Jinin stressed to me in her email that Zakariya, unlike many other migrants, refugees, and exiles, liked his choice a lot. He had never regretted the fifteen years he had so far spent in Montreal. He had never struck his cheeks, cursed his black times, or complained about his exile. Instead, he had hastened to build a new life for himself and for the members of his family.
Zakariya and his family had learned French, and with the money he had saved from his long years of working in Kuwait, he had opened a restaurant serving Palestinian food, which he called ‘la cuisine palestinienne’. With the help and expertise of his Palestinian wife, he’d brought to Montreal maqluba from Gaza, West Bank musakhkhan, Bedouin mansaf, and Palestinian maftul. For his speciality dish, the ‘Zikodish’, he singled out warm Montreal evenings. This was a dish of fish and rice, to which was added some seafood, in what some of his customers regarded as a sort of ‘Palestinian paella’, by analogy with its Spanish counterpart.
Abu Khalid, as he liked to be called, was content with his delicious meals and resisted the temptation to sell hummus and falafel, leaving that to his Palestinian neighbor, Saeed Darawisha. Saeed had come to Canada as a refugee from the Burj al-Barajneh refugee camp in Lebanon. For several years, Saeed’s dishes graced Montreal’s mornings, while Zakariya’s dishes enlivened its evenings, adorning its late-night parties every weekend.
Although Zakariya had abandoned the profession and practice of teaching, which was no longer of the same value in a city like Montreal as it was back home, he set aside two hours every week with his wife to give free Arabic lessons to people in the local Arab community, in a large room on the second floor above the restaurant, with a separate outside entrance.
On the evening of the wedding party, Jinin introduced me to Zakariya and his wife. I shook hands with the man, with an inexplicable feeling of familiarity. Perhaps it was the warmth and curiosity of that first meeting. Perhaps it was the tie of kinship, which—despite whatever social changes and distance had done to it—still retained its power to bring us together and give warmth to our meeting. Or perhaps it was Jinin’s email and the way she had spoken of his life.
I looked at Zakariya for a time, trying to read the details of Jinin’s message in him, trying to place him among her various words and expressions: tall, on the edge of being plump, skin the color of wheat, pleasing features that paved the way for anyone meeting him for the first time to penetrate his world freely and easily. Then I shook hands with his wife, who was at least ten years younger than him (or so I thought), with features that confirmed the wise choice Zakariya had made. I showed particular pleasure in being introduced to the mother of the bride, for whom the world would not be big enough this evening, during which she would turn into the bridegroom’s mother-in-law. Then I shook hands with Husam, Zakariya’s son, the father’s hand resting on the son’s left shoulder as he introduced him to me. “Husam’s started university this year,” he said, “and compensated me for everything that’s gone before. Husam is the man of the house, ustaz Walid, and my right arm!”
Before I could enquire what he meant, or ask about his son Khalid—whom he hadn’t mentioned in front of me, and who was strangely absent on a night like this—Zakariya quickly started to tell me about the happy couple, his daughter Lara and Dr. Salama al-Farra. He announced, with a pride bigger than the wedding palace we were standing in, that they would spend their honeymoon on one of the Caribbean islands, then fly to Dubai to settle in Salama’s work place. Then he moved his hand from Husam’s shoulder to mine. I thought he was going to reveal something, and watched his next movements carefully: he sighed a little; he smiled nervously, like someone washing away an old care inside him with the happiness of this unforgettable evening. “I wish we could have gotten to know each other before now, ustaz Walid,” he said. “I would have introduced you to . . . .”
Jinin quickly moved to drown out what Zakariya was about to say with a decisive interruption. “The couple have arrived, Abu Khalid, they’ve arrived!”
Her hastily contrived eloquence drew everyone’s eyes to the hall entrance. A storm of happiness and cheers broke out at that moment, as the beating of drums assailed our ears. Zakariya withdrew his hand from my shoulder, excusing himself. He took hold of his wife’s hand, and together they made their way through the guests toward the entrance to the hall, followed by Husam. There, the three of them disappeared into a crowd of women, who were practicing their wedding songs. I watched joy spread over the other guests’ faces.
I felt Jinin slip her right arm under my left arm. I liked that, for it gave me the warm feeling that I needed. She stopped a waiter, took a glass of red wine from the silver tray he was carrying, and passed it to me with an encouraging smile. I took it from her hand, and she took another glass.
“Excuse me, cousin,” she said, pulling me into a nearby corner. “I had to interrupt Abu Khalid so that
