DEDICATION
To Ira—my beginning, middle, and ending
To Ella—you have awakened a world of possibilities
CONTENTS
Dedication
Introduction
Reader’s Note
Epigraph
Ronit
Jamil
Act I: Naming Things To Work
To Work
The Clinic
The Clinic
Ronit’s First Glance
Jamil’s First Glance
Naming Things
Naming Things
Dinner Chatter
Dinner Chatter
Ma’ale Adumim (West Bank Settlement)
Two Selves
Homes
Home
Ma’ale Adumim (Jamil)
Ronit
Jamil
Wolf
Father of Light
Tiger
My Great Father
Imah
Ommi
Zayde
Imagine: The Pharmacist’s Profession
When His Abi Isn’t Looking
When Her Abba Isn’t Looking
Let’s Meet
The Gift
Spices
Spice Market
Hands
He Touched My Hand
Lightning Strikes
What I Love
What I Love II
What I Love
What I Love II
What I Hate
What I Hate II
What I Hate
What I Hate II
Ronit Goes to the Market
Jamil Goes to the Market
Shell-Struck
Jordan
Sweet Statue
No More
Hunger
Hunger
The Enemy: Ronit Speaks
The Enemy: Jamil Speaks
Street Walk: Ronit
My Sister Told Ommi
From Her Sweet Body
From His Sweet Hands
Ronit Texts
Jamil Texts
Jamil and Ronit on an Afternoon Walk
Shihab*
Other Gardens: Ronit Speaks
Ronit and Jamil
Sun
Moon
Ronit’s Kiss
Light
Keys: Ronit Speaks
Keys: Jamil Speaks
Act II: Complications Ronit: A Walk in the Woods
Jamil: A Walk in the Woods
Another Glance
Homeless
Olive Garden: Ronit Speaks
Another Garden
Ronit’s Text
Jamil’s Text
No Work Today
Jamil
It’s Complicated
It’s Complicated
The Mount
Dome of the Rock
You Don’t Understand
You Don’t Understand
Not Just About
Not Just About
The Rockets
Jamil
Ronit and Jamil, a Walk in East Jerusalem
Ronit
Jamil
Ronit
Jamil
A Day in the Desert: Ronit Texts
A Day in the Desert
Joined Bodies
Land: Ronit’s Ghazal*
Built of Bones: Jamil’s Ghazal
Water: Ronit’s Ghazal
River: Jamil’s Ghazal
Desert: Ronit’s Ghazal
In a Tomb: Jamil’s Ghazal
Fences
Jamil’s Fear
Ronit’s Fear
Through the Window
Leaving: Ronit Speaks
Away: Ronit Dreams
Safe in My Skin: Jamil
Imah Knows
Ommi Knows
Meteors: Ronit Speaks
Names: Ronit Speaks
Act III: Dreaming an Escape: Overlapping Voices Dreams
Ronit’s Dream
Act IV: A Father’s Lament Chaim
Mohammed
Act V: Onward
Afterword and Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
INTRODUCTION
RONIT & JAMIL IS SET IN PRESENT-DAY ISRAEL, A REGION IN the Middle East facing many challenges and a conflict with roots dating back to the formation of the Jewish state. However, conflict has existed in this region for many generations. This book does not focus on the historical claims to this land, but rather how the formation of Israel in 1947 sparked a conflict that continues today.
The 1947 UN General Assembly partitioned Palestine into two states, one Jewish and one Arab. Despite this resolution, an uprising began almost immediately, which ultimately resulted in an armistice agreement and the formation of three separate entities: Israel; Jordan, which occupied East Jerusalem; and the hill country of central Palestine (the West Bank). Some Arab Israelis fled at this time, though some remained in Israel, not always with the same rights as Israeli citizens. In 1967, war broke out in the area, and Israel acquired additional land in this region. The UN Security Council’s solution to this acquisition did not satisfy the Palestinian Arabs, who felt they had a right to return to their homeland. Whose land is this? That is the central question.
There is no right or wrong here, but there are key issues that remain: mutual recognition; security; control of Jerusalem, where both sides have historic claims; Israeli settlements; Palestinian right of return. There continues to be violence here, where—in truth—some people would love to see a resolution in which the two sides, Palestine and Israel, can coexist.
This book is about young people and their commitment to transcend the endless conflicts that continue to plague this area.
READER’S NOTE
THERE ARE SEVERAL REFERENCES TO A “FENCE” THROUGHOUT the book. This is actually a separation barrier—being built by Israel—that runs near the “Green Line” between Israel and the West Bank. The premise behind it is that it would prevent terrorists from entering Israel proper; however, there is much controversy surrounding this structure.
EPIGRAPH
Let’s be the same wound
if we must bleed.
Let’s fight side by side,
even if the enemy
is ourselves: I am yours,
you are mine.
—Tommy Olofsson
Ronit
I go with him to work, my Abba
it’s summer
heat
a leech
an ulcer.
Papa has pills, elixirs
to heal the sick, the wounded,
first stop
Mohammed in East Jerusalem.
“Damn good doctor,” he tells me.
“Oh, he has a son.
Don’t look at him.”
Jamil
I go with him to work
my Abi,
sizzling summer heat
clings to my back.
He waits for Chaim, the pharmacist,
to give him medicines—
magic
to heal the sick, the wounded.
“A decent man,” Abi says.
“Oh, he has a daughter.
Don’t look at her.”
ACT I
Naming Things
To Work
I am my father’s son
though I am a girl,
but as firstborn
of three,
he gives me power like an amulet
cherishes my voice
like it’s the Bible,
asks my opinion
like it’s a prize,
&
nbsp; but he still doesn’t want to hear
that I don’t want to go to the army.
He takes me to his work
so I can see the way things are.
To Work
You are the sun of my heart
for you I burn
Abi chants
like a prayer
all the while questioning
why I read Rumi
why I look to the stars for solace
why the Quran
is just a book
and stars are my solace.
He takes me to his work
to make me stronger
since he thinks
my head is in the clouds.
The Clinic
We enter
through a dilapidated door—
me, Abba,
and there are so many
crying babies
their tears
could make rivers in the streets,
and women
heads covered in burkas.
I cannot see their eyes;
hands
that hold their infants
look rough and tired.
The Clinic
How can Abi
work here?
It smells like piss.
The wooden floor is splintering.
There are too many dark
and covered women
in one small room.
I feel
like I am going to vomit,
but I have to pretend to be strong
so Abi can think
there is hope for me to become the doctor
I never
will become,
so I pretend
just to see
the girl.
Ronit’s First Glance
Who are you?
You could be my brother
(though I have no brother)
but not the way I feel
when I look
into those dreamy hazel eyes
of yours.
Arab boy,
with your gaze
slips off of
my heart.
Jamil’s First Glance
Who are you?
You could be my sister
with your blue eyes
and the curls
cascading past your shoulders.
Israeli girl,
I know you are looking
at the muscles in my arms.
(I work with weights
most days)
which makes me
feel like a man,
something my Abi
laughs at.
Naming Things
I do not know your name
I see you somewhere
hands move like wind,
your smile—
slice of sun
crescent moon.
I’ve named you
talisman
for the wishes
buried
in this burning lamp:
to touch the bronzed calluses
that rise from your knuckles
to smell the aroma
of your unshaven face
to feel your body blazing
to dream
I can touch it.
Naming Things
I do not know your name
I will call you girl
with the song in your voice.
I am nicknamed Jordan
for the river
not a country.
These countries
separate us,
so I am banished
from the song
and the sea—
me.
Dinner Chatter
We talk
around the dinner table:
Ommi’s good food:
hummus, falafel, baba ghanoush.
For my sister it is blah
blah
blah.
I hear Abi whisper
“he has a daughter
Jamil’s age.
Can you imagine,
ever?”
“Never,” Ommi says.
“Never.”
Dinner Chatter
We talk
around the dinner table:
Imah’s good food:
hummus, falafel, baba ghanoush.
Blah, blah, blah.
Too much blah, blah
while I think
about the boy.
I hear Abba whisper
“he has a son
Ronit’s age.
Can you imagine,
ever?”
“Never,” Imah says.
“Never.”
Ma’ale Adumim
(West Bank Settlement)
Where I’m from
the men leave for the holy city
while women make the kitchen
their home.
Where I’m from
the monastery of martyrs
once the most important of monastic centers
still stands—
a reminder
the past is dead,
though Arabs say
it is still their land,
forgetting
pilgrims once used this as a route
between Jerusalem and Mecca.
Where I’m from
I’m a pilgrim
since I dream
out of my mother’s kitchen,
though my sisters
pray to my mother’s matzo balls.
Where I’m from
school is our temple
(yes, there are forty synagogues)
but I revere
the God of knowledge;
we won
the Israeli Ministry Education prize
twice,
and a national prize
for our community’s emphasis
on green space, on playgrounds.
I am from greenery
and recreation
on running races till my body is obsolete
on climbing jungle gyms
to grapple with—
what?
Where I’m from
everywhere I look
I see desert
long and sad
like a parched sky.
Two Selves
Where I’m from
trees
don’t remember their roots
and hilltops
don’t remember their hills.
I am the only son, half of a twin
who doesn’t hear
the sighs of stars
or the hunger of the day.
I am from the love of school and poetry
from the river, words and sky.
I am Doctor Assad’s son,
the one who lives in Ramallah
and East Jerusalem,
the holiest of cities.
It’s strange to have two homes
and still feel like I have none.
I eat hummus and knafeh nabulsi
and listen to Fairuz,
while I play on my oud
and strum away
the sorrow.
Homes
I know he lives
in East Jerusalem
and Ramallah, both.*
If Jamil gazes
up into the hills
he can see my home.
We are neighbors
though he could never visit.
There is a checkpoint.
They would never let him through
without a reason,
so he must stay
down below
dreaming me
up above.
Home
I live
at the bottom of the hills.
She lives
at the top.
I could just climb up
to see her.
I can smell
the flowers in her hair,
but there
is a checkpoint
which I can’t cross
unless I have a reason,
but I do,
I want to shout.
Ronit
(I have heard her Papa say this name)
is my reason.
Ma’ale Adumim (Jamil)
I have named you
valley of the confused,
Arab and Jewish towns dot the hilltops
a bright sun shines
even in winter,
grass everywhere
and palm trees
hovering over concrete roads.
At the entrance to the city
two white doves
with the word “Peace,”
but the aged olive tree
is dried up in anguish
because it belongs
in my grandfather’s backyard,
not yours.
Ronit
My mother, my Imah,
whose womb was a garden of gardenias—
golden girls
not sons to farm the land
but girls so strong
that make men move mountains.
She loves me, her firstborn
proudly and fiercely.
So she guards the fence
like a lioness
who could eat you with her eyes
if you dare to cross the land’s casket.
Jamil
My mother, my Ommi,
whose womb wrestled with war
for years
until twins
tore through her womb
like a bomb—
beautiful relics
a son, a daughter.
My sister wraps my mother in solace
like a shawl,
while I am restless.
I am the eternal enigma
the Quran
can’t answer.
Wolf
I have named my Abba wolf
because his hair is long enough
to hide his feelings.
I name him wolf
since there is something scary inside
ready to pounce,
a predator
but devoted
to his family.
The wolf in him wanders
over the fossils of his father
the fish,
my grandpa, my Zayde
the fish—
sometimes slippery.
But Abba
is different,
he always returns