know, Ziyad. They just wouldn’t let him in. Tamar tried all of her contacts, but it didn’t work this time. I think the soldier at the post was a fresh one. Probably not familiar with the drill. They’re supposed to let the kids in, Ziyad! Everything was set up, we had the confirmation letter from the Israeli doctors and the official letter from the hospital. But they just wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t even look at the papers we had.”
Ziyad hated these moments. He felt distanced from it all. It was happening in a different world. He came to her and kneeled beside her, stroking her cheek. “You know, maybe next week. Maybe they’ll let him in next week.”
“Maybe?” Maisoon looked at him in astonishment. Is that all he could say? But she was too tired to get angry. All her rage had been spent at the checkpoint.
“You know the saddest thing, Ziyad? I could see little Ahmad on the other side of the fence. The whole time—three hours—he was just looking at our side of the world. At first you could see his eyes filled with hope, he even smiled at me. But as the time passed, and he saw Tamar screaming into her mobile, his hopes began to evaporate. When we finally got into the car to go back, he didn’t look disappointed. It was something much worse. I think he lost his faith in the goodness of people today … and he’s just a little boy, Ziyad.”
Ziyad tried to detach himself from little Ahmad. “Your father called while you were out. I know, I shouldn’t have answered, but who thought he’d call after … anyway, I think he was just as surprised to hear my voice as I was to hear his.”
Maisoon sat upright. Her father had kept his distance for over four months, ever since she announced that her ‘partner’ was from Ar’ara, the heart of the Muslim Triangle.
“He loves you … you know.”
“Oh, he does …? So you’re on his side now?” Maisoon’s voice was flat.
“I’m not on anybody’s side, Mais, min shan Allah. I just think his reaction was reasonable. That’s how things are. This is how it’s been for ages. You can’t expect him to change his beliefs—the values he grew up on—just because you decided you’re going to be with a Muslim man. It doesn’t work that way.”
“What do you mean that way? It works that way for me!”
“Ya Rab, Mais! We’ve been through this so many times, why can’t you just let it go?”
“Let go of what?” Maisoon’s voice was beginning to falter, trembling like the crystals of sugar stirred in her morning kahwa. She didn’t want to repeat the words said so many times in so many ways. So she let it go.
Getting up from her chair, she walked to the kitchen, feeling relieved at the sight of the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. It was one of her small triumphs. Defying the mould Ziyad wanted her to fit into. And her father. And Um Tawfiq. She opened the fridge, hesitating. Hummus and labani with some of the olive oil she’d brought from the checkpoint. “Ziyad, could you go down to Abu Adel and get some bread?”
While he was gone, Maisoon took her time washing the dishes. The simple, cyclical repetitions allowed her mind to drain. While she concentrated on the movements of her hands, thoughts of her activism, her father, Ziyad—were all forced into a corner of her brain.
When Ziyad came back, they ate in silence, her fingers cautiously avoiding his while dipping her bread in the labani. Ziyad stayed in the apartment for another hour, reading on the diwan. When he saw that her silence would last the day, he gathered his things, gave her a hug, and left. She didn’t resist—not when he hugged her, and not when he turned to leave. It was their way of staying together.
Not knowing anyone except the bride and her parents, Maisoon settled in a corner of the garden, smoking a cigarette and sipping her wine when a young woman approached her. She was tall and slender, her features blurred in the darkness.
“I wish I could smoke a cigarette like you do … you know … in front of everybody,” her voice was soft with a slight tremor.
“Ya salam,” Maisoon laughed “and why can’t you? Here, why don’t you have one?”
The girl shrank back. “Are you majnouny? What would they say about me?”
Maisoon shrugged her shoulders. “So how about some wine, then?”
“Hmmm …”
There was something unfamiliar about the way the words danced on the girl’s tongue—an accent Maisoon didn’t recognize. “Maisoon,” she said as the girl sat down on the stone next to her, brushing Maisoon’s sleeveless arm as she took the glass of wine from her.
“I’m Shahd,” and she giggled into the glass.
“And does Shahd go to school? What, tenth grade, eleventh?” Maisoon was losing interest in the girl.
“Actually, I’m twenty-three. I want to study medicine and become a daktora. Inshallah next year.”
Maisoon was looking intently at her now. The girl was defining herself according to the norms of society—by age and occupation or education. She didn’t look more than sixteen or seventeen with her slim body and virtually flat chest.
“Come, let’s dance!” In a sudden movement, Shahd grabbed Maisoon’s hand and dragged her to the middle of the garden, into the reflected lights. “It’s one of my favourites!” She took her scarf and wrapped it around Maisoon’s voluptuous hips. “Yalla ya amar, show us some of that hazz sharki.” Shahd was now laughing, swaying her arms and getting down on one knee the way men do.
Maisoon’s body froze, now what? Should she just do the elegant moves, dancing the way ‘good’ girls are supposed to? She looked down at the young woman whose name meant honey and allowed her body to decide. Closing her eyes, she let the music surge through her—dum-tak-tak dum-tak. Dum-tak-tak dum-tak. Deeper now and into her bones. Ach, to hell with all the women’s talk. She checked the scarf around her waist, making sure it was tied at the right height. When Maisoon opened her eyes, she no longer saw the women sprinkled around the garden, nor did she see the mother of the bride staring at her in horror. It was only her, Shahd, the music, and the wine spreading warmly inside her body. There were no men at the henna, so she felt at ease to let herself be led by the rhythm completely.
She was lost in her own world of the durbakki and didn’t see the way Shahd’s eyes were transfixed on her, hungrily devouring every movement of her hips. She wasn’t aware of Shahd’s slight shiver of the body.
By the end of the evening, Maisoon was spent. The women who at first had looked at her as if she were committing a sacrilege were all over her by the time the music faded.
“Ya salam! Mashallah, you dance like an Egyptian!”
