Miral (15 page)

K
haldun had been on the road for two days, hidden in a truck that was transporting oranges, with a boy two years older than he as his companion. Jostled about by the potholes in the road, they hardly spoke but smiled weakly at each other every time their eyes met. Khaldun had found a small crack between the metal sheets that covered the sides of the truck, and through this tiny opening he could get a glimpse of the landscape. He saw first a parade of endless orchards, villages perched on the slopes of hills, and meadows where flocks of sheep were grazing. Then the vegetation disappeared little by little, the grass became scorched, and the landscape appeared rocky and barren. He mused that one day he, too, would have a piece of land to cultivate, and in the meantime he was happy that he wouldn't have to wake up the next morning in the squalor of the refugee camp.

Somewhat farther on, the truck made a hard, sudden stop, flinging Khaldun face-first into a mound of oranges. When he lifted himself up, the other boy started laughing at him as he watched the bright juice dripping down from Khaldun's forehead. Khaldun made a sign to him to be silent, as the driver had warned them to do in case of unexpected stops. They heard voices outside, speaking in Hebrew. It seemed that they had arrived at the frontier. The two boys had been assigned to a space deep inside the truck, close to the driver's cabin and covered with some planks that, in turn, were covered by a thick layer of oranges. Khaldun and his companion were practically lying down, with very little room to move. If a soldier had cast a hurried look their way, he wouldn't have been able to see them, but in the case of a more detailed inspection they would have been detected. The rear door of the truck was open and some oranges must have fallen out, because Khaldun heard the driver complaining about his load. Instinctively, Khaldun picked up a few oranges and used them to block the opening in the side of the truck. The other boy did the same on his side. An Israeli soldier ran his hand all along the edge of the canvas covering. After a few minutes they heard the sounds of the door closing and the engine starting up again, and the boys breathed sighs of relief.

At last the truck reached the quay in the port of Acre and drove into the hold of a small cargo ship from Cyprus.

 

Khaldun felt the ship rolling. He wanted to get out of that truck, go up on the bridge, see the ocean, and inhale its smell. For more than two days, he and his traveling companion had seen little more than oranges. He was very fond of that fruit, of its delicate fragrance and distinctive taste. It was the symbol of his country, and one day he would own a big orange grove. But right now, in the heat and stench of the hold, the smell of oranges was like the smell of garbage. The sea was swelling, and the ship began to rock. Khaldun felt what little there was in his stomach rising, but he fought the nausea down and tried to think about something beautiful. It was impossible. The reek of ripe oranges was sickening. “I wonder when I'll get my first rifle,” he thought, trying to escape from his surreal situation. A little straggly beard made his features look even harder. All things considered, he was happy; the day after tomorrow he would be a refugee no longer. He would be a political partisan, perhaps even a warrior, in a struggle that would sooner or later bring him back to Palestine as a liberator. In the end, he had chosen not to flee, not to go to Damascus to study mathematics or to Kuwait to work for the Arab oil tycoons. He was going to Lebanon, to study and to train.

“A new war will come, and this time it won't last six days,” he said in an undertone, but no one could hear him, because the roar of the engines drowned out his voice. The ship disembarked its load of oranges and desperation in the port of a small city in the south of Lebanon. The fruit, by now quite ripe after its long trip, would end up being squeezed into juice by shiny steel machines and then sold in various parts of the world. For their part, the two boys would be fed into a different apparatus, the machinery of war, which in a few months would turn them into men, transforming their resentment into hatred, their adrenaline into courage, their adolescence into daring, and their sweetness into resolution. Khaldun lit a cigarette in an attempt to get the bitter taste of oranges out of his nostrils. The moon cast a long wake of light over the sea, like a bridge.

 

“First of all, I want all of you to bear in mind, always, that there is a great difference between the violence our people are compelled to utilize as a means of obtaining the land to which we are entitled and massacres such as those in Deir Yassin and Sabra and Shatila. If you understand this, you are already on the right path. I know that you will miss your homes. But look across the sea—that's Acre, and beyond it Haifa—and you'll feel closer to home.”

The military instructor, despite this gentle introduction, had no intention of being indulgent with the small group of boys, almost all of them minors, who had assembled on the training field for the first time. Khaldun looked around. Without uniforms, without weapons, more sheepish than strutting, they looked readier for a boat trip than for a battle. The man who was speaking was the only one wearing a military uniform. At the end of his brief speech, he made a sign to Khaldun, whose comrades in arms were moving in disorder toward the tent that served as a mess.

“You must be Khaled's son,” the instructor said. “I'm the one who insisted they look for you, you know. I was at your father's side when he was killed. He was one of the bravest men I've ever met. If we'd had a thousand fighters like him back then, we'd be drinking coffee on the seafront in Tel Aviv right now. You have his eyes—let's hope you have his courage, too. If you do, you'll get a chance to show it. Now you'd better go and eat, because soon the only thing left of that soup will be its smell.”

Khaldun felt stupid for not having said anything, for not having asked how his father died, but at the same time he was filled with a liberating sensation. Maybe he was badly dressed and undernourished like most of the other boys, but he felt different. He was Khaled's son, a hero's son. A fighter by birthright.

H
ani was already seated at a table, drinking cardamom coffee and reading
Al-Quds
, Jerusalem's Arabic daily newspaper, and from the expression on his face, Miral divined that the news wasn't good. She stood still and observed him from a distance for a few moments. The young man seemed a mixture of calm, charisma, and dignity. Customers in the café approached to say hello and pay their respects to him and, especially, to hear his opinions.

His eyes met Miral's, and he beckoned her closer.

Before she could even sit down, he smiled and asked her, “You've made up your mind so soon?”

“Well, you've moved pretty quickly yourself. You know what I'm talking about. But in any case, I wouldn't have come back otherwise. I want to do my part! I can't just stand and watch and twiddle my thumbs anymore. Have you seen what's happening in Gaza? There were five people killed there only yesterday,” she said, her voice firm, speaking aloud the words she had repeated so often inside her head.

“Yes, I'm reading about it now. Unfortunately, these are the same crimes we read about every day, not only in Gaza but also in Jenin, in Nablus, and in many other Palestinian cities. The most disturbing thing is that these events are taking place against a backdrop of worldwide silence. Other countries are too preoccupied with their economies and debates over government corruption to pay attention. Anyway, Miral, there's something urgent to be done. Are you up for it?”

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation.

Hani smiled and folded the newspaper. “Let's take a walk.”

When they were outside, he started talking again. “I wanted to tell you that Khaldun's already in Beirut, where he'll study and receive his training.” Without thinking of the consequences, Miral gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. They were passing in front of the Damascus Gate, and the other pedestrians stared at them, scandalized. Hani gently detached himself, took her by the arm, and said, “The curfew has just been lifted in one of the refugee camps near Ramallah. Soon we'll go out there and help the farmers harvest their olives before it's too late.” Her expression of surprise and disappointment amused him, and he added, “Look, what you're going to do is extremely important. That's how our people live, and even the smallest things are meaningful. But first I have to introduce you to the rest of the group.”

The meeting took place in an old apartment in the Armenian Quarter, near the Jaffa Gate. This was the highest part of the Old City, and from there one had a view over the roofs, red to the west and white to the east, sloping down to the Esplanade of the Mosques. The bell tower of the Cathedral of Saint James soared majestically over the expanse of lower buildings and the luxurious foliage of the public gardens, which served as a meeting place for the young people of the neighborhood. The owners of a shop across the way kept a close eye on the apartment, and if they caught a glimpse of the police, they would warn everyone by hanging a piece of white fabric on their door, signaling that the apartment was to be evacuated immediately.

In the front room of the apartment, about ten people were busy photocopying and xeroxing flyers; in the second room, which was larger and more comfortable, six others were seated around a large wooden table, deep in discussion, the smoke from their cigarettes swirling about before collecting under the vault of the stone ceiling.

One of the people at the table, a young man named Ayman, spoke first. “Here's the secretary!” he said, pointing to Hani. “We were talking about finding some secure means of putting the local leaders of the intifada in touch with PLO men in other countries.”

Before replying, Hani signaled Miral to come closer. “We also have to create new channels for sending and receiving messages,” he said. “The old ones aren't secure anymore, and that's why we need new faces, faces the secret service doesn't know. Let me introduce Miral, a new comrade.”

And so Miral greeted them. Their smiles told her that she was part of the group already, and they invited her to sit with them at the table. They formed a clandestine cell, and as such, they would hold their meetings in different apartments from time to time and occasionally in public parks. Miral would be notified about them directly, either by Hani or by a girl in her neighborhood named Jasmine.

Hani began passing by the school on alternate days, arriving at the same time, shortly after classes were over. Without attracting attention, he would post himself behind a big tree near the rear gate of the campus. Miral would join him there, and the two would exchange only a few words in order to avoid being seen by the porter. Hind had an inkling of something, but she thought that Miral was just being carried along in the general adolescent whirlwind.

For her part, Miral was very careful to avoid getting caught. She seemed to have lost her cheerfulness and vivacity, and always looked distracted. Her grades were no longer as spectacular as they once had been. But she tried to behave as usual, at least with the littlest girls. On evenings when the girls asked her to tell them stories before they went to sleep, Miral would stand in the middle of the room and ask them to put their heads on their pillows and close their eyes, and then she would start telling them stories from
Thousand and One Nights
, the tale of a king who killed his wives on their wedding night, one after another, for fear that they might betray him, until a young girl named Scheherazade saved herself by telling him a different story night after night. This storytelling was Miral's favorite moment of the day.

Although Hind seemed unaware of what was happening, she knew Miral too well and sensed that the girl was only pretending to obey the rules; but since Miral risked immediate expulsion for any infraction, Hind acted as though nothing was amiss. She loved the girl too much, and she believed in Miral, who, like all the boys and girls of her generation, was forced to grow up too fast.

 

Miral kept her promise to meet Hani and go with him to the refugee camp near Ramallah. Since the visit fell on the weekend when she was back at home, she simply told her father that she was seeing a girlfriend for the day.

“Have you ever read
My Home, My Land
, by Abu Iyad?” Hani asked her as they were getting into the car. Miral shook her head.

“He was one of the most enlightened minds of our people,” Hani continued. “The Mossad assassinated him. He was poisoned.”

As they drove along, bouncing over holes in the asphalt, Miral let out all the anger she'd held inside since her last visit to the Kalandia camp. “The clashes in the camp convinced me that teaching English to children isn't enough. I'm willing to help the farmers with the harvest, but I want to do more. I'm talking about a real response, a fitting response, one that will make a lot of noise. You all belong to the Popular Front, Hani—you're supposed to be the party of deeds, not words, damn it!”

Hani was driving with great concentration, intent on avoiding as many potholes as possible on the strip of pavement that divided those harshly contested hills. “Miral,” he said, “you have to understand that the goal of the struggle is not to give vent to our rage but to free ourselves from the occupation. I understand and appreciate your enthusiasm. I know you're a brave girl, maybe too brave, and, trust me, you will be very useful to the PFLP and the Palestinian cause. But there's no way I'm going to allow you to join the armed branch—you're too impulsive to be a part of that.” After a pause, Hani continued. “Instead, you'll work inside the political structure. We need new perspectives, smart individuals who can raise our people's awareness and help them understand. Ignorance is a trap it's too easy to fall into. I've decided that you'll work as a courier in the organizational sector. You'll see, it'll be an exciting assignment. And I want you to come to the weekly section meetings so you can listen and learn.”

Hani squeezed her hand, and when she felt the heat emanating from his grip, she grew pleasantly agitated. As for Hani, he was quite taken by this girl, by her freshness, her silences, the defiant look he sometimes saw in her eyes. He felt that her eagerness to do her part, if properly channeled, would be very useful.

When they arrived at the camp, they saw a group of farm workers, together with some younger boys and girls, all busily gathering olives. Some workers were in the trees, detaching olive clusters, while women piled them in crates or gathered them on plastic sheets spread out on the ground. Miral and Hani joined the group and began working alongside the others. After a while, Miral began to feel excruciating pains in her arms and legs; Hani handed her a bottle of water and told her to stop for a minute or two.

In the afternoon, after the first morning of the harvest had come to an end, they were invited to lunch with the farmers. The meal was arranged on a blue and red rug that had been spread on the ground behind the farmhouse and surrounded by hassocks stuffed with coarse wool. It included skewers of grilled lamb, saffron rice, sautéed vegetables, and salad. While the others were sitting down to eat, Hani, carrying a plateful of food and a jug of fresh lemonade, headed for a small, isolated house. Miral was able to glimpse a man about thirty years old who spoke with Hani while devouring the contents of the plate. She couldn't imagine who he might be, but guessed that the little house was his hiding place.

Hani returned about half an hour later and sat next to Miral, who was chewing a mouthful of lamb. Noticing that a few strands of her hair had strayed into her mouth, he removed them affectionately, smiling and bringing his face close to hers. Miral felt her heart beating crazily and lowered her eyes to hide her embarrassment; the rest of the group, immersed in conversation and joking, paid no attention. Hani leaned toward her again, offering her some food, but this time Miral was distracted by the lateness of the afternoon and suddenly jumped to her feet, exclaiming, “Oh God, I have to go!” She was afraid her father would begin to worry, so Hani offered to accompany her home.

Once they arrived in Jerusalem, they left the car in a parking lot outside the Old City, and together they set out, crossing the souk to the place where they would have to part. They were filled with a happiness that had no need of words. They walked along hand in hand, almost embracing, exchanging looks of mutual understanding and desire as they made their way through the crowd that was coming down from the Old City and heading for the villages on the outskirts of Jerusalem. In the midst of this confusion, Miral failed to notice her father, who was at a stall purchasing coffee. Stunned and incredulous, Jamal watched his daughter go by. In his anger, he forgot about the coffee and ran to catch up with her.

“What are you doing here, Miral? And who is this man? No, I don't want to know,” he said, blocking his daughter's response with a gesture of his hand. “Come home with me, this instant!” he yelled, yanking her by the arm. Hani tried to explain, saying that he was terribly sorry. But there is nothing more obstinate than the anger of a father who believes he's protecting his daughter.

Hani watched for a few moments as Jamal dragged Miral away down the Via Dolorosa. “What a fitting name for it,” he thought, then started walking in the direction of his apartment.

Miral turned around for an instant and saw that Hani had vanished. She was afraid this would be the end of everything, that she would not see him again.

“What the devil were you doing? That's what I'd like to know! Have you gone crazy?” Her father barraged her with questions, not so much seeking answers as exorcising his own fear and anger. “What were you doing with that man? Do you have any idea who he is?”

As Jamal kept shouting furiously and pushing her ahead of him, Miral found the strength to reply: “He's a friend of mine, Baba. He's a good person. It's not a sin to be politically active. He's a true patriot!” Jamal had never heard her voice vibrate with such pride.

“Patriot?” he replied, opening their door. “You have no idea what you're talking about! How long have you known him?”

“He's a friend of Jasmine's. I met him by chance—” Before she could finish her sentence, Jamal slapped her across the face.

“Don't look me in the eye and lie to me!” he said, shouting at the top of his voice. “Do you think I'm stupid? Now listen to me closely. You're too young to understand the situation you're getting yourself into, so before you do something irreparably stupid, I absolutely forbid you to see that man again! Are you listening to me? I've seen this before. Our family was destroyed by the same thing. My sister spent ten years in prison and then was thrown out of the country. She won't see her home again. I don't want this for you. Violence is not the way.”

“You don't understand anything because you have been hiding in the mosque your whole life!” The words exploded automatically from Miral's mouth. Then, seeing how deeply she'd wounded him, she said, “I didn't mean that, Baba.” But a sea of disappointment suddenly lay between them. Jamal was truly distraught. Miral had never seen her father in such a state, and the words stuck in her throat as tears slid down her cheeks.

She felt humiliated and confused, but she couldn't stop her thoughts from returning to the past few weeks. They had been the most intense of her life, and she couldn't imagine turning back to the life she'd led before, as if nothing had happened. She had to figure out some system for communicating with Hani and continuing her political activity.

Miral spent a day in bed, without touching food or speaking to anyone. Her sister, Rania, tried to distract her by telling her amusing jokes. Then she listed the sacrifices their father had made for them, reminding Miral of how much he loved her. But it was only when Miral saw her father's tearful eyes—he had been weeping in private—that she changed her attitude. It was the first time he had ever imposed anything on her or treated her in an authoritarian manner. Her sadness grew, and along with it frustration. She knew she could never give up Hani and her ideals. More convinced than ever of the rightness of what she was doing, she realized that now she would have to deceive not only her school—as if that weren't enough—but also her father.