Evil Eye

by Etaf Rum

Why didn’t Nadia understand that just because the women in her family had wholly dedicated their lives to their children, their husbands, that didn’t mean Yara must?

Twenty-two notifications: eleven emails, two calendar reminders, nine Instagram comments. Already her mind was racing like a browser with too many tabs open, brimming with everything and nothing at once.

But she also had dreams of making meaningful work, leaving her mark on the world. She felt certain, in the depths of her being, that something beautiful wanted to be created through her. How or what exactly, she wasn’t sure.

It was Teta who shared the stories of Palestine with Yara: the flaming olive fields outside the home they were forced to leave behind, the harsh winters in the refugee camp, the glistening golden dome of the Aqsa mosque they could no longer visit freely, or at all. The rotting stench of feces outside the nylon tents, the hours-long lines to get food from the UN shelters, the pressure of the heavy water buckets on her shoulders as she hauled water back home.

Being Palestinian citizens, they weren’t allowed to come into the country through Tel Aviv, so they disembarked at Queen Alia International Airport and took a bus to the Allenby/King Hussein Border Crossing to enter the West Bank. If they’d tried the direct way, through Tel Aviv Airport, they wouldn’t be permitted into Israel and would have had to fly straight back to New York. “We’re the only people in the world who aren’t allowed to enter our own country,” Baba complained.

Her privilege as an American citizen stood in stark contrast to the poverty and powerlessness of the millions of Palestinians who lived in the crumbling camps, who faced staggering rates of joblessness and violence, who barely had access to clean water.

Her Palestinian nationality had been erased by Israel, and here, in America, her Middle Eastern identity was erased, too.

The entire world must be cursed, she thought, to spend so much of our days walking around with our eyes glued to a device that only left us feeling more alone.

“After the Israeli planes bombed the olive trees,” Teta began, “the soldiers gave us thirty minutes to leave our home. I remember watching my mother turn off the stove before leaving the house. My father locked the front door and clutched the house key, as if certain we would return soon. It seems so foolish now, looking back. But what we were experiencing was unfathomable.” She frowns, pushing out the words slowly. “Can you imagine someone breaking into your home, on land you’ve lived on for generations, and forcing you to leave?”

“The camp was overcrowded and cramped. Our tent was the size of a small room, barely large enough to fit the seven of us. But when winter came, I was thankful to be huddled close with my brothers and sisters in the freezing cold. Outside thousands of tents were stacked up against one another like a deck of cards. You could see them stretched out into the distance. Laundry lines connected each tent to the next. Children walked on the earth barefoot. The winters were harsh, the summers blazing. We barely had enough food and water, never mind electricity, roads, or sewers. We stood in lines for hours at the UN getting rice and blankets. The smell of rot surrounded us and it felt as though we were living inside a dead body.

When they built these shelters, they also built water sources, schools, clinics, and centers. I remember feeling so happy at the possibility of a new house, not having to carry water buckets over my head, even someday going to school. But my father only cried. He knew it meant we would never return home.”