Raba'i al-Madhoun - The Lady from Tel Aviv

Now I am still more anxious. When the woman turns to the left and picks up a black telephone, I nearly explode. She dials a number, ‘Tik-tik-tak-tak’ and puts the receiver to her ear. This woman is calling the person who drags people into the interrogation room. She lets it ring for a few seconds, then puts the receiver down, and sits back in her chair.

What’s going on in this woman’s mind? Did she have second thoughts about calling the higher-ups in security, or is she playing with me, enjoying the experience of watching me squirm?

‘Is this your first visit to Israel?’ The question catches me off-guard.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your address in Israel?’

‘I’m going to Gaza.’

‘What?’

Her fingers start to type again. She must be recording everything I am saying. So I add, ‘I haven’t seen my mother in nearly forty years. After that, I might go around and see some old friends.’

‘How long have you lived in Britain?’

‘About eleven years.’

‘You mean one-one?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘I’m a journalist.’

‘Do you have any documents that prove this?’

I reach into my pocket and take out my National Union of Journalists card. She glances at it and hands it back to me. ‘What newspaper do you work for?’

‘ Akhbar al-Arab .’

She smiles, and I start to explain, ‘It’s an—’

‘International paper,’ she interrupts.

‘You know it?’

‘Ha! I’m from the Middle East. I know a lot about the Arab press. Is the name in the passport your actual name?’

‘Since I was born in Asdud in 1948, I’ve only had one name. And my name has had only one owner — me. Walid Ahmad Dahman.’

Then there is the sound of my passport being stamped, and the clicking of my entry card being printed up. Tiktik-tak-tik . My fear dissolves almost completely.

‘Here you go, Mr. Dahman. Have a nice trip.’ She hands me the passport through the little slot, along with my entry card. I thank her and go off to look for my baggage.

As I emerge from Exit Two, a cool breeze wafts over me. My eyes take in a picture-perfect scene of palm trees scattered about the airport entrance. One of the squat palms is so perfect that I have to stop and stare as the air plays with its tresses. The sunlight glimmers through the fronds like a string of pearls across the forehead of a beautiful girl.

I chastise the sun for hiding so shyly behind the palm — did my return surprise her that much? For thirty-eight years I’ve longed to see the sun with its wheat-coloured complexion again. Only in Palestine does the sun take on this hue. To me, only you are the sun.

The sun kisses me and begins to apologize. The warmth of her rays washes off the weariness of travel. The sound of my name comes to me in a whisper, Walid . I turn around to look and see only my shadow reaching through the glass door, stretching out through the long arcades inside the airport. The sight of my shadow is stunning. It is the first time I’ve ever seen my shadow on this particular piece of soil. It almost looks as if I am wearing a kuffiyya on my head. As if I am wearing an old galabiyya whose collar flaps in the breeze. My shadow clings to me, watching, like me, for the man who will take the both of us to the Beit Hanoun crossing. I am happy to know that for the rest of my trip, I will be accompanied by a shadow I have not seen for a long time.

I look all over, hoping to find the Palestinian-Israeli driver with whom I made arrangements to be picked up at 7 am. I look around, trying to find his car. ‘It’s a white VW van with green curtains,’ he told me over the phone. I do not see the van, nor any man who is ‘swarthy, medium build, wearing prescription eyeglasses’, as he described himself to me two days ago. I imagined him as a doctor.

It is almost 8 am, which means that I am about an hour late for my pickup time. That is because the plane was delayed taking off, and then all that waiting in line at passport control. The man must have given up and gone home. I would not blame him if he did. I think about it for a while, then put it aside — this driver would come and he would wait and wait and wait as if he had nothing else to live for. If this was simply about helping a fellow countryman returning home for the first time in decades, he might not try so hard. But he would not give up on the hefty fare he was about to earn.

Shouts begin to rain down on me. Drivers hurl out the names of cities and towns — some of which stand on the carcasses of older cities and towns, others merely Hebraized. Yerushalim. Tel Aviv. Natanya. Nitsrit. Akko. Haifa. Herzliya.

Suddenly, I spot Dana walking toward a car parked close by. I watch her with mixed feelings. The woman who sat next to me on my journey will, in a matter of moments, disappear from my life for ever. A driver approaches her, dragging behind him the large suitcase that was beside her. He puts it into the trunk. She throws her handbag into the rear seat and then slides her body in as well. After that, she swings her legs in and closes the door. The car speeds off.

The drivers continue to sing out the names of cities to me. I reject them all, saying, ‘Todah, todah!’ I am looking everywhere for Abu Fares.

I turn and spot a white van trying to park at the curb only a few cars away from me. I hurry toward it, pulling my bag behind me, and am happy to see the green curtains draped along the side windows. I pull out the paper on which I had written the licence plate number of Abu Fares’ van. I guessed right — this is my car.

A man suddenly appears from behind it and strides toward me with confidence. He opens his arms wide to greet a long-exiled compatriot, ‘Welcome, welcome home! So glad you made it safe and sound! I am so sorry — I’ve been driving around and around looking for a parking space. Welcome, fellow countryman! So glad to see you!’ His two hands grasp my hand and shake it with genuine affection. I congratulate myself for my patriotic decision to choose a real local boy. A Palestinian through and through.

My lungs expand and drink in the scent of the place. Palestine. My eyes are filled with the visage of this man, the first man I meet who, unlike most of us Palestinians, did not leave in 1948.

‘Thank you for such a warm welcome.’

‘Give me your bags, you must be exhausted from your flight.’

Abu Fares takes my big suitcase and together we put it in the trunk. And then the car begins to move. This is my first journey inside the country I left as an infant.

Samir Ayash, one of the Palestinians I work with, told me: ‘ You’re trip is going to be … very exciting.’ He said the last bit in English so I wouldn’t miss it. ‘You’re going to drive past road signs that point back at all those old wounds, Ramleh, Jerusalem Road, Asqalan. You’re going to see Asdud, aren’t you?’

I take out my mobile phone to call my mother and let her know I’ve arrived safely. I cannot wait to get there, and I cannot believe I am actually here, in Palestine. Abu Fares suddenly explodes: ‘No, no, no, man! What do you think you’re doing?’ He yells so loudly that I am left wondering what I had done that was so wrong. Maybe mobile use is prohibited here for security purposes? With his left hand still on the steering wheel, Abu Fares’ right hand shoots out and grabs the phone from my hand. ‘Like hell you’re going to use your phone here!’

Without taking his hand away from mine, he goes on. ‘It’s going to cost you a fortune to use your phone here. No, no, man! Give me the number and I’ll dial it for you with mine. It’s local. You’re our guest, man! Understood?’