The Blue Between Sky and Water (20 page)
The day arrived months later when she crossed the Egypt-Rafah border for the first time. Jamal was there, waiting for her at the border in Gaza. He had trimmed his hair and somehow looked tidier here than he had at the fund-raiser in the United States.
“Welcome, Nur. Gaza is brigher with your presence,” he said, taking her luggage.
“It’s great to see you and be here.”
“You’re not still debating whether or not to call me Jamal, are you?” he smiled, and they laughed together.
“You look different,” she remarked.
“Ah. Well, yes. My wife doesn’t tolerate my tendency for shabbiness. When you saw me, I had been on my own for a month while my wife was in Canada visiting her family.”
The word
wife
stepped gently into the space that Nur had made from words and letters and longings.
Along with Nzinga and her family, Nur’s tío Santiago attended her college commencement. He had grown older than his years; his skin had paled without sun and his teeth had become tanned by the heroin that paved his arms. He had sold his guitar but had found a discarded harmonica to put to the music inside him. On that day of Nur’s graduation, he played for her with impossible tenderness, wounded beyond healing. And months later, when she received that harmonica in the mail along with a letter telling of his passing, her memory created an image of him fading gently into the melancholy of that song he had played for her graduation.
Jamal’s Office was a small room with bare walls of chipping green paint, a metal ceiling fan, and a cracked window. Piles of disorderly papers and files cluttered the floor, and several dirty coffee and tea cups sat on his desk. He looked absentmindedly through a file. “I think I e-mailed you everything I have. Like I said, I met him twice. His family brought him back a second time after I had told them there was nothing I could do.” He shook his head. “People still find the will to hope for miracles in this damned place.”
Lines of a poem in the rifts of memory came quietly to Nur.
Hope is not a topic,
It’s not a theory.
It’s a talent
.
Nur leafed through the file. It indicated there was nothing physically wrong with Khaled to explain his coma-like condition. “Does this say he has a family history of schizophrenia?” Nur was pointing to a note partially in English.
“Looks like his great-grandmother spoke with the djinn. In these parts, that usually means schizophrenia,” he said, and a singular name rose from her depths, making its way to Nur’s consciousness.
“This is going to sound strange, but is the grandmother’s name Sulayman?” she asked.
“Even without knowing the woman’s first name, I can tell you it’s not Sulayman because that’s a male name.”
Jamal’s car stopped in a narrow alley bordered by tall gray concrete walls that bore graffiti and posters of martyrs, their severe, youthful faces looking out from the shitty grandeur of premature graves. Little girls, one with a baby hoisted on her hip, played hopscotch nearby, smaller children watching them, while little boys enacted scenes of soldiers arresting Palestinians in pretend play using sticks for machine guns. Nur emerged from the car, suddenly burdened by the magnitude of her task and the nagging sense of inadequacy that rarely left her.
As if he knew, Jamal said, “There aren’t enough psychologists to handle the need here. So, no matter what, your presence is immensely helpful.” He had a brief exchange with some of the children, who led them enthusiastically through a maze of alleys. Jamal motioned for Nur to follow, adding, “And you never know. You might be the miracle the family is looking for after all.”
The children stopped in front of a pale metal door spray-painted with graffiti that extended onto surrounding anemic concrete walls, livid with mourning and glued-on posters bearing the picture of a fisherman untangling his net by the ocean. His features were not clear, but one could see that he was squinting, and his darkened, rough skin spoke of an intimacy with the sun and sea. “That’s Ammou Abu Khaled,” one of the children said, pointing at the poster. “Khaled is broken and can’t talk anymore.”
The metal door opened and Nur recognized Khaled’s mother from the documentary. She greeted them with effusive welcoming, equal measures of Arab hospitality, hope, and faith that Allah brings good things to those who patiently keep trying and believing. “May Allah bring joy to you as your presence brings me joy now,” the mother said. In her home, she took Nur’s hand, kissing each cheek. “I am Um Khaled,” she said. “My mother, Hajje Nazmiyeh, Um Mazen, is in the kitchen. She will be out shortly.”
Jamal greeted the women, placing his right hand over his heart instead of shaking theirs. He walked over to Khaled, who sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the room, propped up with cushions. His little sister was clutching a stuffed bear, her body curled into her brother, her thumb planted in her mouth, and both were watching a small television, mesmerized by a wordless
Tom and Jerry
cartoon. A small tray of candles by Khaled’s side flickered, melting slowly.
“Say hello, Rhet Shel,” Um Khaled prompted, and the little girl got up to shake Jamal’s hand, then Nur’s.
“Welcome, my son. Welcome, daughter.” The grandmother walked in from the kitchen. She wore a traditional fallahi black thobe, embroidered in fine patterns with the rose, olive, and lemon colors of the land. A delicate black headscarf framed her smile and, together with her immense bosom and wide hips, gave her a quality of maternal generosity. Though her skin was creased and rumpled by age, she didn’t seem much older than her daughter, as if the lines on her face were nooks and crevices where youth had settled.
Hajje Nazmiyeh, who was considerably shorter than Nur, pulled Nur’s face closer with both hands, searched her eyes, then kissed each cheek in greeting with what seemed like disappointment. Then she turned to Rhet Shel. “Habibti, come help me bring out the food.”
“Oh no, Hajje. You shouldn’t have troubled yourself like that,” Jamal said.
Hajje Nazmiyeh looked at him disapprovingly. “You know better than that, son. You come to Hajje Nazmiyeh’s house, you will not leave with an empty stomach. And don’t worry. My son is on his way. You will not be the only man.” She disappeared into the kitchen, helping Rhet Shel bring the rest of the food out.
Alwan, Um Khaled, had taken the day off work in hopes that this new American psychologist named Nur might come with answers to unlock her son and restore him to himself. One of her brothers arrived and they all shared a late breakfast of eggs, potatoes,
za’atar
, olive oil, olives, hummus,
fuul
, pickled vegetables, and warm fresh bread. Though Nur was fluent in Arabic, she found it difficult to follow the rapid Gazan accent, and she did not understand the brief tangent exchange when Alwan questioned her mother’s inspection of Nur’s face. “Did you think it was her?”
“Of course. How many Americans are named Nur?” Hajje Nazmiyeh said. “But our Nur has Mariam’s eyes.”
Alwan hid her annoyance and ended their mumblings in front of the guests. “There are probably thousands there with that name. It’s not the time, Yumma. This is about Khaled.”
Hajje Nazmiyeh was amused that the American Nur could speak Arabic, and while Alwan probed her about her son’s condition, what could be done for him, Hajje Nazmiyeh corrected Nur’s pronounciations of words. Rhet Shel sucked her thumb, staring at Nur with a mixture of delighted curiosity, shyness, and mistrust.
Seeing one of the candles almost spent, Um Khaled turned to Rhet Shel to fetch a new one, explaining to Nur, “I keep candles burning while he is awake. This is how he blinked the first time. I am sure of it. He responded to the candles.” She held her breath with closed eyes, and exhaled slowly. “He is somewhere inside himself.”
Jamal and Alwan’s brother looked away, helpless before this mother’s sorrow. Nur touched her palm to Um Khaled’s clenched hands and Hajje Nazmiyeh hastened to dispel the sadness forming in the room. “Enough of that, daughter. Say
alhamdulillah
and welcome whatever Allah brings into our lives.” She motioned for Rhet Shel to clear the plates with her.
The men stepped out to the local coffeehouse, leaving the women to plan for Nur’s sessions with Khaled. Before leaving, Jamal whispered to Nur in English, “Don’t promise anything you cannot deliver.”
Boys were playing football outside, so Alwan closed the window, smiling hesitantly at Nur. “Can you make my son wake up?”
Nur looked down, searching the floor for words “Um Khaled … ”
“In our home, just us women, call me Alwan. It’s okay. I know Americans use first names,” Alwan interrupted. “I am sure my son is not in a coma.”
“I think you’re right, Alwan, but … ” Nur hesitated when she saw how those few words made the sun shine in this mother’s eyes and spread a smile through her body and into everything in the room. She remembered Jamal’s warning and continued. “I think the best I can do is to try to find a way for him to communicate.”
“May Allah fill your heart with joy like you just did with mine.” Alwan embraced Nur.
Hajje Nazmiyeh had walked back into the room. “I can’t understand a word the American says,” she said to Alwan, then smiled at Nur. “It’s okay, child. You made my killjoy daughter happy and with Allah’s help we will teach you to speak Arabic right.”
“Maybe you can help me,” Nur turned to Rhet Shel, who was hiding in the corner with her stuffed toys.
Rhet Shel smiled for the first time, a shy thing she covered with her stuffed toy. Nur crouched to her eye level and pulled out what looked to be a plastic toy. “I don’t know what it’s called in Arabic, but in English, this is a harmonica,” she said to Rhet Shel, blowing into it.
Rhet Shel didn’t dare reach for it.
“Want to try it?”
Rhet Shel nodded.
“This used to belong to a very special musician. I can’t give it to you to keep. But you can play on it as long as you like,” Nur said. “Do you think you can take care of it for me?”
“Yes!” Rhet Shel promised. “Can I go show my friends?”
“Of course.”
Just then, the boys playing outside scored a goal. The raucous sounds of their elation poured into the room, and Rhet Shel ran outside to witness the fun and share her new music.
Khaled
“Our coffee cups, the birds and green trees with blue shade, and sun leaping from wall toward another wall, like a gazelle, and water in clouds of endless forms spread across whatever ration of sky is left for us, and things whose remembrance is deferred and this morning, strong and luminous—all beckon we are guests of eternity.”
—Mahmoud Darwish
I scored a goal playing football with Wasim and Tawfiq today. I could see Yusra watching from her window. I know it is all in my head. But I could feel the ball bounce off my foot into the net. I felt the embrace of my friends. I felt Yusra’s eyes upon me and my friends’ arms around me.
Wasim came to visit. He stood in my line of vision, then moved his face to where our eyes could not meet. But I saw him long enough to see hair on his face. The span of his shoulders had also widened. Not quite like a man, but not a boy like me. I wondered how much time had passed.
I go to Beit Daras often. Always to the river, where Mariam and I inhabit an endless space of blue. We wrote a song together. Or maybe we remembered it. Inherited it somehow.
O find me
I’ll be in that blue
Between sky and water
Where all time is now
And we are the forever
Flowing like a river
My jiddo Atiyeh comes here, too, and knows Mariam well, though it is strange to see him without Teta Nazmiyeh. There is love in every space here and I struggle to understand reality, because I remember they are not living. How do I tell Mama of this freedom? That there is a Beit Daras in a Palestine without soldiers where we can all go?
For now, we communicate with candles. When I am sitting by the river of Beit Daras with my ancestors and the old villagers, a candle lights up the sky and I know it is Mama calling me home. I always go back for her. I always blink for her. She whispers to me that she knows I can hear her. My teta does, too. Teta Nazmiyeh said, “I know you’re still here, son.” She knows I am inside my body. She sings to me and tells me things in her heart. She tells me stories from Beit Daras, then I live them when I go there. The places and people she tells me about appear when I go back to the river, leaving her alone with my body, which feels more and more foreign to me. A shell of a boy to which I return only to stay with candles my mother makes from the stuff of her heart.
Now, Nur is here and I stay tethered to Mama’s candles longer. She is no more the little girl by the river with me and Mariam, but an American woman with a purpose. She talks to Rhet Shel, telling her stories of a grandfather from Gaza, and when I return to the river, I see it was my great-khalo Mamdouh. He had been with us all along there. Nur does not know she has come home. When Teta pulled her close, Nur was also searching Teta’s face for traces of her jiddo’s stories of a sister whose mismatched eyes Nur had inherited. I want to tell all that I know.
Nur asked me to blink if I could hear and understand her. So I did and Mama declared triumphantly, “I told you so.”
Rhet Shel is Nur’s helper, and when they talk, I hear my little sister’s voice blowing away the anxiety from her small shoulders. Together they are making charts with letters and common words for me.
Nur came every day and stayed longer than she needed to. She thought she was keeping a promise. Doing something good. Helping. She was, of course, but only by coincidence. She came to bathe in the cramped bustle of family and neighbors. She came to watch life up close, to rub her soul raw with the rhythms of our families. The warm mist of our lives condensed on the cold dry surface of Nur and she sopped it all up. That’s why she came, for the dew of family caught on her skin.