Beyond the Forbidden Frontiers

      Traitor, concubine, sacrilegious person, they called her. Of course, they didn’t say it to her hearing, but thirty-year-old Mrs. Golda Achraoui knew that those words lurked behind the scowls and snarled on the murmuring lips.

      What former Miss Dayan thought would be a normal marital life when she and her husband Zaad Achraoui returned to the Holy land turned out to be a war of nerves. This was not unexpected. The Jewish state did not accept nor recognised marriages between Israeli Jews and Palestinian Moslems and Christians; most Israelis and a few Palestinians also did not favor it; but she had not expected such severe reactions to their union.    

      It all began at the Tel Aviv Ben Gurion international airport. Zaad carried their nine-month-old daughter Wafa, babbling happily on his left shoulder, and fondly linked arms with Golda as they strutted toward the Border Control Hall. People gawked at them, but they ignored them and tightened the grip mutually. But the more people muttered things, the more Golda felt Zaad’s fingers disengaging from hers until at the Customs control she found herself groping desperately for them. Not finding her husband’s fingers, Golda’s hand dropped limply by her side and she swallowed hard.

              “You’ve excess duty-free items for individauls,” the unsmiling customs official said when they declared their personal effects.

      “They’re for me and my wife,” Zaad said.

      The officer pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Five hundred Shekel,--” A little over $100--he muttered.

      Zaad and Golda stared at each other. As couples they could bring in what they had duty-free. But according to the law, their mixed marriage was illegitimate.

      The corners of her mouth turned down, Golda grabbed Zaad’s arm as he dug into his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll pay this inhuman tax,” Golda blurted out. A sudden pounding came from her heart, under the green wool turtleneck. A lump jumped into her long throat and her fingers twitched as she fished for the money in her purse. Golda found the bills, ignored the official’s outstretched hand, and banged them on the counter top and pouted.

      Zaad squeezed Golda’s hand but she jerked it from his grip.

      Soon, they headed for the Palestinian territories. The same acrimonious behavior from the Israeli soldiers till they reached Nablus where Zaad’s family lived. They passed by a group of Palestinian adolescents. Golda clutched Wafa tightly to her chest and cast stealthy

glances about. Having been told for years that Palestinians were vile and blood-thirsty, it became a reflex to get tense in their presence. But Golda’s hold on Wafa soon slackened as the group answered Zaad’s greetings brightly.

      Zaad’s family hugged them and and kissed Wafa all over. For the first time since her return to the Middle East, Golda felt relaxed.

      Grand-daughter of Austrian and Hungarian Jews who had fled Europe to Israel during the Second World War, no statistics could have predicted Golda meeting Zaad, orphan born in exile of parents part of the 415 Palestinians deported from Gaza by the Israeli army.

      Curios about Palestinians, adolescent Golda attended a conference at a local cultural center about the occupied territories. After the talk by the eminent speaker, some of her misconceptions about Palestinians vanished like bubbles into thin air. At home, she sought answers to other questions but got only more lectures on how terrible and primitive Palestinians were. But the more lectures she received, the less convinced she became, so much so that when time came for her obligatory military service, Golda fled to Australia in order not to have to fight Palestinians. On her return, she joined a voluntary aid group working in the occupied territories. There, she met Zaad and it was, as they say, love at first sight. Her parents were deeply shattered by the news and tried hard to dissuade her. But Golda had found her heart’s desire. A year later she joined Zaad at Beit El, near to Ramallah. Two years later, they decided to get married at Cyprus. From there they flew to Germany. They were returning after a year and a half’s stay. Golda wanted to raise Wafa in Middle Eastern culture.

      Their arrival coincided with the sparking off of Intifada by the Palestinians.

      That evening the streets of Nablus bustled with angry Palestinian youths yelling: “Wipe off Israel!” Golda sat tense in a couch, breathing hard. Her small eyes narrowed into slits. Wafa bawled and Zaad clutched her to his bosom.

      The children now hurled stones at the Israeli soldiers who fired sporadic shots at them.  Soon ambulances began to wail. Golda grabbed her head. She wished all this was a piece of writing on a blackboard, to be wiped off with the stroke of a duster. Instead she jumped at each peal of gunfire and soon was gripping her dark hair and tearing the profuse tufts descending right to her backbones.  Golda gritted her teeth now and stamped her feet at the screaming of the women and the dying. Was Zaad torn between the Jews and Palestinians like her? she wondered. In the glacial calm of his long face, she couldn’t tell.

Golda retired to bed wishing she didn’t belong here! Zaad fondled her to calm her down after he had coaxed Wafa to sleep, but Golda felt as if a stranger ‘s cold hands crawled over her body.

      The next day, Israel declared Nablus “closed military zone.” Each day more Palestinian children poured into the streets, and more Israeli soldiers penetrated into the occupied teritories. More people got injured on both sides and more Palestinians died. Golda recoiled so much into herself that after three days Zaad stopped trying to cheer her up.

A lull came at the end of a week.

They moved to Ramallah.

Then the Intifada picked up steam.

      Months passed. Then it was time for the feast of Aïd el Kebir. Zaad wanted to celebrate it at Nablus. The occupied territories had been cordoned off. The only way to reach

Nablus was by foot. That was some four hours of trekking over mountainous paths and bare countryside. Golda was pregnant and that worried Zaad. Could she manage?

Golda nodded.

      They set off  the following day at dawn, backpacks strapped to their backs. Zaad carried Wafa on his shoulders. In the beginning they hurried and exchanged some words. Soon their lively conversation turned into silence. Zaad occasionally spoke a word of encouragement. Golda grunted in reply.

After walking for one hour, the sun’s searing rays flooded the naked landscape. It became hard to go up the mountainous paths. Sweat drenched their clothes. Wafa, who had been sleeping, woke up under the heat and began to bawl. They stopped occasionally to give her milk or some biscuit. Soon, Golda felt her feet getting heavy. Her delicate soles burnt in the hiking shoes.

“Could we take a rest?” she whispered when they came to a fig tree. The thin lips fluttered and the slim nose twitched.

Zaad nodded and took down her bag. He wriggled out of his as Golda sank to the stony ground with Wafa. She breathed hard and Zaad took off her shoes.

“You’re okay?” Zaad asked. Globules of perspiration hugged her forehead.

Golda nodded. Zaad stared intently at her. She felt as if she was seeing his dark, inquisitive eyes, long nose ending in medium nostrils, and the large ears standing off his head for the first time. And her heart blossomed for him again.

Zaad rubbed ointment on her soles. Golda felt a searing pain and then a soothing cold, and the pain was gone. She smiled at Zaad who smiled back. “Okay?” he asked.

Golda nodded. “I’m okay,” she said. It came out as a raucous croak and she cleared her throat. She watched Zaad stare into the distance, triangular lines at the corner of his eye. What was he thinking of? The distance? Maybe the ordeal. Golda herself was wondering why she accepted it. Being of bourgeois parents, and armed with a Master of Arts degree in International Affairs with a concentration in Middle Eastern Studies, she could easily have lived well in Israel. But love made her choose to tread this torturous path.

“Ready?” Zaad said.

“Yes, let’s continue.” It would be good to cover a good distance before the sun became unbearable. She gave him her arm and he dragged her to her feet. Golda felt giddy for a while and then she was okay. She took in a deep breath, released it and they set out again and reached Nablus shortly before ten.

Golda heard a tick tock tick tock in her ears like a clock ticking in there. She realized the sound matched her heartbeat. Her back, shoulders, and legs ached. As for her waist, she thought it had been pummelled with clubs. The sweat dried on her arms, leaving fine deposits of salt. Golda sank into the big leather chair offered her.

Zaad’s family members grouped around them and stared at them with curiousity.

“We’ve been walking for four hours,” Zaad breathed.

The family howled and turned their incredulous, compassionate looks on Golda.  Zaad’s aunt dropped on her knees before Golda, hugged her and rocked with sobs. Golda threw her arms around her and sniffled too.

Golda raised her head to see all the others wiping tears from their faces. Her heart rose for the compassion yet her conscience troubled her. Wasn’t it the army of her country which has imposed the blockade on the territories, forcing them to walk?

Aïd itself was an unforgetable experience. There was so much to eat. The shrill quality returned to Golda’s voice and she became carefree like a child and laughed a lot. Her small, dark eyes lit up, brightening the serious face. If she had to walk each year to celebrate the Aïd at Nablus, Golda told herself that she’d gladly do it.

Golda now worked as coordinator at Ramallah for HelpThePeople, a British not-for-profit organization. Zaad still served as foreman in a construction firm. Wafa was already six, with long dark hair, keen eyes, and loved school. Hussain, a boy much like his father in looks, was a little over three years old and in nursery school. The last born, another boy called Akbar, light-complexioned, was turbulent. But that didn’t worry Golda. Wafa was putting further strain on her marriage. 

“Why don’t you take me to my grand-parents?” Wafa would ask at times.

When Golda said that was impossible, she asked why.

Golda would sigh and swallow hard. “They’re ultra-orthodox Jews and wouldn’t want to see you or me, much less Papa,” she would explain.

“Why?” Wafa insisted one day.

She might as well tell her now. “They don’t like Palestinians,” Golda said and Zaad stared sharply at her.

“I know,” Wafa said, her round face bright with recognition. “They’re afraid that Papa would bomb them.”

Golda and Zaad stared at each other with raised eyebrows and burst into laughter.

Another time she asked: “Would I serve in the tsahal?”

“No, you’re Palestinian.”

“That’s better,” she said in her childish, feminine voice, “because I don’t want to shoot at Papa’s people.”

Golda breathed hard. She could live as Jew whenever she wished. But were her children to be torn between Palestine and Israel, experience more internal turmoil than her?

Or another time when Wafa asked, “What’s my religion, Mama?”

“You don’t have any,” she said. “I belong to Judaism and Papa is Moslem. You’d choose yours when you grow up.”

Or the most serious when another crisis broke out: “Mama, why do we and Israelis fight all the time?”

“”It’s a long story, dear. I’ll tell you about it one day.” In fact she didn’t know exactly what to say without taking sides.

Daily Golda realized that if it was easy for the heart to cross the forbidden frontiers, on the other hand it wasn’t so for the body and the mind to run away from the painful realities of the Israelo-Palestinian conflict.