JENIN

BY THURAYA ZEIDAN

Jenin. Named after the Palestinian city of Jenin, she was a reflection of its beauty and resistance. Those around her described her as having long, dark hair and lashes, while she rarely thought of her appearance while reflecting on herself.

The girls in her neighborhood carried compact mirrors and lipgloss in their cross body bags, and bag-less, she walked around while reading, rarely seen without a book. The kids couldn't understand how Jenin was not repulsed by reading once the school day was over. On her walk home she would tell her schoolmates about a recent story she read, or to anyone who would listen for that matter. Even just briefly.

Her favorite story was about a young couple who communicated for months through poems and letters until it was time for them to meet. When they meet, the woman realizes that the man isn’t the man she wants to spend her life with and decides never to see him again. People were disappointed by this ending. Some would tell Jenin that they wished they were in place of the woman because they would stay with the man who wrote the letters. And some wished they were the man, so they had the chance to leave that ungrateful woman first. Jenin only wished to be the author.

Upon her return from school, Jenin greets Mama and Baba as they sit in the living room. Tea cups, empty, besides wilted mint,  sit on the end table. Excitedly, Jenin tells them she has a plan. She carefully chooses the word “plan” instead of “dream.” 

“I want to write,” she says. 

Baba barely looks up from his newspaper but responds, “Write what?” 

“Stories and poems.”

“About what, Jenin?” Mama asks.

“About our village and about people and families and love and war and…”

Baba put down his newspaper. “You’re in the 11th grade.”

“I can start by writing my…”

“Do I need to also remind you what grade you’re in? You are no longer a child,” Mama says.

“This nonsense is not for us,” Baba says sternly. “You always have your head in a book and when you don’t, you’re thinking of writing one?”

Jenin walked to the chair nearest to Mama and sat with her head on the armrest, her eyes glossy. 

“I can show you some of the writing I started and if you think it’s good then…”

“Your job is not to write. It’s to wait for your naseeb, your fate,” Mama says. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a flight attendant. I wanted to get away from the occupation and see the world. But your grandfather told me how unrealistic I was being because these things aren’t possible for us. I was a little disappointed, yes, but shortly after, my naseeb, your father, found me.”

“I will not have people in this village say that my daughter writes about romance all day. Who here is going to want to marry a writer?” Baba says, this time louder than the last time he spoke. “Are you clear on this?”

“I always tell you to help with the cooking, Jenin, but you and those books. You’re being brainwashed by the books,” Mama shook her head with her last few words. 

“What about the idea that I am not lost, needing to be found.”

In that moment, Jenin remembered a story she read about a boy who was able to transport from one location to another, at his will. She did not dare share this out loud but wanted nothing more than to be transported to her room. She did not want to walk in front of Mama and Baba. She did not want their eyes on her. She thought if she walked that her legs would collapse, like her “plan.”

Jenin stood up slowly, reminiscing about her happiness just minutes before. How strange it is. The concept of time. How quickly feelings can change. 

She walked to her room gently closing the door. She slumped down to the floor, her back against the bed. Tears welled up in her eyes. Jenin cried in her room. Here, her tears are contained. No one could tell her to “compose herself.” 

She reached under her bed for her notebook and pen and began writing. “Even as a child, they told me that I would one day, meet my naseeb. This is what they told all the children, moreso the girls. It was only a matter of time, they said. And I wouldn’t have to do any of the searching, they added, because he was going to find me. What about the idea that I am not lost, needing to be found. And what power does god give everyone in this village, that allows them to know what is maktub -- or fate. Perhaps, it is written that I will write and not marry. I hope to not be found, as Mama was.”

Jenin placed her thoughts under the bed and although she couldn’t explain how or when, knew that, writing, was her naseeb.