Free The People of Forever Are Not Afraid by Shani Boianjiu Page A

the other soldiers and delayed the man I was checking by looking long and hard at his ID until I saw that it was about to be Fadi’s turn and that all the other soldiers were still checking IDs, and then I called for him.
    He looked me straight in the eyes like he did not know me at all or like he wanted me to die, but I knew I knew him and the sum of him.
    This is how I knew: he did not have a plastic bag. I had been right in imagining what I had. His wife had not given him pitas the night before. He was wearing the same button-down shirt, and his face was marked with edgy sleep. He reeked of sweat.
    It was not that I believed that all the things I imagined happened in real life; it was that I thought that maybe it would be better if I did believe them, and I was not crying, and I wanted to keep being less tired.
    I watched Fadi walk away after I gave him back his IDand papers. A contractor with a cigarette in his mouth put a hand on Fadi as soon as he neared, and I could see Fadi’s body flinching, how much wrong was in that very touch, how he wished he could punch the man, or scurry, or revolutionize his life, but he couldn’t.
    I knew that that night I would fall asleep thinking about Fadi coming home and punching his wife, Nur, just one punch to the jawline and then Nur’s calm.

    I SPENT the weeks prior to my draft trailing after Mother, who was holding the list of supplies the army had sent and comparing prices across stores, in outlet malls that were placed hours away from our village up north. Seven pairs of olive green socks. Sunscreen. Toothpaste. Enough sanitary napkins for two months. Mosquito repellent. Twenty sturdy rubber bands, to hold up the bottoms of the uniform pants.
    My huge backpack, the one our high school gave to every graduate, was printed with the blessing “Go in peace, dear graduates. We are here for you and we will always love you.” The backpack was packed and ready for the morning to come.
    Mother and I took a bus to the Haifa drop-off spot, where another bus was waiting to take all the northern kids to Tel Aviv, to the central sorting base, where we would get the military equipment and our assignments for the next few years.
    Girls with too much makeup held signs with painted hearts and kisses. These girls were crying and hugging and screaming to their friend as she climbed on the bus. “Read our letters only once the bus pulls away! We love you, babe!”
    A boy kept trying to get his girlfriend to stop kissing him.She was teary and her nose was dripping, but she would not stop kissing him even when he had to get on the bus. One boy who wore a yarmulke brought his whole family. Really, that must have been the entirety of his family. All grandparents. All aunts. All uncles. All and all. They were crying. But also clapping. All of them.
    I had thought about telling my friend to come, Yael, but I didn’t, because Yael was more my only friend who was not yet drafted than my actual, true friend. Because I was not a girl who had friends. I had a herd of retarded girls who followed me around for most of high school, but I never quite saw the need for friends, and I actually liked that it was only Mother and me that day. It was as if it proved my suspicion that friends are frivolous at the end of it all.
    Mother kept on humming a song I had never heard before as we stood in the parking lot and waited to hear my name.
    “Stop it!” I shouted, and then Mother started to cry. She was nervous because I was her last child; because I was her weakest.
    Mother stopped crying right before I was called to get on the bus. “It’s going to be Ok,” she told me. “Everyone does this. These will be the best years of your life,” Mother whispered. She held my face in both hands.
    “I am fine. I am sure I will be home for vacation in no time,” I said.
    “Yes,” Mother said. “Yes,” she said, and she didn’t let go.
    “I need my face, Mother,” I said. “I need my face.”

    A ND THAT night,