Bilal had been released under the Oslo agreement, but his freedom was conditioned on his never practicing his profession as a chemist in any capacity, not even teaching. He was forbidden to travel outside a specified radius without authorization from the local military authority, could not write or publish any political material, could not under any circumstances enter Jerusalem and, if he ever left the country, could not return.

Bilal complied, as far as I could tell. He had inherited some animals and bought others when he was released. Although he helped care for them, Jandal was their full-time shepherd. Together, Bilal and Jandal sheared them once a year for wool, which they sold to local garment factories. During Eid and for special occasions, people would buy lambs for sacrifice. But Bilal insisted on hiring his own butcher to perform the ritual halal traditions for his sheep. “Because people terrify these animals before killing them. Few butchers actually adhere to halal requirements anymore,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I hate that we even eat meat as much as we do. Sheep, cows, fish, whales, goats—they’re nations unto themselves. They too deserve to be free.” The primacy of humans was only one assumption I had never questioned until I met him.

Most of Bilal’s time was spent at the bakery and pastry café, a small business he had started years ago with Ghassan, Jandal’s older brother and Bilal’s closest friend, who had been his cellmate in prison. Ghassan was a diabetic who spent his time making desserts. People would line up in the mornings for fresh bread, and in the evenings they came for knafe and sweet mint tea or Arabic coffee. Bilal and Ghassan seemed to know everyone, and people treated them with respect and the affection reserved for political prisoners.