Miral by Rula Jebreal & John Cullen

Author:Rula Jebreal & John Cullen [Jebreal, Rula & Cullen, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Literary
ISBN: 9780143116196
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2004-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

By the time Miral reached the top of the hill overlooking Kalandia, dense clouds of smoke and dust were rising from the refugee camp and drifting on the wind.

The previous days’ rains had made a host of yellow flowers bloom, forming a strip that ran along the crest of the hill and then down one side, among the rubble and wrecked automobiles scattered on the slope. Miral hurried along that flowery trail, a sad path that seemed to be created just for her, especially since she was named after a flower—yellow on the outside and red at its heart—that blooms in the desert after the rain. Its fragrance is sweet and delicate but intensifies with the heat of the sun.

When she finally reached the open space where classes were held, she saw no one at all. Directing her steps to the center of the refugee camp, she soon made out a large gathering of people standing in front of a pile of rubble and twisted metal. As she got closer, she recognized Said and Khaldun, who were busy rummaging around in the debris, which, Miral now realized, was what remained of Yassir’s house. Khaldun saw her coming and went to meet her. His eyes were more alert than usual, as if lit from within by strong emotion.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Big fight this morning: one dead, ten wounded, and six arrested. They almost got me, too,” he replied, pointing to the cartridge cases strewn about.

“What about Yassir?” Miral asked, as she watched the crowd digging among the remains of his shack.

“Unfortunately, this time he was buried under his roof for real. Just think, it was only yesterday that we finished rebuilding his wall. Said feels guilty about it—he often used Yassir’s roof as an observation post, and he thinks that’s why they knocked the house down. Maybe he’s right, maybe not. But what difference does it make now?”

Staring at Khaldun as he lit a cigarette, Miral wondered how he could be such a fatalist, but then she considered the probability that embracing fatalism was the only way to survive when death and suffering formed such a constant part of everyday life.

“Why don’t you accept the scholarship to study in Damascus? I know I’ve been asking you that question for some time now, but you should give some thought to accepting. It could be an alternative for you.” Miral spoke to him firmly, sure that she was right; she had no doubt that they would all have happier lives if they lived anywhere other than the refugee camp. “Yesterday I talked to a girl from Dar El-Tifel who studied in Damascus for a year,” Miral went on. “She said it’s a very beautiful city. And after you complete your studies, there will be a lot you can do. You could come back here and teach.” She felt certain that this was Khaldun’s weak spot: his desire to feel useful.

“No, Miral,” he said. “The alternatives are for you. My place is here, in the midst of my people.

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