Miral (14 page)

In the meanwhile, an emergency meeting was held at the school, and there Miriam and the other members of the school council voted unanimously to expel Miral. She was held to be directly responsible for the unrest in the school, which had led to several students' skipping classes in order to participate in demonstrations, thereby endangering the general security. The Hadil episode was the last straw.

Hind intervened to block that decision, explaining to the gathering that the present moment was one in which the students, all of them, had the greatest need for the council's support and understanding. She maintained that the girls should not be punished for their civic passion, that she herself was the person directly responsible for what had happened, and that therefore the final decision would be up to her alone. The vice-principal, Miriam, attempted to object, pointing out that Hind was ill, that Miral would be hard to handle and difficult to control, and that there was a strong possibility that her presence would compromise the school. Hind replied that she would talk to Miral immediately.

And so she called the girl into her office.

“Miral, do you know how I've managed to keep this place open?” Hind began. “I've convinced everyone that education is the best means of resistance. Do you have any idea how often we've had to start all over, from scratch? When I found the first orphans on the street, I had only 128 dinars. As far as I'm concerned, you're all my children, and I love you all very much, especially you. This school is the difference between you and the children in the refugee camps. I've invested a great deal in your future, and your father has done the same. Don't waste this opportunity. This is your chance.”

Then Hind informed Miral that two possible courses of action remained open to her: she could either sign a pledge never to leave the grounds of the school without precise authorization to do so, or she could pack her bags and leave immediately for Haifa, where her father had agreed to take her. Should she remain at school, the slightest violation of the rules would result in her immediate expulsion.

Miral nodded her acquiescence with tears in her eyes; she understood that she really had no choice, but at the same time she tried to explain to Hind that the anger and the sense of injustice fermenting inside her compelled her to do something. “We can't stand around with folded arms, waiting to be liberated by someone else. It's not fair to delegate the struggle to the young people from the refugee camps—we're called to do our part, too,” she declared.

“You're right, Miral,” Hind replied. “Each of us is doing something for Palestine. I'm responsible for making sure that this school remains open. Thousands of families depend on me. Many girls would be on the streets otherwise, and that's something we can't allow to happen. You must keep in mind that political involvement on the part of any one of you could seriously compromise this place. By and by, you'll see that there will be ways for you to do your part. Our future state will need pragmatic, intelligent young women, not martyrs.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Hind's stern eyes betrayed the love she felt for her rebellious “daughter,” while Miral's glowed with impatient pride.

M
iral had been too stunned and confused by her friend's death to remember the exact location of the house where Hani had taken her after the demonstration, but she was sure she could find someone to show her where Hani lived. She went to the Armenian Quarter—one of the most fascinating in the Old City, despite the wounds inflicted on it during the heavy fighting in 1948—and tried to get some information from a group of children playing ball in a square illuminated by the lukewarm morning sun.

“Sure, we know him,” the oldest of the group replied to her question. “But who are you? And what do you need him for?”

“Tell him Miral's looking for him. He knows me.”

The boy kicked the ball, which shot away over the smooth stone. Then he sized up Miral with what was, despite his youthful age, the scrutiny of an adult.

“Wait for me here, I'll go and call him,” he said, going off with his hands in his pockets. His oversize trousers gave him a comical appearance.

Left to wait, Miral gazed up at the white roofs of Jerusalem, which provide a kind of contrast to its bloody history. “God, how I love and hate this place,” she thought. Perhaps one day, the city would become the capital of two states, one Israeli and one Palestinian. Although her birthplace was Haifa, as she contemplated the Dome of the Rock, gleaming in the rays of the sun, she longed to merge with her adopted city.

After a few minutes, the boy returned with Hani, who looked thinner and much taller than Miral remembered. He had brown, tousled hair and was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a gray sweater. Despite his melancholy eyes, he possessed a radiant smile.

“I can see that you've recovered very nicely,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I'm glad. Have you had breakfast? Come with me, I know a place near the Damascus Gate where they make the best hummus in town.”

“No, thanks, I don't want to disturb you. I just need five minutes of your time to talk to you about something important,” Miral replied.

“So let's take a little walk. We'll have a better discussion on full stomachs,” he said.

The Old City was in ferment, filled with tourists in town for Passover and Easter. It was a mild day, and a fresh, pleasant breeze caressed the undulant Judean Hills.

“So what's this important matter?” Hani asked.

“Well, it's about a person I know, a boy who lives in Kalandia refugee camp. He seemed very sharp and articulate. I've read one of his stories, which shows real promise, if he has the chance to do something with it. He's received a scholarship to go to school in Damascus, but I don't think he'll accept it. He doesn't want to abandon the intifada. He's always the first to throw stones or use his slingshot against the Israeli tanks, and I'm afraid he's going to come to a bad end.” Miral stopped, and they stared into each other's eyes for a few seconds. Hani seemed to have the ability to read people from the inside, to understand what they were feeling. He started walking again, slowly.

“What makes you think I can help your friend?” he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper.

“I saw the way you moved. Even when the fight was going on, you seemed sure of yourself. Please, could you talk to him? He needs a father figure—his own father was killed many years ago.”

“Do you love him?”

“No no, where did you get that idea?” she replied, blushing in embarrassment.

“What's this boy's name?” Hani asked.

“Khaldun.”

Hani smiled and raised his eyes to heaven.

“What's going on? Do you know him?”

“Miral, we have to trust each other. And if we want to keep talking seriously about these things, we must get to know each other a little better. Come with me, I'll take you to a safer place than this,” Hani said, turning onto a narrow street where the houses were so close together that only an oblique ray of light was able to filter past them. They entered a café that occupied the corner of a low building and consisted of a single large room filled to the ceiling with smoke. Several old men were inhaling slow, endless lungfuls from their narghiles, while the younger patrons of the establishment drank cardamom coffee or mint tea. There was a large counter covered with colored ceramic tiles in red, yellow, green, and on it stood a large silver tray filled with oriental sweets. Behind the counter, two young men prepared the infusions and other beverages. Hani was apparently very well known in this place, because everyone greeted him with a nod or a smile and the proprietor shook his hand.

Miral and Hani sat at a table that was somewhat removed from the others. “I see you're very popular here. Wouldn't it be better to talk outside, in the open?” Miral asked.

“How suspicious you are. It's good to be like that in these times, but you can relax now,” Hani responded ironically, continuing to smile as he placed a hand on hers. “These people here can be trusted—they're my friends and comrades,” he added.

“Do you belong to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine?” Miral asked, speaking very softly.

He looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, Miral, I'm the PFLP officer responsible for Jerusalem—the secretary—and I know Khaldun well. His father was one of the best men we ever had, and he would have been very proud of his son. I didn't know he liked to write. I saw him in action once, during an Israeli raid on the camp.”

Miral smiled. She'd been lucky to find Hani. “Super!” she said. “What part of Palestine do you come from? Your accent is a mixture of Jerusalem and other places.”

He thought for a moment, as if Miral had asked a hard question.

“I was born in Lebanon. We are Christians. My parents were Palestinian refugees in 1948, forced to leave their lands and their house in Jaffa. We were able to reenter Jerusalem through Jordan a few months before the 1967 war, so at least we're refugees here, in our homeland. Now I believe only in our cause. Do you know what
intifada
means?”

“Sure. It means raising your head up, rebelling to preserve your dignity.”

“That's right.”

He had the same look of melancholy that had struck her the first time she met him. Miral added, “I'm frightened to think that a lot more blood is going to flow, and even after that, God knows how many sacrifices we will still have to make.”

Ever since the death of her friend Hadil, Miral had felt a need to talk about politics with an adult. In fact, Hani was her senior by about ten years, but she felt he had great authority.

“Of course, it won't be easy, Miral, not for us and not for them. They've built their happiness on our unhappiness, on our diaspora, and that can't get them anywhere. Now our destinies are intertwined. A great many of us will still be compelled to leave the country, and some of us will die, but in the end the international community will force the Israelis to sit down and negotiate with us.”

That was just what she wanted to hear. “I'd like to do something more than what I'm doing now. It's frustrating, what I see every day in the refugee camps and in the villages, the continual humiliations at the checkpoints—I feel so helpless in the face of all that. It's not enough for me anymore to go to a refugee camp three times a week and teach kids a little English. I'm angry. The whole world should know what's going on here.”

Before he spoke, Hani ran a hand through his hair, pushed the bangs from his forehead, and took a deep breath.

“Miral, you're young, but this struggle is making your generation grow up in a big hurry. You have to think over a decision like this carefully before you make it. You're talking about going down some roads there will be no turning back from. Besides, what are you going to do about your school?”

Miral, too, seemed to weigh her response for a while, thinking her way to the bottom of her heart. “I know it won't be simple, and after I graduate it will get even harder. I don't even know if I'll be able to stay in Jerusalem, but for right now, I think our struggle is crucial, and I want to be part of it.”

Hani considered Miral's words and found them sincere, free of rhetoric, and he could tell that she was not just blowing off some passionate steam. At the same time, however, he was afraid to give her too much hope. He had already seen too many young people fall in the struggle or wind up in Israeli prisons.

“All right. As you must know, you're going to have to be very well informed politically, so I'd like you to think about that, at least for a little while. When you've made your decision, let me know. As far as Khaldun is concerned, let me speak with my organization. We'll try to get him out of the refugee camp. Let's meet again, you and I, in a week, okay? I'll get in touch with you through a girl in your school.”

In her heart, Miral had already made her decision and didn't need a single minute more, but it still seemed reasonable to take a few days to reflect. The two said good-bye in front of a white stone wall that dazzled in the sun. Hani stood still for a few moments and watched her walk away, gracefully slipping through the crowd of people returning from the souk and heading for their villages. As he walked back to the Armenian Quarter, he considered her qualities. “She'll be a good politician,” he concluded. “She's a little excitable and impulsive, but with some training, she'll learn to control herself.”

Miral couldn't stop thinking about the words Hani had said to her, or about his dark eyes, which seemed to look into the bottom of her soul. They shared a passion for politics and a commitment to social work; they both admired the left wing of the PLO for the moral rigor it had demonstrated. Hani, however, was critical of the left's intransigence, especially regarding peace negotiations with Israel.

On the way home, Miral felt more serene, more solid somehow, and, more than anything else, physically attracted to that young man. On her way home the following weekend, she decided to pass through the Armenian Quarter and enter the Old City through Herod's Gate. She felt as though she were entering a new phase of her life, filled with energy and enthusiasm, and as she crossed the gate, she again went over her choice in her mind, knowing that she would have to live with that choice in secret. “I'm not turning back,” she thought.

T
he man was staring into Khaldun's eyes. He had just made the boy a proposal, one that could change the course of a life. Khaldun looked around at the shack where he had spent the last three years, at the muddy streets, at the garbage, at the children running after one another in the midst of open sewers. What was there left for him to do in this place? Sure, it was his home, his land, but it was also his hell. What future could he have here? He would grow up and grow old in a shack, and maybe he would die prematurely, but for useless reasons, and he wanted to be of use, to do his part. He felt the adrenaline rising in his veins; he would have liked to play soccer whenever he wanted and to be a real combatant when he grew up. Khaldun nodded in agreement.

The man standing before him squeezed her shoulder. “Good, then it's done. Be sure you're there at seven o'clock tomorrow morning,” he said, before slowly walking away.

Khaldun thought about Miral, about the last time he'd seen her, as she was walking up the path that led to Jerusalem. She was the only person he would have been glad to talk to before he left. That night, stretched out on his cot, he remembered the stories the older people in the camp told about Deir Yassin and Tal el Zaatar, about the mutilated bodies lying in heaps and decomposing in the sun. He thought about his father, dead in Lebanon—Khaldun didn't even know where he was buried—and for an instant he considered the possibility that Miral was right, that he should accept the scholarship to study in Damascus. He would be able to live in a house, a real house. The other inhabitants of the camp, his friends and neighbors, came to mind, and he reflected on the cruel destiny that united them. He wouldn't be worthy of his family if he didn't fight as his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather had done before him. That night he fell asleep certain he had made the right choice.

 

Said had awakened hoping that Khaldun would have enough time that day to teach him how to make a slingshot. He had waited for half an hour at the place where Khaldun usually played soccer with the older boys, but when Khaldun didn't come, he headed back to his shack, kicking every empty can and bottle he found along the way. He saw Khaldun's mother outside the shack, busy hanging laundry on a frayed clothesline.

“Good morning,” he said. “Do you know where I can find Khaldun? He's not at the soccer field.”

When she heard her son's name, the woman flinched. She carefully adjusted a threadbare sheet before turning to the little boy. “Hello, Said. Khaldun's not here. He went to study in Damascus, and he couldn't say good-bye to anyone because he had to leave this morning at dawn, but he asked me to give you something.”

Said watched the woman disappear behind the rusty tin panel that served as her front door. After a few moments, she reappeared and handed the boy a plastic bag. He took it, thanked her, and slowly walked away. As soon as he turned the corner, he sat down on a rock and opened the bag. To his great surprise, he found himself holding the military trousers that Khaldun always used to wear, the ones that had belonged to his father. Said was pleased to receive those pants as a gift, because he knew how proudly Khaldun had worn them. There was another package in the bag, something wrapped up in old newspaper. When he saw the slingshot, he was touched, and as he ran to the place where the other kids were playing soccer, his eyes were bright with tears.

 

Miral had spent the whole morning thinking about the demonstration that was to take place that afternoon in Ramallah. Before she went there, she decided, she'd make a quick trip to the Kalandia camp to distribute some books to the kids and, with any luck, say hello to Khaldun. During lunch she announced that she was not feeling well and that she was going to lie down for a while. She hurried to her room, took off her school uniform, dashed down the stairs, crossed the park while the teachers were still at lunch, and climbed over the wall.

Miral ran to the Damascus Gate, the point of departure for buses to the Occupied Territories. When she finally reached the path leading down to the camp, Miral saw Said, who was using a slingshot to launch rocks at the carcass of a vehicle, as boys of various ages stood around him admiringly. When Miral got closer, she noticed that Said was wearing Khaldun's trousers—he'd had to roll the cuffs way up and tie the waist with a cord. His decidedly small stature contrasted with his serious, military-style movements as he manipulated the slingshot.

Miral greeted him as soon as she joined the group. The kid was busy taking aim at the only portion of window still intact in the tangle of scrap metal that must have once been a jeep. When he heard Miral's voice, he gave a start, causing him to shoot so wide that he struck one of the other children in the back. General laughter broke out immediately and infected Miral as well, while Said, red with shame, was the only member of the group who wasn't laughing.

After the laughter died down, Miral turned to Said. “Why did Khaldun give you his pants? Did you win them from him in some kind of bet?”

“He gave them to me before he left for Damascus. But I didn't see him. His mother gave them to me.”

“Damascus?”

“Yes, he left this morning at dawn. He didn't have time to say good-bye. But you must know more about it than I do. You're the one who kept pushing him to go study there.”

Miral was undecided about whether to reveal that she knew nothing about Khaldun's decision and didn't think it was possible, but then she chose to act as if nothing was wrong. “Well, of course I knew he was supposed to leave, I just didn't think it would be so soon. Would you mind taking me to his mother's house?” she asked, trying to hide her surprise and satisfaction. Her grateful thoughts went to Hani, who had, it seemed, succeeded where she had failed.

 

When they arrived at Khaldun's shack, Miral waited for Said to leave before knocking on the door. When Khaldun's mother opened it, Miral said, “Good day. We've never met, but I'm a friend of Khaldun's, one of the girls from Dar El-Tifel school. And I… I'd like to know how you're doing…and how did Khaldun's departure go?”

“You must be Miral. Come in and sit down,” the woman said, pointing to a straw chair.

Miral was surprised to discover that Khaldun's mother knew her name. She instinctively liked the woman, whose sad eyes gave way to a lovely smile.

“Khaldun has spoken to you about me?” Miral asked as she took her seat.

“He told me a very beautiful girl might drop by and ask what had become of him. Would you like some coffee, dear?”

Miral nodded and the woman got up to prepare it, placing two tablespoons of cardamom coffee and one tablespoon of sugar in a small saucepan, adding water, and setting it on the fire, stirring slowly as she did so.

Miral watched her as she spoke. “I had a feeling this moment would come, but his departure caught me off guard anyway. Your son is a wonderful boy. I just hope he really goes to Damascus to study and doesn't stop in Lebanon like the rest of the PLO. Would it be all right if I come to visit you from time to time so I can get news of him?”

“Of course, come and visit whenever you want. I've accepted my son's moving far from me so that he can have a better future. I've got a letter for you. He asked me not to open it. From the way he talks, I know he has a very high opinion of you.”

Sitting in front of the shack, the woman and the girl drank their coffee in silence. Both knew it was impossible to change Khaldun's mind once he had made a decision. In his mother's eyes, Miral could read the sorrow of immense loss and the resignation of someone who had never had a choice.

“I have to go now,” Miral said when she had finished her coffee. “I'm glad to have met you.” The two embraced affectionately.

“Khaldun was right—you're a smart girl and very beautiful, too,” the woman said as she handed Miral a yellow envelope.

By now it had grown late, so Miral decided to return to Dar El-Tifel and skip going to Ramallah, thus reducing the chances that the teachers would discover her absence. But when she mounted the wall and dropped down onto the school grounds, she realized that someone was sitting on a bench a few meters in front of her, beckoning her closer. It was Hind's adopted daughter, Hidaya.

“I'll bet you've been to some protest rally, as usual. You know how fond my mother is of you. I feel the same way. So I won't say anything to her about this demonstration, but forget about the next one.”

Hidaya had always treated Miral and Rania kindly, feeling great affection for them, she who had grown up in the school and had enjoyed the good fortune of being raised by Hind personally.

“No, I swear,” Miral said to her. “I've only been to Kalandia refugee camp. I wanted to see this boy, Khaldun. Maybe you remember—Hind got him a scholarship to study in Damascus. But in any case, I arrived too late.”

“He's already left for Syria? Hind told me he refused the scholarship. She said she'd give it to one of the girls from the school.”

“I don't know. His mother gave me a letter. Maybe it says where he is now,” Miral said, extracting from her bag the yellow envelope with the simple inscription “For Miral.”

“I'm afraid he's made the wrong choice,” Miral went on. “He's smart, but he's impulsive, too, and too young to choose wisely. He often flirts with tragedy.”

Hidaya cast a glance at the school, at the well-tended garden
and the girls' athletic field. This place had been her whole life, and she had dedicated herself to it entirely. It was to her a fixed point, an oasis in the middle of a devastated land. “The intelligent boys are the ones who feel that they bear the heaviest burdens, because they're able to understand. Sometimes that's not much of a privilege,” Hidaya said. “Go to your room, and remember the agreement you made with Mama Hind.”

When the other girls were outside in the schoolyard and Miral was alone in her room, she sat down on her bed and opened the envelope. The handwriting, although shaky, was elegant in its way.

A big demonstration was scheduled for a few days later, a rally in which both Palestinians and Israelis were to participate. The flu, compounded by the prohibition imposed on her by Hind and Hidaya, kept Miral from going. She was dozing in her bed when she heard her name.

“Miral, are you awake?”

Hind was standing in the doorway, her white hair gathered at the nape of her neck, her features as calm as ever. Still groggy from sleep and medicine, Miral was surprised to see her and managed a wan smile. Then she remembered the demonstration and the fact that she was forbidden to take part in it, and her face darkened.

“I know you're angry with me,” Hind said, entering and sitting down on one side of the bed. “And I know how much you wanted to go to the demonstration. That's why I've come to tell you that it went well. There were a few minor incidents, but in general things were peaceful.”

Miral could not suppress a smile of satisfaction.

“A large number of people turned out,” Hind continued. “Many foreigners, and especially a great many Israeli pacifists, who marched side by side with the Palestinians, chanting the same slogans, singing the same songs. If I didn't let you go, Miral, it is because I want to protect you. When you graduate and leave here, you'll be free to do whatever you think is right, but for now, I just hope the situation has changed and intelligent girls like you don't have to throw rocks anymore.”

Miral observed her. Hind had aged a great deal in the past two years. She seemed more fragile, yet in her eyes the pride of her family was intact, along with the legacy of its ancient strength.