“It’s cheaper. They invest just enough to keep these settlers here and attract more who are willing to live a bit ruggedly, until they have enough people to justify greater expenditure on infrastructure. Another reason is to fool international and human rights agencies by giving the impression this arrangement is only temporary.” We sat eating bizir, expertly cracking open the salty roasted watermelon seeds for the fleshy insides. I liked to collect the seeds’ entrails in a pile, then eat them all at once, instead of one at a time. Eyeing the small mound of shelled seeds in my lap, Bilal said, “That looks enticing!”

“Don’t even think about it. I beat up a neighbor when we were little kids because he stole a pile of shelled bizir that I had been working on for an hour.”

He laughed. “Thank you for establishing the red line. I will never cross it. Your bizir pile is safe around me.”

Bilal spoke of Areas A, B, and C as the sun began making its way to the sea, painting the sky, land, and life in the colors of its wake. I knew these were designations created by the Oslo Accords, but I couldn’t remember their distinctions. He explained that we were in Area C, which was being heavily colonized by Israel, and that my in-laws’ home was a prime target. It was the only remaining house for some distance in the village. The nearest homes had been torn down, Bilal told me. “Israel has a lot of excuses. Lack of permits, illegal wells, relatives of fighters, whatever they want.”

“How have you managed to keep your property?” I asked, surveying the sylvan terrain stretching before us into the valley.

He turned to me, his gentle brown eyes searching my face. Then he turned back to the land, inhaled from his cigarette, exhaled smoke, and resurrected a name I hadn’t heard in many years.

“Tamara,” he said.

I had promised Mama to make the rounds to visit our own extended family as soon as I got to Palestine, but I found myself putting it off, spending my time with Bilal and Hajjeh Um Mhammad instead, and contemplating the contradictions of this place, my birthright. The landscape that lived in the hearts of Mama, Baba, and Sitti Wasfiyeh didn’t feel like home, though it took hold of me nonetheless. There were no malls everywhere or miles of beaches as I was accustomed to in Kuwait (none that were accessible to Palestinians, at least). No salons on every corner to get my lips and eyebrows threaded, have a full body wax, or get scrubbed in a Turkish bathhouse. Even in depressing Amman, I could still escape to a good lingerie or shoe store. I stumbled awkwardly through the unfamiliar milieu in Palestine, and Bilal was there to pick me up, sometimes literally.