Free Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa Page B

weapons with the help of the West. So whenever he could get his hands on a weapon, Baba hid it in the hole in the kitchen floor. He had covered the hole with a sheet of tile and declared it off-limits to children. I dared not disobey.
    That day I watched Baba open the secret hiding place and empty it of more than twenty rifles. He distributed the weapons to the fighters, whom I had until then only known as fathers, brothers, uncles, and husbands.
    I stepped away. From afar, I fixed my eyes on the gentle soul who was my father as something fierce inside him forced its way to the surface. His face became hard and the smile that lived in Baba’s eyes disappeared. He spoke to the men with an unfamiliar voice that bore no hint of the intellectual, solitary man who spent his time with books or in communion with the land. I had not the fortitude then, nor the capacity, to comprehend the urgent change in my father, or indeed that in the other adults— all of whom had already lived through one dreadful war and heartbreaking eviction.
    “Amal.” Mama grabbed my arm. “Don’t wander off. You and Huda stay where I can find you.”
    A clap like thunder boomed in the distance. It made me jump and put greater urgency in Mama’s voice. She looked at me with her bottomless black eyes, the ones I had inherited, and repeated the lesson she wanted me to learn most of all: “Be strong like I’ve taught you to be, no matter what happens.”
    My momentary conviction that better times were at hand sank into fear as Mama moved Huda and me, like game pieces, into a corner.
    “Stay here and don’t leave my sight,” she ordered us.
    None of the adults would tell us what was going on, so we pieced together snatches of their conversations as best we could.
    The hurried tempo, long sighs, intense looks, and solidifying wills pushed Huda and me closer together, the two of us clinging to the wall, wide-eyed and confused. An announcement came that the women and children should stay put while the men were to hunker into defensive positions—“Until the Arab armies come,” someone said. Huda and I locked arms. Fear crawled through our bodies and made our muscles twitch and contract involuntarily.
    “I love you, Amal,” Huda cried.
    “Me too. You’re my best friend, Huda.”
    “You’re my best friend, too.”
    “We’ll be safe. My baba has weapons and he’ll protect us.”
    “Let’s stay together.”
    “No matter what.”
    “Swear?”
    “I swear by Allah.”
    We hugged to seal our promise.
    The men waited for the enemy, but no enemy soldiers appeared.

    Time after that ran as a continuous stream, unmarked by day or night. We could not see the enemy’s face, but we heard them: airplanes, so many, flew close to the earth and dropped bombs. Mama hurried Huda and me into the hole in the kitchen, now devoid of firearms.
    The hole was as deep as I was tall, and wide enough that Huda and I could crouch at its bottom. I looked up from that position and saw Mama’s face, bottom-up. How strong her jaws looked that way. As she was closing us in, I caught sight of a brightly painted bowl on the kitchen counter, a Mother’s Day craft I had made in kindergarten. I recalled how Mama’s face had opened when I gave it to her, and how it had closed when I told her I wished I had a better mother to give it to; I was five then and I had just wanted to see if I could make her clench her teeth and bulge her jaw muscles.
    The lid covered us in and the Mother’s Day bowl disappeared on the other side. It was dark in that kitchen hole.
    “Huda,” I whispered, still holding on to her as tightly as she held on to me.
    “Yes.” She was trembling.
    “I’m sorry I always yell at you.” Huda had been my only true friend. Other girls had no tolerance for my endless competitions, which I had to win. I was bossy and rude. Now I thought I was going to die.
    A long time passed before Mama suddenly pulled off the tile cover and handed us a baby. It was Khalto