It wasn’t yet eight-thirty in the morning when the buses stopped with us; they lined up beside each other and we got off. The young men in charge said, “The road is here, follow us.” We went behind them on a climbing dirt road. “There’s Palestine!” shouted a woman who was a little ahead of me. Two steps later I saw what she had seen, the land spreading out beneath us, red in color, with houses like blocks scattered at a little distance from the barbed wire. They looked more like pre-fabricated chalets in tourist resorts, painted white with blue wooden shutters at the windows. Was it a settlement or only a military post? On the other side of the barbed wire were a number of Israeli conscripts, arms on their shoulders and iron helmets on their heads.
One of the young men said, “Rest a little, they will come.”
“Who will come?”
“Our relatives from inside. Also we’ll be joined by some buses coming from Tyre.”
After less than half an hour seven other buses arrived from Tyre. We saw them line up and the passengers get off, carrying signs and flags. In the flash of an eye it was as if the barbed wire had disappeared from view, covered by the bodies of the residents on both sides. They were greeting each other, shyly at first, and then speaking easily. People were meeting each other:
“We are from Haifa …”
“We came from Ain al-Helwa; originally we’re from Saffurya. From al-Zeeb. From Amqa. From Safsaf. From al-Tira. From …”
“We’re from Umm al-Fahm …”
“We came from the Mieh Mieh Camp …”
“We’re from Shafa Amr …”
“We came from the Rashidiya Camp …”
“We’re from Acre …”
“We came from the Burj al-Shamali Camp …”
“We’re from Arraba …”
“We came from al-Bass Camp …”
“We’re from Nazareth …”
“We came from Sidon …”
“We’re from al-Bi‘na …”
“We came from Tyre …”
“We’re from Jaffa …”
“We came from Jezzin …”
“We’re from Sekhnin …”
“We came from Ghaziya …”
“We’re from Lid …”
“We’re from Deir al-Qasi …”
“We came from al-Bazuriya …”
“We’re from al-Jdayda. We’re from al-Rama. We’re from …”
“And the lady is …?”
“From Tantoura.”
A young man shouted at the top of his voice: “Here’s a lady from Tantoura. Is there anyone from Tantoura?”
A girl of maybe ten jumped up. She slipped through the rows and climbed on a rock, and extended her hand to me across the barbed wire: “I’m from Tantoura.”
“Do you live there?”
“No, it’s not permitted, I live with my family in al-Furaydis. My name is Maryam. When they occupied our town my grandfather was five years old. They fled to Lebanon and then sneaked back. Don’t move from this spot, I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared, and I stood waiting. The women were exchanging what they had brought. Stupid Ruqayya, the women of the camp were smarter and had more imagination; they wanted to feed their relatives on the other side with something they had prepared with their own hands. On the other side a woman was laughing and saying, “I’m from Umm al-Fahm, I made you musakhan.”
“We’re from Ain Ghazal.”
I looked up at the woman standing near me. I said to her, “Ain Ghazal is on our town’s line. They would walk to it, on foot. I’m from Tantoura.” I laughed. “A young man from Ain Ghazal asked for me before they threw us out of the town. We came to Lebanon and each of us went his own way.”
The woman said, “From what family?”
I told her. I added, “His name was Yahya, and his uncle was the sheikh of the village.”
She said “Dr. Yahya?”
“He became a doctor?”
“No, he became a university professor. He lives in Amman. He was late in getting married, then he married his cousin, not the daughter of the sheikh of Ain Ghazal but the daughter of his other uncle, the younger one. He had five children with her.”
The girl came back with her grandfather. He introduced himself to me, and greeted me, saying, “Welcome, welcome to …”
I stammered; I said, “Umm Sadiq.”
Where did all these balloons come from? In the blink of an eye hundreds of balloons were rising, here and there. They were flying from here to there. “Palestine” was written on some of them, and on some were written the names of towns and villages. The flag was drawn on some in color, and some were sets of four balloons whose strings were tied together so they flew together, each in one of the colors of the flag: black, white, green, and red. A woman with more imagination than anyone else had brought a cage of doves; she released them and the doves flew off. The sky above us was flocks of doves and a holiday of colored balloons. I went down to one side and sat on a rock; is joy exhausting? Is it joy or something deeper, coming from afar? I hear Hasan’s voice. Strange, why does my imagination take me to Hasan rather than to the rest of the children? Why don’t I hear Sadiq’s voice, or Abed’s, or Maryam’s? Why hasn’t my imagination brought me Uncle Abu Amin, or his son Amin? I hear the voice again, and jump from my place. It’s not my imagination, this is Hasan’s voice! I run to the barbed wire and call out at the top of my lungs. Have you lost your mind, Ruqayya, have you completely lost your mind?
What a surprise, what a surprise! Hasan was standing on the other side of the wire, waving and smiling and coming closer, making his way through the crowd. “I’m here, Mother, here, here.” He walks toward me, and I walk toward him; we’re face to face, on either side of the wire. I extend my hand and he extends his, and the hands grasp. He bends down and sticks his head through the wire, to kiss me. I say, “Hasan, oh Hasan, the wire will injure you, it will injure your face.” He doesn’t listen to me, he propels his whole body until he can reach me and put his arms around me, clinging to me. “When did you arrive from Canada, you didn’t tell me?” He laughs and points. I become aware that Fatima is with him, and the children. Mira and Anis are standing next to their mother, and she is carrying the baby she had four months earlier. Hasan takes her from Fatima and lifts her high. A tall man extends his arms and takes her from him. He looks at the little one: “How beautiful, God protect her.” He plants a kiss on her forehead and gives her to me. “Little Ruqayya,” says Hasan, in a loud voice. What will I give Ruqayya? I give the baby to a woman standing next to me, and put my hand to my chest, intending to give her the silver piece that bears her name, made by Abed’s Kurdish friend. I touch the silver and feel it, and then I touch the key. I lift the cord from around my neck, and put it around the little one’s neck. I kiss her forehead, and give her to the tall man to give her back to Hasan across the wire, so her mother can take her from him. I say in a loud voice, “The key to our house, Hasan. It’s my gift to little Ruqayya.”
I see Hasan’s tears, and I hear the woman next to me trill for joy.
The buses move off, taking us back. The disc of the sun is gradually falling into the sea, which we smell though it’s hidden from view. Silence enfolds us; I think, the holiday is over, in the blink of an eye. Everyone is going back to where he came from. Strange! It’s as if we were returning from a long trip. The silence is broken by a strong voice, belonging to a young man sitting on the left, in front, and singing a song of Fairuz: