The following morning, Maisoon was woken by the clanking of crates being stacked on top of one another, in preparation for the big Eid. She took her kahwa to the narrow balkon and sat on a wicker chair, savouring the smell of the souk in the morning as much as she despised it in the evening. Wafts of fresh fruit—guava, saber, teen—swirled around her, carried by the gentle naseem. In these moments, she understood why people stayed on in the Wad, refusing to move on. It was the comfort in knowing that Um Muhammad would be there the next day with her fresh vegetables, that Abu Nidal would always have kahwa on the little coffee table ready for anybody who cared to sit with him and talk, that Um Tawfiq’s laundry would be fluttering in the naseem on her balkon. Nothing would be changing any time soon. No new stones would be put in place of the old.

      She finished her kahwa and went inside to choose the right outfit for today’s meeting. She didn’t want to look too Arab but neither did she want to look like she was trying to shed her identity. She felt a burden descending on her as she recalled the awkward moments of non-recognition, “What’s the accent?” then the confusion, “I’m from here, born in Haifa,” and finally, the silence of embarrassment, “I’m an Arab.” Sometimes the reaction would be an embarrassed smile, or “Oh, you don’t look like an Arab,” or that all too common, “I have a very good Arab friend, Ahmad, maybe you know him? He’s got a heart of gold, and I’m not just saying it, oh and he’s the best car mechanic,” or some such version of it.

      She settled on a pair of blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Sandals and a blue scarf tied on her bag in case she got cold in the air-conditioned boutique. No. Not the blue scarf. Not in this place where every colour was weighed down with history and meaning. Her favourite ones were forbidden to her: the black-and-white kafiyyah her father had given her. Long ago it lost its meaning; politicized when the West turned it into a symbol of terrorism, and then again depoliticized when it started being mass-manufactured by brand labels in all colours of the rainbow. In winter, she would put her kafiyyah on, wrapping it around her shoulders, and stand in front of the mirror. Then, with a thread of sadness take it off and hang it back, leaving part of her identity at home. This time it was the colour of the wrong flag, so she picked a pale green scarf instead.

      She checked the roll of jewellery, the pieces Shahd had helped her choose, modelling every necklace, bracelet and ring. Shahd liked the more abstract ones, unlike Maisoon, who was more drawn to those inspired from stolen glances at old tiles, a flutter of Um Muhammad’s hand stitched scarf, the design of an ancient carpet in her father’s library. She paused at the lack of history mocking her from the black roll. Looking at her watch, she knew she was risking being late. She quickly replaced the abstract jewellery with pieces which held a secret story. There wasn’t a particular category these pieces could be defined by. But she was content that she wasn’t betraying herself, whatever the consequences.

      On the bus, she sits towards the back next to a woman in her early fifties, with a bulging bag-on-wheels. Maisoon imagines her a professor of Russian literature in her native land, coming here with false dreams, ending up cleaning people’s homes so that her children can attend university. Two soldiers, kids really, stand by the back doors; their weapons casually slung over their shoulders. Three teenagers in the back are listening to George Wassouf’s ‘Kalam Ennas’ on an iPod. A blonde woman in her forties sits in front of the teenagers with a sour expression on her face.

      The clear, bell-like voice of Fairouz replaces the scratchy one of George Wassouf, singing ‘Habbaytak fi Essayf’. The boys are quarrelling about a game of basketball, their voices rising, bouncing back from the roof, the blonde woman’s expression now tightly packed disgust. The Russian woman shifts in her seat, mumbling something to the window. Maisoon sings softly along with Fairouz, her eyes transfixed on the slow, unconscious movements of the right hand of one of the soldiers as he caresses his machine gun, stroking its dull, metallic curves. These movements are repeated by the second soldier. Together, the two hands are performing a sacred dance, bowing to the power embodied in those pieces slung so indifferently across their shoulders.

      The blonde woman turns sharply around and in a shrill voice demands that the boys turn the music off. The boys snicker and turn the music down a notch.

      But that doesn’t satisfy her, “Don’t you understand Hebrew? This is public transport and I shouldn’t have to listen to this on my way to work!”

      Maisoon shifts in her chair to speak up, but someone else beats her to it. Surprised, she hears the strong voice of the Russian woman, struggling with her heavily accented Hebrew, red cherries rising to her face.

      “Why can’t you just let them be? They’re not disturbing anybody. Can’t you enjoy the beautiful music? I’m sure if it were Jewish boys listening to music in Hebrew you’d be sitting there quietly. It’s because they’re Arab, right?”

      The red cherries now jump to the cheeks of the blonde woman, “Who asked for your opinion? And who asked you to come here in the first place? Go back to your Russia.”

      Maisoon watches the Russian woman weigh her options before opting for a thin smile. The boys are now sitting in silence, looking straight ahead as if the conversation didn’t concern them. The music is turned down another notch, but still playing. Maisoon is glad they haven’t turned it off. The blonde woman is sitting with tightly drawn lips, upset that nobody came to her rescue. When the Russian woman makes to get up, Maisoon touches her hand and whispers thanks, “Toda.”

      A smile flutters over the woman’s face and she shrugs her shoulders.

      A few stops later, Maisoon stands and makes her way to the back door. People are pressed around her. She keeps her eyes on the weapons, making sure there is some distance between herself and them.

      Ten minutes later she walks down a sleepy side street of Carmel Center and stops outside the number on the card. She takes a deep breath before entering the spacious boutique. The high ceilings, spotless walls and glass shelving tell Maisoon she won’t find anything cheap within. Amalia, her silver hair elegantly framing her thin face, is busy with two women showing them a variety of necklaces with gemstones.

      “Shalom, Giveret Amalia,” Maisoon tries not to disturb them; from the bits of conversations reaching her she could tell these were regular customers.

      “Shalom. I’ll be with you in a moment. You can start arranging your pieces on that table over there.”

      Maisoon begins placing the jewellery on the table. Suddenly, they all look wrong. I shouldn’t have changed them. Should have trusted Shahd’s choice. Looking around her, she sees exquisite pieces. She’ll never take any of mine. She is tempted to shove everything back into her backpack and disappear. She takes a deep breath and begins to group the jewellery, earrings, followed by bracelets, necklaces and finally rings. Unsatisfied, she rearranges them again. The two women are now leaving, without having bought anything.

      “They can’t make up their mind. It’s a wedding present.” Amalia now stands on the other side of the table, studying the jewellery, “Are you finished?” she smiles at no one in particular.

      “Yes,” Maisoon is watching Amalia but she has no idea whether she likes the pieces or not.

      After