5
After that tense episode, which overshadowed our lives for some time, Basim tried to deal with his situation with greater flexibility. He tried in various ways to kill the enforced unemployment that the Israeli Ministry of the Interior had imposed on him. He occupied himself by preparing economic and sociological reports and studies, which he thought both useful and important, and which also provided us with some additional income. I encouraged him in that; I liked his work, and I thought it might persuade him to stay in the country and give up the idea of emigrating.
I much admired the study he had completed about family violence and the murder of women in the Lydda, Ramla, and Jaffa areas, even though I was frightened by the stories he discussed, which he had collected from houses that had purged their dishonor through crimes that were even more dishonorable. I’d told him that the Jews called the Jawarish quarter ‘the Arabs’ honor laundry,’ but I just couldn’t believe that a family from Ramla could kill thirteen of its young women in less than ten years. But I came to believe it when it was confirmed by the documents that Basim had assembled, and the testimony of dozens of men accused of these crimes, and even some female victims who had managed to escape the fates of the others. I started to fear for any Palestinian girl who I happened to meet on the road in the company of a boy. I started to dread the poor girl turning into a ‘scandal’ that they would need to cleanse their honor of. With the increase in the number of honor killings, and the inability of Basim’s research to keep pace with the number of victims, I channeled my fears into my novel. I was afraid that my characters might join the nearest national honor laundry.
My lip pen slipped between my fingers, and a red line appeared in the mirror along my lower lip, twisting onto my left cheek. I wiped it with a tissue.
I gathered my thoughts and examined my reactions to the honor laundries scattered throughout the country. I finished my make-up, put my make-up implements back in my little handbag, and then slung it over my left shoulder, as usual.
I put my right hand, which was trembling, on the door handle, but I was pulled up short by a question that had been bothering me since the previous night, and decided to ask it so that it wouldn’t nag me for the whole day.
I turned toward Basim. My hand was still on the door handle. I was waiting for it to stop shaking so that I could turn the handle. Basim noticed me. He put the screwdriver on the table in front of him, and pushed away the fan that he was busy repairing. But I didn’t have the courage to put the question to him. Instead, to hide my confusion about myself and the characters in my novel, I asked, “Do you want anything from outside, Basim?”
He gave me a look of surprise, clearly having expected a different question.
“I want you to find out for me what’s happened in the Ministry of the Interior.”
“Oh yes,” I said, “it’s good you’ve reminded me. I’ve got an appointment with Ayala in two days’ time.”
I turned the door handle with a hand that was still shaking, opened the door, and went out.
6
Jinin arrived at the Misrad Hapnim (Israeli Ministry of the Interior) building in Tel Aviv, located at 125 Menachem Begin Street, at around nine in the morning. It had taken her more than twenty-five minutes, eight minutes more than she had expected, because of the heavy traffic. A number of Africans—most of them Sudanese—who were seeking asylum, or trying to renew work permits, were scattered over the steps of the building, which rose far higher than their hopes of staying in the country. These people usually arrived at the Ministry of the Interior at dawn to secure places for themselves among the waiting crowd outside, whose numbers continued to grow until the Ministry started work on security reviews and renewing residence and work permits. Between sixty and seventy temporary work permits were renewed each day, valid for just three months and capable of being canceled at any time with no reason being given.
Jinin put her foot on the first step. An officer in his twenties emerged from the building, his kippah clinging to the back of his head with difficulty. He was carrying a sheaf of documents like someone carrying a worry. He turned to one side, and a large section of the people scattered on the steps hurriedly gathered around him. He stopped at the bottom, and fiddled with the documents in his hands. A thin young man emerged from the crowd and stood behind the officer, his right hand clinging to the iron rail behind the space reserved for motorcycles, while he tried desperately to identify his own document among those the officer was flicking through. There was a general sense of expectation, like the announcement of secondary school examination results. Suddenly, the young man turned toward Jinin. He watched her approaching for some seconds, then greeted her with a wave of his free hand. She grinned at him encouragingly. This was Mawalu, a young man from South Sudan who had worked with his wife Tara for a short period as cleaners in the Harmony Cooperative (Ha-Havanah) where Jinin worked. She wished him success in his mission without speaking to him.
Jinin continued climbing the few steps in front of the building. She registered some of the reactions of those hovering
