Against the Loveless World

by Susan Abulhawa

But I know now that going from place to place is just something exiles have to do. Whatever the reason, the earth is never steady beneath our feet.

No therapist or clergy can substitute for the confidence of a whore, because whores have no voice in the world, no avenue to daylight, and that makes us the most reliable custodians of secrets and truth.

I love him whether the water is hot or cold. When it is perfect, I imagine Attar loves me.

I find that reporters and writers who come here don’t actually want to listen to me or hear my thoughts, except where I might validate what they already believe.

As long as Iraqi soldiers roamed the streets, I felt in control of my fate.

Iraq’s occupation had the effect of a natural disaster—it allowed us to take a break from the contrived necessities of money.

Mubshir was beautiful. He was the first man who ever made me climax. I told him I loved him, and he said the same to me, but we were pretending, and both knew it.

He wanted to help the resistance defend Kuwait, but he felt the same kinship with Iraqis as he did with Kuwaitis.

By then we had already heard enough of Kuwaiti rage against Palestinians to know that we were not welcome to join them in street celebrations—not that I wanted to welcome the Americans.

When it was over, Kuwaiti authorities had my fingerprints, in lieu of a signature, on a document testifying that my brother had collaborated with Iraqi authorities during the occupation.

“Most people in the country have been pardoned from paying their rent during the occupation,” I protested. “Not Palestinians. Your Iraqi friends gave you jobs. You have money to pay.”

“But I guess whores tell the truth sometimes.”

Or do you just want to take and take and give nothing? That’s what Palestinians do. You eat, then bite the hand that fed you.”

It was the sort of happiness that comes only when life takes everything and leaves you only the people who matter most.

“You came because you love me. Admit it, you old bat.”

“Whatever happens in this ungenerous world, we will meet again, my sister.”

but Israel revoked Jehad’s hawiyya and put his and Mama’s names on a visa blacklist. They cannot even enter the country, much less visit me in the Cube.

I tried to find work, but unemployment in Jordan was already high before half a million Palestinians displaced from Kuwait descended on the country.

They were experienced refugees, better equipped to handle recurring generational trauma.

The story that emerged was that Um Buraq had indeed been arrested and put in jail, along with another woman, on charges of treason.

Jehad had become a man of compressed, dense quiet. He refused to speak of what had happened to him, left his story embedded in the scars on his body, in the blinded left eye and lame right hand.

For women of your generation, it just makes them loose and do bad things.”

All he hears is your disappointment,”

He had a rather elaborate computer setup, like something one would see at a major business enterprise. Until then, I had only seen computers at the Internet cafés popping up around the country.

Mama used to get so happy when someone from Palestine visited us in Kuwait, especially if they came from Haifa. She would say they “carried the scent and spirit of my home and youth in Palestine.” That’s why I wanted so much to visit with Mohsin. He carried the scent and spirit of Kuwait.

woman in her midtwenties and a man twice her age. He spoke Arabic. She didn’t, but was learning, she said. They asked short, simple questions. What did I eat? How frequently? How often did I go outside? Did I communicate with family? Did they give me books to read? Pen and paper?

hairy forearm below a rolled-up white sleeve.

but it wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. I was interrogated. Searched. Searched again. They would not accept the Palestinian ID that Jehad had worked hard to reinstate because it did not appear in their system.

“It’s cheaper. They invest just enough to keep these settlers here and attract more who are willing to live a bit ruggedly, until they have enough people to justify greater expenditure on infrastructure. Another reason is to fool international and human rights agencies by giving the impression this arrangement is only temporary.”

Bilal had been released under the Oslo agreement, but his freedom was conditioned on his never practicing his profession as a chemist in any capacity, not even teaching.

The primacy of humans was only one assumption I had never questioned until I met him.

My first purchase in Palestine was a pair of green-and-white sneakers, which

Finally we arrived in Haifa. People call it a “mixed city,” but that isn’t true. It was clear where Jews lived compared with Palestinians; there was no mixing.

Khaneeth.

“But I’ll come to your hideout on Saturday with your friends, if that’s what Jumana really is.”

“I have no doubt this room opens to more chambers under other homes. Who knows how vast it is? Our ancestors built it. I believe they’re here now, to help us.”

Wadee and Faisal could execute a plan, but not come up with one. That would be Jumana’s role. She was the big sister who looked out for them, their only parent after their father died, and she was also a dear childhood friend of both Bilal and Ghassan.

Jumana began to cry, which both surprised and disgusted me.

Bilal ahead, reading under that old olive tree,

But now I was overwhelmed by Bilal’s pain, the guilt he must have carried, the impotence I knew he felt seeing those settlements, the anguish over his brother, his mother, the years in prison, the torture, the inability to move, teach, or practice his profession. I wanted to take him in my arms and fix everything.

Even in the poorest, most crowded Palestinian neighborhoods, people made a point of planting trees wherever possible, even if only in front-door pots or on rooftops.

“We do love each other,” I said, listening to my own thoughts as I spoke them. “But not how you think. There’s no word for it. It’s romantic, but without a sexual impulse, at least not an overwhelming kind. It’s strangely familiar and comfortable, but not purely friendship either.”

Life in Amman had no substance.

It turned out Sitti Wasfiyeh was secretly building a home in the Sweifiyeh neighborhood in Amman for my mother. “And for you too, Nahr,” Jehad said. Our mother didn’t know. How nice the surprise will be, I thought.

It seemed to me the freest individuals were the ones who ended up in state prisons.

“I’m very sorry. That’s my friend on the news. Israel killed him.”

would not have wandered into a firing zone, even though Israel endlessly carves out more and more Palestinian spaces for their military training.

though I would give up ever showering again just to hear music.

another way I had changed; my former self would have carried the offense until I got sweet revenge.

Her father was a traitor who’d helped Israel assassinate Ghassan’s father. His family would never allow them to marry. “Why is love always so tragic?” I put the pot down and hugged