“The Palestinians lost Abul Abd once, but Jerusalem lost him twice,” I said. “Abul Abd was the crown on the head of the city. From the day of his death, Jerusalem has either been headless or sometimes had a hundred heads.”
Salman prayed for Abul Abd, and the rest of us prayed with him: “May God have mercy on his soul!”
Salman’s car moved on, turning right and following the road. After driving a short distance, Salman said, “We’re near Salah al-Din Street. Let’s get some sesame cake. Everyone who comes to Jerusalem has to sample its cakes.”
I recalled the main commercial market in Jerusalem even before it came into sight, and the famous strike in the street when traders had opened the gates of Jerusalem to the First Intifada, which broke out in December 1987.
Suddenly, Salman stopped at the junction of two streets. He peered to his right, and started to debate with himself: “We’re in Shabbat Square! I’m afraid I’ve got in a right mess. Now where will you go, Salman? Where will you go? This way or that way? We’re in a right mess!”
“What sort of mess?” the other three of us asked.
I turned to where Salman was looking. There was a small blue sign with the name of the quarter written on it in white: Mea Shearim.
“If you’re afraid of the monkey, he’s bound to appear,” I said.
I realized the disaster we’d landed ourselves in. The red traffic light had stopped us at the entrance to the Jewish quarter’s main street, which announced its strict religious code in three languages. Directly above the sign bearing the name of the quarter were two posters in Hebrew and English, their texts lit up by the traffic light. With some difficulty, I read what was written in English on the poster: ‘To women and girls: please do not walk in this suburb in immodest clothes!’
“Is there a problem?” asked Julie.
Salman answered her tensely, in his own broken Arabic. “Of course there’s a problem. Big problem! The problem is that today is Saturday, and if the Orthodox Jews don’t kill us, they’ll at least smash the car. God, I just want the light to change so we can move on before we get into real trouble.”
The light changed to green, but we were still exposed. As another green light appeared in the distance, Salman pursued it with his wishes: “God willing, we’ll be able to get past it before it turns to red and we’re in trouble again!”
But his wishes were apparently in need of renewal and reinforcement, for suddenly, at a distance of no more than fifty meters, two groups of youths appeared, loafing around in defense of their religion. If we stopped, they might surround the car, or they might confront us in the middle of the road and force us to stop. Then they might attack us. The road was completely deserted except for the youths, and the next traffic light—with all the fears that brought—and the light from some faint candles in a few houses that were staying up late for the Sabbath.
Salman quickly drove the car forward, trying to outstrip our fears. We passed between the shouts and curses that the two groups of youths all inevitably hurled at us, and passed the traffic light—which provided a few seconds of safety for us, after which it changed. We passed Mea Shearim, the quarter of the strict Orthodox Jews, who came from Eastern Europe before the Holocaust to form a unique community in the country. I don’t know how we got back to Salah al-Din Street, where we discovered a different world, unconnected to the rituals of the quarter we had just left.
We crossed Salah al-Din Street to Sultan Suleiman Street. Salman stopped the car opposite a bakery. There were several carts in front of it, and the voices of the sellers drew pedestrians along the street to where they could satisfy their appetites. We opened the windows and breathed in the distinctive Arab smell of cakes.
“Stay in the car,” Salman told us. He got out and walked toward the market, pursued by our expectations. After a little while, he came back with some cakes. The three of us smiled at their smell, and our breasts filled with desire.
We all ate a portion of the famous Jerusalem confectionary, and then went back to the Ramada Renaissance Hotel, the smell of the cakes wafting from us—a smell foreign to the hotel where our rooms were, and to the area where we were staying.
4
Haifa
“Do you like Haifa?” Umm Jamil, Jamil’s mother, asked me. “They say that any Palestinian who visits Haifa loses his mind and comes away mad.” The expression on her face as she said it was one of anticipation.
Jamil’s car took us up Mount Carmel from al-Jabal Street (which had become Zionut Avenue), and on to Wadi al-Nisnas, where the House of the Vine (Beit Hagefen) cultural center was situated, which still smelled of Emil Habibi and the al-Ittihad newspaper that we loved.
I remembered The Remainer in Jinin’s novel, and his ‘comradely’ arguments in the offices of the Communist Party (Rakah) newspaper. I also remembered how Emil Habibi had abandoned his atheism and had asked God’s forgiveness for that late morning when The Remainer had come into his office, and for every morning or evening that the two comrades had met before or would
