Free Miral by Rula Jebreal Page A

own cause, which was her personal freedom.
    â€œIt was so hot, my hair was plastered to my forehead,” Fatima said, continuing with her story.
    Attracted by the discovery of a world she knew nothing about, Nadia again concentrated on Fatima’s words.
    â€œThe air was heavy with the smell of sweat, tobacco, and stale perfume. Everything was shabby, and whiffs of filth and garlic kept cutting through the other smells. Before he handed me my ticket, the cashier gave me a quick glance, and then he said it would be a good evening for me, that the place was packed with guys eager to spend their money. I said I was glad to hear it, and that I didn’t doubt they had money to spend. I saw him turn and look at me out of the corner of his eye. When I entered the theater, nobody inside noticed me—everyone’s attention was fixed on the screen, where a young blonde was being molested in a bed in her dream. Those excited soldiers couldn’t have imagined that in a few minutes they would be protagonists in another film altogether.”
    Fatima paused briefly and then began again: “After about fifteen minutes, I left my bag under my seat and walked out of the theater.” She took a sip of water before describing what was to be one of the proudest moments of her life. “As I was walking away, I waited for a big boom. And I waited another fifteen minutes. People began to run out of the theater. I stayed where I was. I saw the police arrive, and then the cashier talking to them.”
    â€œThe one who sold you the ticket,” said Nadia.
    â€œYes, it turned out that he noticed me leaving and found the bomb under my seat. He called the police. He gave them my description, and it didn’t take them long to identify me and arrest me.”
    Nadia couldn’t believe that anyone could feel such blind hatred for someone they didn’t know. It was different for her; she had felt the same hatred, had nourished the same thoughts of revenge, but her rage had been directed at a precise individual, one she knew well and who had robbed her of childhood.
    â€œI didn’t think of them as men anymore, Nadia,” Fatima explained. “I saw them as soldiers. They symbolized the injustice that was being inflicted on us. You see, Nadia, military occupation is a fierce monster. It slowly extinguishes your dreams, your hopes, and even your future. And gradually it changes who you are.”
    Â 
    Weak light filtered through the narrow window of the cell. The evening must have already turned to morning. Nadia had begun telling her story after lunch, sitting on the lower bunk next to Fatima, who listened with a frown on her face the whole time as Nadia told her about the abuse she had been subjected to, about her mother, about her later meeting with her sister, and then about her search for freedom and her refusal to have sustained relationships with men.
    Fatima saw in Nadia a strong woman who was at the same time fragile and delicate. She was oppressed by her past, not only because of the physical violence she’d experienced, but also because of all the constraints that had been imposed on her. She had learned to react in the only kind of language that had been taught to her since her birth: instinct mixed with anger. Even in prison she took great risks, on many occasions, by demonstrating intolerance for authority, which didn’t go over well with the guards.
    Nadia fell asleep leaning against the peeling wall of the cell, her head inclined to one side. Fatima watched her for a moment in the semidarkness: Nadia’s slimness and well-toned muscles made her look energetic. Her beauty made her radiant despite the brutal punishments life had dealt her.
    The next day, she told Fatima the rest of her story, beginning with her journey to Tel Aviv.

3
    A couple of months after she arrived in Tel Aviv, Nadia began to feel at ease. The city was very lively, filled with shops and new buildings. There