Miral (22 page)

M
iral bought a copy of the daily
Al-Quds
and sat in a café near the Damascus Gate. Over the past few years, the number of Orthodox Jews walking through the covered lanes of the souk had steadily grown. Many houses in the Old City had been bought or seized from their Arab owners and quickly decorated with Israeli flags and seven-branched candelabra. The counterpart of the bloody war in the Occupied Territories was, in Jerusalem, a submerged struggle for the possession of the Old City, where every square meter and every stone took on a symbolic value.

After scanning the front-page news she turned to the inside pages, where she lingered over a report about collaborators killed by al-Fatah militants in Gaza and a car bomb that had caused the death of a militant from the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine in Lebanon the previous day. The victim was described as having been only eighteen, and Miral speculated that there must have been some error. Then she thought about Hani and Khaldun, fearing for their safety. The victim was with one of the organization's leaders, for whom he had worked as a bodyguard until a few weeks before, and who was said to be the attack's real target. The article did not, however, exclude the hypothesis that the perpetrators had in fact targeted the young militant, the author of a book—published in Lebanon as well as some European countries, among them Germany and France—in which he recounted his adolescence first in the Kalandia camp and then in the Sabra and Shatila camps in southern Beirut. His spare, forceful prose had led some literary critics to acclaim the young Palestinian writer as a new Ghassan Kanafani. Unfortunately this comparison must not have escaped the youth's murderers. The writer was Khaldun. And he suffered the same brutal fate as the author of
Men in the Sun
and
Return to Haifa
, who met a premature end when, on July 8, 1972, a bomb placed in his car by the Mossad in Beirut killed both him and his sixteen-year-old niece.

A silent scream of intense pain paralyzed her body. She couldn't think, she couldn't move. She felt the despair of being aware and at the same time powerless. She had thought Khaldun was safe because he was far away, but no one is safe; your destiny follows wherever you go.

Drops of tears were blurring the print on the newspaper in front of her. And at that moment, the warmth of Jerusalem's sun went cold.

The next day, Miral went to the same coffee shop hoping that Jasmine would pass by and give her news of Hani. The café had become a regular meeting place for Miral and her girlfriends. The proprietor was a middle-aged man, bald and robust, who hummed songs as he prepared cold drinks for his young customers. He would always welcome Miral with a broad, affectionate smile and offer her the best table.

It had been too long since she'd received any news of Hani, and Miral had grown increasingly worried. His friends in the neighborhood replied to her questions with vague answers, and his former comrades in the Popular Front were reluctant to give out any information about him whatsoever. Nobody knew where he might be; perhaps he had left the country. Miral knew that if he was still in Jerusalem, he was most probably living as a fugitive. She imagined hopefully that after the signing of the peace accords there would be a general amnesty and that Hani would benefit from it, but how much longer would it be before that happened? It could take years.

Miral decided to leave a message with Hani's mother. In her note, Miral planned to tell Hani about the discovery of her real father, Hilmi, whom she had finally been able to trace. He lived in Europe, where he was a university professor of literature. He'd sent Miral a letter that touched her deeply, a letter in which he told her that they must meet and talk about everything. He wrote of his love for her mother, Nadia, and of his respect for Jamal, and invited Miral to come visit him, declaring that she could count on him at any time and in any circumstance. Enclosed with the letter was an airline ticket to Berlin. Miral had thought long about meeting him there, but then decided she wasn't ready.

As she sat there, absorbed in her thoughts, a young man wearing a pair of black sunglasses approached and asked if her name was Miral. Surprised, she answered that it was. The stranger looked about him nervously for several seconds, then reached into his pocket, drew out an envelope, and placed it on Miral's table, saying, “This is for you. It's from a friend.” He turned around and swiftly melted into the crowd in the market, vanishing as though he had never existed. Miral didn't even have time to thank him. She pulled the envelope closer and saw that it bore the words “For Miral.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she felt a searing heat similar to what she experienced when she ran from the soldiers during demonstrations. She opened the envelope, which contained a note from Hani and, to confirm its authenticity, a photograph of him, sitting on a patch of green grass framed by yellow flowers. Hani had an unkempt beard, and he was wearing a red and white kaffiyeh around his neck. In the note, he asked Miral to meet him that afternoon at four o'clock inside the Russian Orthodox Church of Maria Magdalene, on the Mount of Olives. Miral's heart beat wildly; she leapt to her feet and left the café without saying goodbye to the owner. She even forgot to pay her check.

 

Despite the difficulties she met along the way, Miral reached the appointed place with some time to spare. Her pace had been slowed by the many Orthodox pilgrims who were filling the streets and obstructing all the exit points in the Old City. Crossing the Via Dolorosa had been a particularly complicated undertaking because of all the faithful who were making their way toward what Christians consider the most sacred of stones, the sepulchre. Miral felt frustrated and anxious because she couldn't run, but once she arrived at her destination, she found a deep fascination in observing how religious faith continued to draw people into the city from all over the world. It was hard not to let yourself surrender to the meditative atmosphere that pervaded the place, to its antique severity. At the entrance to the imposing basilica, the sunlight reflected by the gilded onion domes prevented Miral from seeing the interior. Once inside she was enveloped in the cold mystery conjured up by the darkness and the powerful smell of incense, which managed to cover even the scent of Middle Eastern spices. Guided by the uncertain light of the candles in the chapels, she found herself overwhelmed by a sense of genuine mysticism.

As she watched the pilgrims moving past her in silent file, Miral failed to notice Hani, who stood in a dark alcove a few paces away, quietly gazing at her. When she saw him, she threw her arms around his neck and held on while emotion surged through her and tears filled her eyes. Their faces were close together; she could feel his breath and read all the nuances of his expressions. Hani stroked her face and hair. “God, how I've missed you,” he said.

After a long moment, they released each other, and only then did Miral see that he'd lost a great deal of weight since their last meeting. He hadn't shaved for days, and his beard gave him an appearance both rugged and tragic.

“I can't believe you're here in front of me!” Miral exclaimed. “I thought you had left the country, and I'd given up all hope of seeing you.”

“I'm a fright—please don't look at me,” Hani said hoarsely, covering his face with his hands.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Miral replied. “I haven't done anything but think about you, day and night. I love you, Hani. I don't care if you're a little damaged. As a matter of fact, I think you've acquired a mysterious charm.” Her eyes betrayed both her ardor and the grief of the past weeks.

He hugged her and said, “My darling, I love you, too.”

“Tell me how you're getting along and what you're planning to do now,” Miral said.

“Life as a fugitive isn't so bad,” Hani replied in a reassuring tone. “I change houses every day and sleep in different places, because I've got many friends in the refugee camps and in our villages. I try to avoid the city as much as possible. People seem more paranoid and suspicious in metropolitan areas, and it's more likely that I'll be captured in Jerusalem than anywhere else. But I wanted to see you—I heard about your father. I'm so sorry, Miral. The people who harbor me are poor, and I share the little food they have. But by now, I'm used to everything, and nothing frightens me anymore. You see, Miral, there's no turning back. We have such a thirst to live in freedom in our own state that we can bear anything, any sacrifice.” Hani took her hand. “But let's talk about you, Miral,
habibti
. How did you do on your final exams? Are you ready for what comes next? I hope you get a very high grade so you can be admitted to a good university—but I have no doubt you'll make me proud of you.”

“I think my exams went very well, Hani. I studied so much. Still, all my friends have already decided what they're going to do, and I don't know yet. I've applied for a scholarship to study abroad, but I'm not sure I really want to go. I'd like to study political science.”

Hani kissed her hand and replied, “You just have to be tough, Miral. I know you've got it in you. Besides, it seems to me that you've already made up your mind. You must get a university degree, and I think political science is a very fitting choice for you. And whether you study here or abroad, I'll come and find you.”

They talked at length, forgetful of the time and the dampness of the church. Hani had grown nervous. “It's better that nobody sees us together,” he said. “Unfortunately, the investigations that led to a hundred arrests several months ago are still open.”

Miral kept holding his hand tightly in hers.

Hani gazed at her tenderly. “Now that you've graduated, where are you living?”

“I'm still living on campus—Mama Hind thinks that's best for me right now. The school is basically my home. Among other things, I often go to the American Colony Hotel to follow the course of the negotiations.”

“What are the chances that you'll get the scholarship?” he asked.

“Oh God, five of us have applied, and I'm not the best student in the group,” she said, lowering her eyes. “We'll see.”

Hani smiled for a moment, but then his face took on a look of great passion. “I think we're close to peace this time, Miral. Everyone's making a serious effort—us, the Israelis, and the Americans, too. For the first time, they believe it's possible.”

“What will happen to the PFLP? What reaction can we expect from them?” she asked, surprised by his optimism.

“They're probably splitting up as we speak, and this time the decision is going to be between real, concrete choices and the unattainable goals of blind ideology. The people have already made their choice—now the parties can adapt, or they can disappear.” Hani's voice deepened. “Many people disagree with me. They've accused me of being a collaborator, but when peace comes, you'll see. None of that will matter anymore. They're meeting every day, both here and in Oslo, talking about partition. I really believe this time it can work.”

“How can you say that?”

“Miral, this road is too bloody, it has no exit. We'll accept twenty-two percent of the land—it's more than we have now. We can't go on fighting forever.”

“Twenty-two percent? Why can't it be one country for everybody, where we all have the same rights? Real democracy like in New York City?”

Hani looked at her lovingly.

“It is too soon for that. We should have two states—an Israeli state and a Palestinian one. The truth is that the Arab regimes and the United Nations are not our real allies. It's the Israelis themselves. Miral, we have to remember that in 1982, when Israel invaded Lebanon, four hundred thousand Israelis went in the streets and protested and that led to the fall of the right-wing government and the withdrawal from Lebanon. They are the ones we need to reach. They're not going anywhere and neither are we. One state, two states— I don't care. I want to live. I want a future for our children.”

Miral stopped and stared at him with frightened eyes. “Have they threatened you? What exactly have you been accused of?”

“Don't worry. The problem exists because, unfortunately, several comrades have been sold to the Shin Bet recently, but the accusations against me are only rumors. I still have many friends in the movement, many people who think highly of me and will never abandon me. Naturally, my positions concerning the peace accords make everyone a bit nervous.”

At that point, the tone of Hani's voice left no room for discussion; the subject was closed. By now they were in the midst of the religious procession that was taking place on the Via Dolorosa. The air was fresher there, permeated with the smells of pine and olive trees, free from tear gas. Miral couldn't help crying as all the tension and drama of the past weeks, as well as her fear of abandonment and solitude, overflowed into a tender kiss.

Hani interpreted her weeping as tears of relief, and he held her close without speaking.

“
Habibti
, on Friday there's going to be a big peace demonstration around the walls of Jerusalem, and we're all going to be there this time: Arabs, Israeli pacifists, and supporters of the peace accords from Europe, America, and the rest of the world. It's the first time the Israeli government has authorized this type of demonstration. I'd like you to participate if you can.”

“Will you be there, too?” she asked hopefully.

“It may be risky for me, but I'll try my best to come, I promise. Now, however, I have to go. I've got to get back to the camp before the curfew begins.”

“Wait here a second,” Miral said. She turned onto a side street and returned after a few minutes with two sandwiches—falafel and kebab—and a container of fruit juice. As she handed him the food, she said, “Eat them both—you're too skinny. Do you need money?”