We hold on to Jihan under an inky sky and an array of brilliant stars, tears of joy and sorrow streaming down our faces.
‘Live in Bethlehem,’ Mama wails, clinging onto Jihan. ‘Please, Ahmad, don’t take her from us.’
‘It’s okay, Mama,’ Jihan says through tears. ‘We’ll . . . visit . . . I . . . promise.’
‘You must! You must!’ Mama bursts into a fresh wave of tears and Baba self-consciously steps towards her, wrapping his arm around her.
‘Come back with us!’ Tariq screams, clutching onto Jihan’s dress. Exhausted at being awake far past his bedtime, he starts to howl, prompting Baba to pick him up. Tariq rests his head on Baba’s shoulder and sobs.
‘I’ll look after her,’ Ahmad says, ‘I promise you all.’
‘We know you will,’ Baba says.
‘I’ll break you if I hear otherwise,’ Sitti Zeynab says and we laugh.
‘Consult me for recipes!’ Mama reminds Jihan. ‘And call me every day. Any time is fine, but it’s better to call after dinner so I can speak to you without interruption. And Ahmad, I promise I’ll send you my pickled cucumbers. I know how much you are deprived of good ones. And—’
Jihan takes a step towards me, leaving Ahmad to deal with Mama. She takes my hands and pulls me close to her. I hug her tightly and she kisses me.
‘You must visit,’ she says. ‘I know it’s hard but please try.’
‘Of course we will.’
‘And call me. As much as you like. Keep me up to date with all the Bethlehem gossip.’
‘Jihan,’ Ahmad says gently, touching her arm. ‘The car is waiting.’
‘And we must start moving,’ Baba insists.
Jihan envelops me in a massive hug and I struggle not to cry harder. Then she pulls back and smiles at us all. ‘How exciting!’ she cries. ‘I’m married!’
Sitti Zeynab starts ululating and Mama laughs as she wipes the tears from her face. The wind whispers in the pine and olive trees, telling us to let her go.
And eventually we do.
During the long drive back I rest my head against Baba’s shoulder, stare out into a star-filled night and think about the last few weeks.
I am thirteen years old and I know what blood is. I know what loss is. I know the smell of a corpse. I know the sound of people screaming in terror as they run away from a tank. I know the dusty clouds left behind a frenzied bulldozer. The Wall will soon be finished. Parts of Bethlehem will be fully deserted. Businesses closed, houses abandoned, streets emptied, schools sliced in half. I’m living in an open-air prison.
But I won’t live in despair. Because I’m thirteen years old and this is what I also know. That so long as there is life there’ll be love. That I’ll learn to love the mirror as surely as I have learned to think of Maysaa and smile. That the past can both torment and heal. That I’ll do more than survive. That in the end we are all of us only human beings who laugh the same and that one day the world will realise that we simply want to live as a free people, with hope and dignity and purpose. That is all.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am indebted to so many people for inspiring me to write this book and for sharing their stories with me. First and foremost, to my husband, Ibrahim, without whom my struggle to juggle motherhood, a legal career and writing would have been impossible.
To my father and mother, I thank you both for imbuing me with a sense of justice and passion for human rights. Thank you also for our family trip to Palestine, which profoundly changed my life.
To Mary and Bassam, for your patience with my incessant questions and for reading the first draft of the manuscript. I pray you are able to return to your home in Bethlehem and that you and your children will be reunited with your family.
To Sonja Karkar of Women for Palestine, for your insightful feedback and suggestions on the early stages of the manuscript.
To my father-in-law, for your maps on the 1948 villages, which proved to be of great assistance.
To my sister, for your shrewd proofreading of my earliest drafts.
To the people involved in Australians for Palestine and the Coalition for Peace and Justice in Palestine, for being a wonderful network of friends and comrades in the struggle for justice for Palestine.
To Anna McFarlane and Julia Stiles, for your expertise, wisdom and warmth.
And last but not least, to Sheila Drummond, for your invaluable advice and ongoing dynamism.
Randa Abdel-Fattah, Where the Streets Had a Name
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