at Sitti’s house, a large crowd was gathered in the front. Never before had I been so popular. Everyone gave me hugs and kisses as soon as I got out of the car and introduced themselves to me. Most were first cousins, some of them old enough to have little children of their own, but I still had a few who were not even in the double digits yet. There was only one girl around my age, Faten, and she was one year my senior. She spoke the best English and led me to meet my grandmother, who was sitting in a lawn chair and pulled me down for a hug and several kisses. “Anti jameela, jameela,” was all I understood. You are beautiful.

  Faten translated for me, asking about what happened to my mother, if I had seen my father at all. How could they have not known these things? Baba left me alone in that apartment four years ago. Mom died of cancer. I couldn’t tell them anything else.

  “She says that you look as your father,” Faten said, elongating her vowels. Then Sitti said something that was almost as long as a speech, but Faten only said, “She is very sorry for what habbened,” making her p’s into b’s like Baba did. His accent had been much thicker than Amu’s. Someone came with a camera and had us huddle together to take a picture. Faten said “sheese” and laughed.

  There were three houses I could have stayed at, but Sitti said I should stay at her house, which was also the home of Amu Musa, my oldest uncle. Faten lived there too, along with her four older brothers, two of whom already had wives and the oldest a child. Sitti said that because Faten was the only girl, we could be as akhawaat, sisters, for my time here. Faten had a small room that looked more like an office, and I kept my things in that room and shared the bed with her.

  She went to school every day until noon except for Friday, and because everyone in the house got up early, I did too, so as not to be the lazy one in bed. Amtu Nada, Faten’s mother, didn’t want me to help her with the cooking or cleaning, so I just watched TV most of the time. There were news broadcasts, Egyptian and Syrian soap operas and movies, and American sitcoms dubbed in Arabic. I found those the funniest. Back at home I wouldn’t have watched them, they were so vapid, but hearing voiceover exclamations like “Ya Allah!” or “Mabrook!” coming from those Waspy actors kept me laughing. I didn’t understand much of the Arabic soap operas, but I would watch the ones with the handsome men who made passionate—and chaste, by my standards for TV—declarations to their loves, beautiful blondes and brunettes, all with light olive skin and makeup as thick as a mask, their emotions too hidden to be seen or so exaggerated that they didn’t seem real.

  When Faten was home, I helped her with her chores. She took care of Sitti and washed the clothes by hand, usually with Sitti nearby. My grandmother became more talkative when I was around. She seemed compelled to tell Faten to tell me every story she remembered of Baba. He was a good student and excelled in his studies just as Faten did, and he dreamed of moving to America or Europe for his education, so he could make a good life for himself and save his family from occupation, even if Falasteen was never liberated. He took it hard when his father was killed on the way to work, caught in a crossfire as bullets were fired through the car window.

  “That’s so terrible,” I said. I was curious about how Sitti managed six kids with no husband, but no matter how many ways I phrased the question, I couldn’t seem to make Faten understand me enough to translate it. I settled for wondering about it; Faten had pretty good English skills, much better than my stilted Arabic, but we both seemed aware of our limits when we had to communicate with each other. Still, I couldn’t help wondering about my father’s reaction to his own father’s death. Did Baba cry then? Probably he would have to, just for the sake of the others, but did he mean it? Did he feel the searing pain of grief, did it pinch his heart unexpectedly, even now, wherever he was?

  I refused to cry for Baba. What did he care for my pain?

  Sitti said in English, “We live in Jerusalem, and lose everyzing. Your father lose everyzing.”

  Sitti usually took another nap before dinnertime, and that’s when Faten and I would talk to each other. She assumed because I lived in California that I saw movie stars on the streets, and she asked me a few times if I had ever gotten an autograph or shaken a celebrity’s hand. “No,” I answered each time. “Where I live is far away from Hollywood. It’s like—” I thought about how I could make her understand the distance using Middle Eastern geography “—at least as far away as Damascus.” There weren’t any roadblocks or checkpoints along the way to Los Angeles from Fresno, but it was still quite a drive.

  “You lucky to live there,” she said.

  I nodded. It was one of the first times I felt that way.

  While my family didn’t like that I spoke little Arabic—especially Faten’s oldest brother Hassan, who sometimes derided my imprecise pronunciation and my long pauses, struggling to find
the words to express myself—there were other things about me that surprised them. Amtu Nada and Hassan nearly gaped at dinnertime when I ate the goat that had been slaughtered that morning at a family friend’s house just outside of the camp and that I shared a twin-size bed with Faten with no complaints.

  They expected me to be difficult and pouty. More American. I was from the United States and had had a white mother. I should have been the most spoiled, but I knew what it was like to have so little to eat that it didn’t calm the hunger pangs, so I wasn’t going to turn down a meal.

  Sensing my boredom without Faten for most of the morning except for Fridays, Amtu Nada suggested that I go to school with her. “It will be very fun for you, habibti. You will meet other girls your age. Everyone want to see you.” She grabbed my curly bun and jiggled it playfully like she was coaxing a five-year-old to start kindergarten.

  I had already met quite a few people. A bunch of people had come to visit Sitti’s house to see the Amreekiya in town and ask me about my life, the people I knew, if I had met any of their relatives in the States.

  It was just a ploy to ease me into the new life I would have to start here, I was sure, but I went anyway. I couldn’t sink into my new life. I had to make do. I didn’t need Amu, no matter what he thought.

  I caused a sensation the first day, taking up nearly all the instruction time. It was the same thing: questions about my life and where I lived and if I knew such-and-such a person. A lot of it I couldn’t even understand. This would be my life. Me standing around in a crowd of people I could barely comprehend. What had changed? I didn’t understand those spoiled rich kids I went to school with in the States.

  The excitement died down as time passed. I sat next to Faten and listened to her teacher lecture about Arabic, English, mathematics, science. Also, the history the woman taught was like what I learned in the States, except they spent some time on the Middle East, which none of my American teachers ever mentioned. No one in my classes back home even knew what a Palestinian was, sometimes not even what an Arab was. But I wasn’t expected to do the work or take the tests. I memorized a few poems that the teacher gave to me in Arabic, along with an English translation, something she thought would be good for an American girl. I forget most of them now except for two lines from Abu Salma’s “We Will Return”: “Kaifa ahyaa / Ba’eedan ayn suhoolikiwa al-hidaabi?” My English translation said it meant: “How do I live / Away from your plains and mounds?”

  It had been four years since my mother’s death, and those last days she had been lying in a hospice bed, pale and emaciated, having aged about forty years in the last two. This Abu Salma seemed sure we would return, but nothing was more final than loss.

  I went to the living room late at night while everyone else was sleeping. It was one of the few moments I had to myself since the plane ride here. I found a small window to the right of the front door, way off in the corner. I imagined windows would be a hazard. I was shivering, but I had to stay up and look at the blue-black sky with no stars. I saw no one, heard nothing until the loud buzz of an Israeli army vehicle. I saw hard hats, but I couldn’t tell how many there were or the gender of those who wore them.

  The day before Amu Nasser’s expected return, I stayed home from school and lay on Faten’s bed, staring at the ceiling. Baba wanted to save his family from the Israelis, my ass. He couldn’t even save me, and I was born in the States. He’d made no effort to communicate with his family in almost a decade.

  Amu Nasser would not come back. I told Amtu Nada I needed to stay home to pack my things, and I waited for her to tell me that there was no need for that, I would be staying. She only nodded and said it would be fine if I stayed home. Sitti would probably want to spend more time with me anyway.

  When Faten came home, I asked if her parents said anything about Amu Nasser coming to pick me up tomorrow. “Laa, they have said nothing to me,” she said. She looked at me sympathetically, the spoiled American who could not stand a few weeks of the life she had been living for thirteen years. And I guess I was. I had to leave. It was too much; I couldn’t handle hearing stories about this house being bulldozed, that relative being shot, and seeing the effects of it all the time. My pulse raced nearly all the time, my stomach always knotted with fear.

  One day we had taken a bus trip to Jericho with Faten’s second-oldest brother Muhammad and his wife, because she had some family there. The bus was stopped several times and inspected by Israeli soldiers, who came on to check everyone out. They even took one guy off the bus. There was something wrong with his identification, so they hauled him away.

  Muhammad’s wife turned around and told me, “They will take him to jail.” I heard an older woman in the background sobbing and heard several other women making feeble attempts to comfort her. I couldn’t bring myself to look. Muhammad’s wife snorted in disgust.

  Amu Nasser arrived after breakfast, the earliest he could make it. He had some coffee and pastries with Amu Musa and his two older sons while I spent more time with my female relatives. Amu Nasser wanted to get out as soon as possible, though, so he came into the kitchen where I was sitting and rushed me out. “I do not want to miss the flight. We must get through the checkpoints.”

  We said our goodbyes for at least half an hour, but once I was driving away in the car with Amu, my lips trembled and my eyes filled with tears. We spent nearly the whole day going through more checkpoints to get into Jordan. By the time we got there, I was already asleep, and I woke up in a pool of sweat. When we got into the airport, I guiltily basked in the air-conditioning and wondered what would become of my family.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I got up early with Yusef the next morning and made eggs with tomatoes while he showered, observing all that was around in a new light. Everything was clean enough, but so much had to be changed. The refrigerator needed to be stocked, the couch deodorized, the kitchen floor mopped. Once Yusef left, I scoured the house for cleaning supplies—he only had bleach. I spent more than an hour going to stores to buy all I needed. At Amu’s, I had usually cleaned with my mind in the clouds, fantasizing about living in a big house and having hired help to do such drudgery for me. Today, though, cleaning consumed me, so much so that it was close to noon when I stopped to look at the clock, and I barely had enough time to shower before work.

  When I arrived five minutes late, the nurse smiled and said it was because I was a newlywed. Her eyes went starry as she handed me a patient’s file. “So how’s your husband? I didn’t get to see him at the reception, but I remember when he came here.” She smiled again. “You are a lucky girl.”

  I used to think the Arab girls and women swooned over him because of his green eyes, but his looks translated well to other women. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I married my high school sweetheart, too.” She shook her head at the recollection. “Of course, we were a lot younger. Right out of high school, and he never brought flowers to my work.” She went on about how he was threatened by her dedication to her education and the nursing program she was in; he’d decided to forgo college and worked in his father’s construction company. He was convinced she was cheating on him all the time. “Just ’cause he was jealous of my education, you know. I ended it in about a year.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “That’s too bad.”

  “So what does your husband do?”

  “He’s a researcher, and he teaches part-time. He still has a semester of graduate school left.”

  I had woken up in the middle of the night and found Yusef working on charts and graphs on his laptop. When I asked him if he had a deadline coming up soon, he said no and bored me with details of his thesis—a theory of what caused an increase in cancer cell growth. I came to the conclusion that I had too many connections to the medical profession: I worked at a doctor’s office, Sana was a nurse, Yusef was constantly staring at disease through a microscope.

  Sana first told me about this job a month into college, and the possibility horrified me,
but the promise of my own money and a way to get out of the house spurred me to apply. That was around the time that Sana was officially accepted into the nursing program and decided that she would specialize in oncology. She told me it would be a good field; it had lots of openings.

  Of course it did. Who could stand seeing the gaunt faces and shrunken bodies of cancer patients, see in their eyes the sorrow or anger about their fate, or worse, the resignation to suffering and death? But she felt certain that she could keep her distance and truly help them. “People get over cancer,” she said. “There have been tons of advances in the field. Practically everyone gets it at some point in their life. It’s the disease of our generation.”

  “It’ll never be cured.”

  “Isra, you’re such a pessimist.”

  But I realized early in this job where Sana came from. Yes, some people did survive severe diseases and illnesses—the ones who had money, like the rich clientele that frequented this office. Their biggest concern was if the air conditioning or the heat was turned too high or low, not whether they would live. That was a given.

  I started dinner as soon as I got home, making stuffed grape leaves that Amtu said I could never make like her mother. She claimed mine had too much tomato and not enough lemon, like the ones from a cheap Mediterranean restaurant. She didn’t like any of my food, but she still had me cook almost all the time and only decided what would be cooked.

  The food was almost ready when Yusef came home with his huge backpack. He sniffed the air. “Smells good in here.”

  I nodded, my eyes still inspecting the grape leaves.

  “It smells clean, too.” In the living room he picked up the two candles I had set on the coffee table, sniffed them, and put them back down. Then he moved on to the kitchen and took note of the new silverware set I had bought, along with a few pots and pans. “It’s nice. Looks like someone lives here.”