Paradise water

New novel, new characters. meet Saleh, Amit, and Maya.
For my new readers, this is a fragment of my second novel, "Shai at the Checkpoint". It's a raw piece of writing still. Check out other segments of this novel under the label "Shai at the Checkpoint" on the left sidebar of the blog.
Enjoy reading. As always, feedback is welcome.

Saleh walked into the crammed kitchenette, grabbed a tall glass from the shelf, put it up to the light and wrinkled his forehead. Two yellowish lines were running down the side of it, and the memory of a woman’s red lipstick was smudged across the edge in a slightly distorted kiss. He looked at the other two glasses; they were in no better shape. He turned on the tap water and scrubbed the glass clean. Clean as it could get. He then turned to the mineral water cooler, spelled out the name of the water company in his mind – Mey Eden, Waters of Eden – and poured himself a glass of lukewarm tap water. As he was gulping down the water, he heard a smirk behind him.

“Even in this mid-August heat?” It was Amit, his colleague. He walked to the shelf, took a glass and, with complete disregard to its cleanliness, poured himself a glass of ice cold water from the cooler. “Mmmm, there’s nothing like cold Eden water in this heat.”

“Never. Not as long as they have a contract with this supplier. I’d rather drink this warm water, even in this impossible heat, so long as that,” pointing to the upside down translucent blue monster of a water bottle on top of the cooler, “comes from the Occupied Golan Heights.”

“Oh, you’re such a nationalist. Come on, get over it!”

“I’m not a nationalist, Amit! I’m just a man with principles.”

“Nobody will know that you drank it. Here, take a glass of Paradise water.”

Saleh just shook his head slightly and smiled under his thin mustache. Amit and he have been working together for almost two years now, and they became friends. Not close friends, but still. As close as a slightly leftish Jewish man and a Palestinian man can get. Although Amit did define himself as moderate left, for Saleh he was never left enough. Amit recognized the claim of Palestinians on parts of this land and their right to live as equal citizens. But they always got stuck when the discussion reached the refugee problem or the demographic “threat.” His biggest fear was to live in a state where the Jews would no longer constitute a majority. Saleh could only sympathize, but not understand rationally. Personally he had no problem living as a national minority – if only he were treated as an equal citizen in all respects.

Amit, on the other hand, couldn’t understand Saleh’s claims of discrimination. For him, Palestinians citizens of Israel had all the rights – within some undefined limits, of course. It seemed only logical for him that people who served the army should have some merit over those who didn’t.

After some heated discussions, raised tones and animated body language, they settled into some sort of a routine. They had a silent pact not to go deeper than the surface on these issues. Over time, their political talks were replaced by friendly stings. When Saleh couldn’t get the printer to work, he asked Amit for help. Amit only clicked on the printer icon and the document printed out smoothly. “It’s because I’m Palestinian. The printer knows it.”

“Yup, sure is. One racist printer we got here.” And they would laugh it off.

***

After they had drunk water, Saleh reached for his thermos and winked at Amit. “Kafe Aravi?”

“Only if you boiled it seven times,” Amit was already reaching for two finjans and patting his pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes. Saleh had explained to him that Arabic kahwa had to be boiled seven times exactly to come out just right.

“I think it was seven. Hey, I made it at five in the morning, so maybe it was six, or eight. But I’m sure your Jewish taste-buds won’t even know the difference.”

They walked out to the narrow balcony, Arabic coffee was on Saleh, cigarettes were provided by Amit. Amit slurped from his finjan. “Hmm… yes, it’s seven.”

Saleh inhaled from him cigarette, then he took a slow sip of his coffee. He let the hot, bitter liquid swirl inside his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. “I think it’s closer to nine,” he laughed, “but I told you that you would never taste the difference.”

Amit made a face as if offended and took another sip. “You could boil it twice for all I care. Still it’s the best coffee in Yerushalayim.” He pronounced the last word slowly and deliberately, trying to hide a wicked smile.

“Alquds,” Saleh mumbled.

Suddenly, Amit became serious. “Listen, forget Yerushalayim. Next week there’s a party for the staff.”

Saleh’s cigarette was halfway finished, and he was hoping to get another one from Amit before they went back to work. “Aha, I think I saw something in my email about it. Anyway, I’m not going.”

“Look, Saleh. I’m not going to try to convince you.” His back was to Saleh and he was looking down at the street below. “We both know it’s going to be a Jewish party. Usually only about three or four Arab staff members attend them. But I was thinking that,” he took a deep breath, turned around to face Saleh, and cleared his throat. He spoke slowly, as if weighing the significance of each word, “you know, Maya… I mean… it’s obvious to all there’s some attraction between the two of you. The only two who are either ignoring it or denying its existence is you and Maya.”

“Maya is Jewish. I’m Palestinian. End of discussion.” The vein on the left side of Saleh’s forehead became visible. His left hand holding the cigarette shook ever so slightly. He drowned his cigarette in the remains of the coffee and turned around to walk inside. “Coffee break over. Back to work.” Amit mumbled to himself as he followed him in.

Saleh walked back to his office, passing Maya’s desk on his way. Only her auburn curls were visible from behind the large computer screen. But as he approached, she peeked out from behind the screen. “Saleh! Just my man. Can you come take a look at this? I can’t get the letters line up on this vector.” Saleh’s vein receded when he saw her. “Let’s see what I can do. Move it, redhead,” and he scooted her chair with her in it aside, grabbed another chair and took over the computer. After playing around with the functions for several minutes, the letters were neatly lined up exactly where Maya wanted them. “There you go, Mai. Did I tell you my grandmother’s name was Mai?”

“How many times, Saleh! It’s Maya. For you, M A Y A. Get it?”

“Aha… I see… well, my grandmother’s name was…” and he got out of the way before she had the time to grab at his shirt. “Maiiiiiiiii,” he screamed as he headed down the corridor, laughing. “And she was a redhead, but not a real one like you, Mai. She hennaed her hair. All the way up to the age of ninety eight!”

He sank down into his chair. He had two designs to finish before the end of the week: an annual report for a human rights organization and a poster for a book fair. Let’s get the poster out of the way first. He looked at his watch. It was twelve forty seven. I’ll work for an hour and then ask her for a cigarette.

Two hours later, Saleh was still at his desk. He had finished four versions of the poster and was working on the fifth when he finally realized he was just passing time. Three versions were more than enough for the client. The fourth and fifth one were only very slightly different in the fonts and shades of the background. He discarded them, pushed his chair back and stretched his arms. Something was still missing from his designs - they were all too cold. Uninviting. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Something was missing from his designs. They were too cold. Uninviting.

Maya was fresh from Wizo. She finished her degree in graphic design only several months earlier, and already was accepted to work by one of the larger companies in Jerusalem. Her designs were known for their playfulness. There was something clean yet fresh about them. Different. Saleh looked at the poster on his computer screen. He was satisfied with it, yet compared to Maya’s work, it seemed to him a bit on the dark side. Maybe too serious for a book fair.

He opened his eyes, and rushed down the corridor. “Maiiii, I’m sending you something in the mail. Open it and have it ready. I’ll be right there.”

“Maya!” came an echo from the far end of the corridor.

“You need some tola'ot in there.” They were both staring at the poster on the screen.

“I need what?!”

“Worms… you know… bookworms?”

“Aha… I see..,” he leaned closer over her shoulder, her curls just barely tickling his neck. He smelled the freshness in them. And stopped breathing. “Right there, see?” she pointed at the image of one of the books in the background. “Not too conspicuous. And make the worms in earth tones.”

Earth tones… bookworms! How come I didn’t think of it? Stupid. It’s so obvious you need some bookworms to go into a poster for a book fair! YaRab! She’ll think I’m so stupid.

(c) khulud khamis, 2013

Shai at the checkpoint: My burnt arm

For those of you who are following my experiments with new characters in my new novel, "Shai at the Checkpoint" - here's more of Suhad. Again, only raw writing, incomplete scenes that need to be developed more... needless to say, your feedback is valuable! again, not on the structure-level, but on how the characters make you feel, and whether they're credible enough, and can you relate to them emotionally? So, here we go:

There you are again. With that self-centered, self-assured walk. Like the world belongs to you. That jumpiness when you walk tells it all. The way you carry the kanun – bare, without a cover to protect it. But I can tell you have great respect for it, though you try to be casual about it. Again, you’re unshaven today. The same jeans, with that imprint of a thick wallet on the left back pocket. And you’re always either rolling a cigarette or smoking one. You must smell like an ashtray. But I see you take care of your body. In that white tank top o can clearly see the well-defined muscles of your dark shoulders and arms. Full of contradictions, aren’t you?

Oh yes, I see the way you look at me, like a hungry animal lurking for prey. And I don’t like it. you want to devour me in one piece.

At the same time, you probably think I’m too much of an intellectual for you. Or too proud to even talk to someone like you. Or too sophisticated with my leather briefcase.

Mother always told me I need to marry someone who would challenge me intellectually and let me grow. And I listened to her. Married a real intellectual. Dr. of Political Science, no less. Head of the department. And oh did he challenge me. Heated discussions into the night about the nature of the nation-state, the political identity of a people, what defines a nation, why democracy has failed, and what not.

I don’t deny it, they were indeed very challenging discussions. Intriguing even. I learned from him, and he even enriched my thought. Often, I found his ideas spilling into the lectures I was preparing, reflected in a different way in class discussions with my students.

Sometimes I miss these talks of ours. He was a good friend. A close one, even. There was mutual respect between us. We cared for each other deeply. When my migraines would completely disable me for several days, he always made sure the blinds were drawn all day long, and even kept my father away with his loud chatter. He made me shai three times a day and brought me my favorite fruit in the summer – khokh abu wabar.

Yes, we lived like good friends. We shared household chores, spent relaxed evenings in the garden reading through each other’s notes for the upcoming lectures, giving feedback and constructive comments.

I could tell from the way he was settling comfortably into this life that he was happy. Content that he reached his destination – the final end point.

But not me. I wanted more. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I weren’t selfish for wanting more than that for myself – for us.

But still, I wanted more. Oh yes, much more. My insides were burning, my throat dry, thirsty. I was yearning for something greater. But I didn’t know yet what it was I was in search of.

I wanted the ground to be swept from underneath me. I wanted to experience something so intense it would leave me filled with so much energy enough to set me on fire. Leave an eternal mark on me like a hot iron sizzling on the skin.

I wanted to be set on fire and burn like the phoenix. To die an intense death and be reborn all fresh and new all over.

I thought at first there must be something wrong with me for wanting this fire intensity.

But there was something in me craving to experience the utter opposite of intellectuality. Raw, unhinged savageness.

At that time, I was immersed in teaching a course on the erotic works of D. H. Lawrence.

***

And just when I made the decision to break free, all hell came undone. Well, not exactly, but it sure did feel like it when I hit the ground. I don’t remember much of that day, only fragments. I remember walking to Um Tayseer’s house. I remember the ground shaking under my feet. And something burning my flesh. Then, just half a second before everything turned into blackness, the smell of the earth.

I woke up in a hospital bed. Baba was sitting next to my bed in a black vinyl reclining chair, snoring softly. In the white light of the hospital room, I remember thinking that he somehow aged overnight. He was unshaven, the short bristles snow white. He slept with his mouth slightly open, Darweesh’s Diwan open on his lap. I studied him, moving through all his body with my eyes. I needed to concentrate hard, because I didn’t want yet to move my attention to the burning pain in my right shoulder, going all the way to the tips of my fingers. His right leg jerked and the book fell off his lap. He opened his eyes wide and was surprised to see me glaring at him, with a screwed up smile.

“Susu… you’re awake, habibti.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but only a croak came out, which at first I didn’t recognize as my own voice.

I saw he was struggling not to let the tears out, but his lips were quivering.

“Ba… baba, ween… Hi… sham…?” I looked around the room in search of white roses, for he always brought me only white roses.

Baba’s face wrinkled up in anger. “You just had to wake up on my shift. Couldn’t you wake up two hours ago when mama was still here?”

My mind started racing. Something bad happened to Hisham. I squeezed my brain, but couldn’t remember where he was when the ground shook. Was he hurt really bad? I looked at baba with pleading eyes, my mouth dry, “Hisham?” Baba realized what I must have been thinking, and he put his hand on my good arm. “He’s fine, Susu. It’s just that… he left. This morning. For London.”

Wonderful. The ground shakes under his wife’s feet, and he flies to London!

***

Three weeks later, he came back to an empty house. I had baba pack my library and move the eight boxes of books back into my old room. Mama packed my clothes and my art pieces. Nothing else was mine in that house. Hisham didn’t even call. Our marriage dissolved without words.

It’s been four years now, and I can still feel the dead flesh on my arm burning every now and then.

I’ve seen his since – in the souk, meticulously picking his fruits. Parking his can close to the bakery on Khoury street, while I waited for the bus. I had made up my mind to see right through him. Nevertheless, every time I glimpse him, I get all worked up and become all self-conscious about my disfigured arm. It starts burning all over again, and all I want to do is run. Run away from this burnt flesh. So I focus really hard on the soles of my feet, planting them more solidly on the ground, so that they don’t take off. And I wince from the pain.

Neighbors tell me he’s always and obsessively asking about me. Even now – four years later. He holds on to every piece of information. When he sees me, I feel his eyes piercing my body. He watches every movement I make, until I’m out of his sight. Yet he never makes a move in my direction. He knows he’s made his choices and now has to live with them. There is no forgiving his abandonment.

Teta made me the most beautiful glove to wear on my disfigured arm in the summer. People who don’t know I’ve been burnt think it’s a weird way to make a political statement. The colors of our heritage – black with the small hand-stitched designs that adorn traditional Palestinian dress. Yahud think it’s a fashion statement. One glove, all the way up to my shoulder, in the smoldering hear of Haifa’s Tammuz. I smile for their stupidity.

***

So, ultimately, in some distorted way, it was Hisham who made it possible for our marriage to end. Or maybe it was my burnt arm. Or the University of London for inviting him to give a course on geopolitical changes in the Middle East over the last decade. It’s not important. What is important is that I was weak and didn’t dare leave the prison of that marriage when it became suffocating.

My students think I’m a hero. For learning to write with my left hand. For being too proud to ask for any help. For struggling with the coffee machine with my one good arm. Every simple task has become a challenge during that first year, but I refused to give up.

Mama thinks I’m stupid. For refusing compensation money for “victims of terrorism.” But I could never compromise my values. How can I be categorized as victim of terrorism when I can’t accept the mere fact my arm was burnt by terrorists? It doesn’t make any logical sense. Therefore, I simply cannot accept the money. Medical care – yes. But nothing beyond that.

Um Maysara doesn’t think I’m a hero. Nor does she think I’m stupid. These superficialities don’t concern her. she is concerned only about me continuing with my life “after” in the same way as “before.”

“Society needs to acknowledge that people come in different colors and shapes.” At first, I didn’t quite understand her obsessiveness about this notion. But she opened up when I asked her about it straight out. It had been a slow day.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh, 2012.

Narjis and Omar at the checkpoint - erotic writing

here's another new character popping up at the checkpoint: young Narjis. So far, we've had Um Maysara, Maria, Omar and Suhad. To read previous parts, go to the label "Shai at the checkpoint - novel in progress".

Again, this is still only raw writing, and I'm just playing around with some new characters, experimenting to see where they lead me to.

It’s him! From the chat! La hawl wala quwata… what a small world. Ya’ani…

She panics, glances at her father in the driver seat, shifts in her chair, adjusting her head cover. Narjis felt her cheeks redden and something lightly tickling her inner thighs as she remembered the video chat with this Zuzu. Zuheir Zidan, Zahi, Zeid, Zakariya, Ziyad, Zaki. She let the names roam in her mind while she shifted in her chair again. She felt her cheeks now like two burning balls set on fire as their car moved forward. Closer to him. No, he can’t recognize me. Not with the hijab. He was standing at the side of the dirt road, sipping steaming shai from a tin cup, eyes glazed over, fixed on some point in mid-distance. Their car came to a stop right beside him. Narjis couldn’t face the temptation and she looked straight at him, studying his now-clothed body. In her mind, she saw his tight abdomen with its curly black hairs. Then further down. As she played the video back in her mind, the fire in her cheeks spread, moving down, down and into between her legs. It was warm and wet now down there, with a tingle. Narjis knew now she was housing a terrible secret inside her body, which flowered and burnt and made her whole body turn into embers.

Omar sipped his shai as he listened to Um Maysara telling him about this young girl, Maria. From Haifa, too. Maybe he knew her? He’d been with many girls her age, but couldn’t remember all their names. Now what is that one with the hijab staring at?! When their eyes met, he thought he recognized something familiar in them. Huge, round eyes like the eyes of a reem. Thick, long eyelashes and a very thin line of kohol. He’d seen these eyes somewhere. Only recently. With all the women he’s been with in the past year, he couldn’t put a name to the eyes. She held his gaze, her eyes frozen. When she saw recognition on his face, she withdrew from the window, plastering her back to the vinyl of the seat, looking away.

When they reached the checkpoint, it was the usual. Ahmad, her father, a hajj, was always suspect. They had to get out of the car and let the soldiers to a thorough search. Ahmad’s wife, Hiyam, would joke and say that he could be a model for a terrorist commercial. Ahmad was a big man with strong arms. Before becoming the Imam of their small village Salem, he had been an arms trader. As such, and since he dealt with the Triangle’s under-world, he took great care of his body. He ran ten kilometers every day –  religiously. Even during Ramadan. He lifted weights every other day. Twice a week, he did fifty four laps in Um El-Fahem swimming pool. Then, one early morning during the last days of Ramadan six years ago, he turned away from his life. One small praying mat and one single prayer – it’s all it took.  

Suhad at the checkpoint

still exploring my new characters. only raw writing for now. no criticism at this stage please. If you wish to comment, I'd rather want to know how the text made you FEEL. Not your opinion or intellectualization, only how it made you FEEL. EMOTIONS.

There you are again. With that self-centered, self-assured walk. Like the world belongs to you. That jumpiness when you walk tells it all. The way you carry the kanun – bare, without a cover to protect it. But I can tell you have great respect for it, though you try to be casual about it. Again, you’re unshaven today. The same jeans, with that imprint of a thick wallet on the left back pocket. And you’re always either rolling a cigarette or smoking one. You must smell like an ashtray. But I see you take care of your body. In that white tank top o can clearly see the well-defined muscles of your dark shoulders and arms. Full of contradictions, aren’t you?

Oh yes, I see the way you look at me, like a hungry animal lurking for prey. And I don’t like it. you want to devour me in one piece.

At the same time, you probably think I’m too much of an intellectual for you. Or too proud to even talk to someone like you. Or too sophisticated with my leather briefcase.

Mother always told me I need to marry someone who would challenge me intellectually and let me grow. And I listened to her. Married a real intellectual. Dr. of Political Science, no less. Head of the department. And oh did he challenge me. Heated discussions into the night about the nature of the nation-state, the political identity of a people, what defines a nation, why democracy has failed, and what not.

I don’t deny it, they were indeed very challenging discussions. Intriguing even. I learned from him, and he even enriched my thought. Often, I found his ideas spilling into the lectures I was preparing, reflected in a different way in class discussions with my students.

Sometimes I miss these talks of ours. He was a good friend. A close one, even. There was mutual respect between us. We cared for each other deeply. When my migraines would completely disable me for several days, he always made sure the blinds were drawn all day long, and even kept my father away with his loud chatter. He made me shai three times a day and brought me my favorite fruit in the summer – khokh abu wabar.

Yes, we lived like good friends. We shared household chores, spent relaxed evenings in the garden reading through each other’s notes for the upcoming lectures, giving feedback and constructive comments.

I could tell from the way he was settling comfortably into this life that he was happy. Content that he reached his destination – the final end point.

But not me. I wanted more. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I weren’t selfish for wanting more than that for myself – for us.

But still, I wanted more. Oh yes, much more. My insides were burning, my throat dry, thirsty. I was yearning for something greater. But I didn’t know yet what it was I was in search of.

I wanted the ground to be swept from underneath me. I wanted to experience something so intense it would leave me filled with so much energy enough to set me on fire. Leave an eternal mark on me like a hot iron sizzling on the skin.

I wanted to be set on fire and burn like the phoenix. To die an intense death and be reborn all fresh and new all over.

I thought at first there must be something wrong with me for wanting this fire intensity.

But there was something in me craving to experience the utter opposite of intellectuality. Raw, unhinged savageness.

At that time, I was immersed in teaching a course on the erotic works of D. H. Lawrence.

to be continued...

Shai at the Checkpoint - what is it about her

Don’t know your name yet, but it doesn’t matter. We’re not close friends yet. Your name will reveal itself to me in due time.

You’re a vague image. Tall, lean, nicely built. But you carry your body bent forward in an arch, like a stooped tree. Maybe it’s because you’re so tall, and you try to diminish your appearance. But don’t you know it has the opposite effect?

You’re wearing faded jeans. Too long for your legs. They’re fraying at the bottom. The back pocket has an imprint of your wallet on it, and a small hole in the bottom left corner.

You have a jumpy walk. It’s the left foot that kind of skips and bounces – first the toes, then the heel touching the ground. The right foot drags behind, surrendering to the beat.

It’s a walk you’ve mastered – maybe unconsciously – during the years of making music. It’s that complete detachment of the left foot from the rest of your body when music is played.

Yes, you’re edgy when you know you will move from one world to another. In this world, you’re doped on hasheesh more hours than there are in a day.

Your bed is occupied by two women on alternate days. And then there are those who find their way into your bed after a performance and are gone the next morning, never to be seen again. Shamed.

But the one your soul yearns for is unattainable for you. Out of reach. Not from your social standing. A real intellectual. It’s not her beauty that draws you to her. There’s nothing unique about that. The usual stuff – dark olive skin, dark brown eyes, hair black as the night. In nice long and think curls down her back. No. it’s something else you can’t describe in any essential way.

It’s in the way she sits on the ground, like she becomes part of the earth. It’s in the way she sips her shai – as if it were the single most important task in front of her. It’s in the way she cocks her head to the left when Um Maysara speaks. It’s in her smile – her body takes on a different form when a smile touches her lips. It’s in the way she smoothes away the curls blown by the naseem into her face. It’s in the way she holds her body relaxed when faced with armed kids at the checkpoint. It’s in the way she walks into that other world – full of confidence and freshness.

And it’s in the way she acknowledges your presence with the softest of smiles and a barely visible nod of the head. And with that smile, you cringe and almost stumble backwards. You, with your bouncy left foot full of self-confidence, lose it all.

Now can you put in words what it is about her that draws you like a mad animal that just smelled the fresh blood of prey?

Shai at the Checkpoint - Um Maysara

I wake up just before dawn breaks over the hills to pray. After so many years, it has become part of me. My body betrays me and I find myself dozing off after the prayer for a few moments. Then I collect my wrinkled body and start the day – slowly so that I don’t forget anything. The cloth bag – as I walk through the deserted streets – feels heavy on my back, pulling my body down to the ancient ground. My footsteps barely make a sound, but the contents of the bag jingle with a life of their own. The portable gas, the old brass tea-kettle, the tin box of tea-leaves and, most importantly, the fresh na’ana leaves Salwa makes sure I have. I head towards the hills, leaving the camp abandoned behind me.

The checkpoint is on the main road leading to the camp. It takes me about half an hour to get there, sometimes more, sometimes less – depending on how cooperative my legs are. I always get there before the soldiers. I can’t give them the pleasure of arriving before me and claiming this land as their own. No. I am a reminder to them – every morning – that I was here before them and I am part of this land.

***

Abu Hasan is approaching the checkpoint with slow, tired strides. His body is bent on itself, as if trying to make himself less noticeable. Abu Hasan is a big man. Before the second Intifada, he used to work in Haifa in construction. I know this because he was one of the men that my Maysara used to work with. They made a good team together. Maysara, young, full of energy and strong, and Abu Hasan, with a solemn face that made it clear he knew his profession. But now it is almost impossible to get work permits. He walks past me, his eyes empty – his Assalamu Alaikum is empty of warmth, an absent-minded greeting said to a stranger. Yasmin told me they live on charity nowadays. Abu Hasan is too proud to go stand in line and wait for the rice and flour to be handed out, so he sends his young daughter. He has four sons and three daughters, all sharing a two-room crumpled old apartment. “Wa’alaiukum E’salam,” he turns his head towards me, a glimpse of recognition passes through his face, but only for a moment. I’m not sure, but I think I see an echo of a smile brushing his lips. He reaches the checkpoint and stands at the end of a long line to wait his turn.

The shai is getting cold. I get up, stretch my old body towards Allah, and dump the remaining shai into the bushes on the side of the road. I make a fresh pot of shai with na’ana and settle on my rug, waiting. I look towards the checkpoint. The line isn’t getting any shorter. It never does. Mostly I see men, young and strong, some older. There are also women, young, most veiled. There is no work at the camp, so beyond the border is their only chance. We don’t want to live on charity. We want to live dignified lives. We want to give our children hope of something better. That’s why Abu Hasan is here today. He has been crushed and reduced to less than human when he couldn’t work beyond the border anymore. But things are changing now. At first, only a few men were able to get temporary work permits. At first there were rumors that they are collaborators. But then more permits came through. This was about six months ago, and since then, most of the men from the camp have tried to get work permits. But it’s not easy to get one. Maysara came home the first day with his head down, humiliated. He was denied a work permit because our family name is the same as that young man’s who blew himself up on the bus in Haifa some years back, killing more than ten people. But he didn’t give up. Ever since then, he’s been running around from one authority to the next, filing all sorts of paperwork, his file getting buried with thousands of other applications. He’s still waiting, hoping that maybe, one day soon.

I sell three cups of shai before I see Abu Hasan emerging from the small building next to the checkpoint and heading back, his body even more crumpled than before. This time he stops at my stall, hands in his pockets. “I don’t have any money on me, hajji, but if you would be so kind as to give a tired man a drink of shai, Allah will reward you, and I will send my daughter tomorrow with some fresh na’ana for you.”

“Abu Hasan, do you not recognize your neighbor? I used to pack you bread and za’atar for lunch and send it with my Maysara when you worked together.”

“Ya a’mmi, Um Maysara! Allah be blessed to have put you in my path this morning. Alhamdulillah for kind people like you.”

He sat next to me and sipped his shai while I told him about Maysara and Yasmin, the other children and the grandchildren. He told me about his own family, and how difficult it was these days to get cooking gas, and how his wife has been trying to set up a small family business at home, sewing clothes. But even thread was difficult to obtain these days. Not being able to stand it any longer that his family lives off charity, he decided to try his luck at the checkpoint. Although he is no longer young, his body is still strong and he has years of experience in overseeing construction teams, identifying problems and coming up with creative solutions. “The soldier sent me to the general. I don’t know why he chose me over all the other men standing there in line.”