LITMIR.BIZ

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small place. The place had just one gate from which you could come and go, and the gate would only open for half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the evening. But to leave the place, you had to have a special magic card. Now this girl lost her card … then she found a secret passageway …”

      The girls fall asleep midway into the story, and Shahd motions Maisoon to follow her outside. “I want to show you something very special.”

      They walk through the dark, narrow alleyways. Small clusters of young men stand in doorways and on corners talking and laughing. Older men play shesh besh and smoke nargila. Here and there veiled women stand in twos and threes, talking in hushed voices. They pass a man in his sixties, sitting in the doorway of one of the haphazardly built two-storey houses. Even in the dark Maisoon can tell there is something wrong with him; his eyes follow her with an unsettling hollowness. Shahd tells her that Abu Fayyad lost his mind after his son exploded himself on a bus in Haifa back in 2003. Maisoon shivers and crosses her arms.

      Near the edge of the camp, music streams toward them from a compound made up of three buildings. Small lights—red, green, white—run their length, creating a feeling of celebration. Patches of colours—paintings done in children’s strokes, butterflies, flowers, animals—decorate one wall, while another reflects political resistance art—mainly Handalas, hands tearing at a wall, symbols of freedom. Across one wall, Maisoon can read in beautiful Arabic calligraphy Dar El Amal. House of Hope.

      “This way,” Shahd takes Maisoon by the arm, leading her to one of the buildings.

      Inside, they are greeted by a young man busily sweeping the floors. “Salam, Shahd. Oh! We have a visitor?”

      “Masa’a el-kheir Qais. This is Maisoon, from Haifa. She’s stuck here for the night.” Shahd winks at Qais, who smiles back at her. “I don’t know why they keep you, Qais. Really, I’ve never seen such a sloppy cleaning job.” She quickly ducks to avoid the broom.

      Maisoon watches them and wonders if Qais’s smile is more than brotherly warmth.

      They walk through a corridor with colourful drawings tacked to the walls, passing closed doors. The compound has three examination rooms in all, a spacious reception room, and two offices for the doctors. After the clinic, they go inside the second building—the kindergarten. Shahd tells her that it only opened a few months ago, and they are still getting organized. The third building will serve as an open house, with a big hall and several large rooms. They are setting up a library and a computer lab, and are planning an art room. The hall serves as a place for the teenagers to spend time together instead of roaming the streets.

      Later as they are lying in bed, Maisoon asks about Qais.

      “His family is rich. One of the richest in the Triangle,” Shahd rolls over to face Maisoon. “The whole family went to England in the 1980s. Qais told me that his father didn’t want the children to grow up as second-class citizens. Even though they had a comfortable life in exile, they wanted their children to remain connected to the motherland. So Qais spent every summer here. He fell in love with Palestine and when he was still in medical school, the idea of a clinic began to form in his mind.” Ina’am mumbles something in her sleep; Shahd waits a moment before continuing in a whisper. “His father told him to speak to the sheikh of their community in exile. They raised enough money to open a clinic. Salaries and accommodation weren’t an issue, as a number of young Palestinian doctors and medical students were interested in internships, and local families offered up their crammed living spaces to host them.

      “The clinic has been open for almost a year now. And I’m pretty sure Qais is there from seven in the morning until after ten at night, six days a week. He has a diwan in his office and tries to catch some sleep when he can but I don’t think that’s too often. He’s so bright … and his heart belongs here.” Shahd whispered into the darkness. “That’s where I work. Qais knows I want to become a daktora.”

      Ziyad was cooking a shakshooka in Maisoon’s apartment when she came home the following afternoon. “You didn’t come home last night,” he said without looking up from the pan.

      “And you stayed in my apartment,” she walked toward him and hugged him, resting her head on his back. His body was stiff. He turned around and held her tight in his arms. Too tight …

      “Go and take a shower, Maisoon. I’ll make us some shai, we need to talk.”

      As Maisoon rubbed the loofah over her body, any desire to share her experience of Tal E-Zeitun with Ziyad was scrubbed away.

      “You can’t act like this, disappearing for two days. Without letting me know you won’t be coming home, turning your phone off. And with my car, too!”

      They were sitting on separate diwans, Maisoon’s toes reaching Ziyad’s thighs. He was massaging her feet using too much pressure. She closed her eyes. It was a one-way monologue. So she settled for replying to him in her mind. You don’t own me, you don’t own me, you don’t own me. I can turn off my phone and disappear for two days. Tayyeb, maybe not with your car, but I can do what I like. You don’t own me, Ziyad.

3

       When she woke up, daylight was slithering away from the souk, making space for the lazy hue of the evening. Ziyad was gone. She reached to feel the spot where he had been sitting; it was still warm.

      She quickly ran down the stairs to catch Abu Nidal’s last finjan of kahwa, still wearing her gallabiyya, having to hold it up so she wouldn’t stumble. She heard some children laughing from one of the balkons.

      “Look, look, like what old men wear in film Misri! Walla!”

      An involuntary laugh escaped her; she stopped, looked up and did some dabka steps for the kids. They jumped up and down, delighted with their reward. Majnouny all the way.

      Back in her apartment, she settled on the diwan with her sketchbook. Need something exquisite here for the Yahudiyya, the Jewish woman. She went through her most recent sketches, the ones inspired by traditional Palestinian dresses. No, she’d probably want something abstract and modern. Not anything that would remind her of a history she’d rather delete.

      She had practically stumbled upon Giveret Amalia a couple of weeks before in Hadar, when she was on her way to meet Ziyad. She was texting him and bumped into the elderly lady. The lady looked at her in scorn and mumbled something under her breath. Maisoon apologized and was about to walk off when the lady caught her arm a bit too forcefully.

      “Wait,” she said, her face softening just a fraction. “Where did you get that necklace?”

      Maisoon’s hand went up to her neck, she felt the cool stone on her fingers. “I made it, I’m a jewellery designer.”

      The lady studied Maisoon’s dark face, connecting it to her accent. She thought for a moment, then took out a card from her shoulder bag. “Here, call me at this number tomorrow morning at 9.30.” She turned around and walked away, leaving Maisoon standing there with the card in her hand, people swishing around her. Amalia’s Jewellery.

      On the phone the following day, Amalia skipped small-talk and asked Maisoon to bring some sample pieces of her work to her boutique. She didn’t go into any details about business; once they’d arranged a time she hung up. Maisoon was thankful that she’d been smart enough to schedule their meeting for the following Friday, which gave her just enough time to put together a sample that was representative of her work without compromising her style.

      She leafed through the sketchbook but couldn’t focus. The images were moving around on the pages. The rings looked like snails and the bracelets took the form of knotted olive tree trunks. She moved to her worktable, pushing everything into a heap on the side—Ziyad

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