My life felt aimless, and I blamed the whole of Jordan. Now, because it was not Palestine. Because Bilal was not here. Because no one needed me here. How I would have loved to see Um Buraq at that hour. I could hear her in my mind: Go fuck his brains out. Wage a revolution together. Fear death, but never fear life. Fall in love if you must, but remember cruelty always has a dick. How it pained me to think of her caged. It seemed to me the freest individuals were the ones who ended up in state prisons.

Um Buraq would probably tell me that I was the one who had changed, not my family. I’d gone to Palestine to get a divorce, but I’d left with a sense of my worth as a woman who could engage with the world intellectually, who could love and be loved; a woman who could understand that the vast outdoors was more beautiful than anything humans could make. I dared to imagine being part of something as important as resistance and national liberation. The idea of transporting the weapons had settled in me, then morphed into a plan.

In the six months since leaving Palestine, I hadn’t received any e-mail. But I continued to visit the Internet café once in a while to check my mailbox. I would compose, then delete, messages to Bilal, until one day my brother alerted me to check my e-mail. “Bilal sent you an e-mail. I didn’t even know you had e-mail!” he said.

“You talk to Bilal?”

“Yeah.”

“Why hasn’t he called me?”

“I don’t know. I’m just relaying a message.”

Dear Nahr, Everyone here misses you, me especially. I hope you’re well and I hope you’ll come back, at least to visit. You always have a home here.

I read the e-mail many times.

Dear Bilal, I’m very happy to get this electronic letter from you. I’ve been thinking a lot about things and I’d love to come back to help you with the harvest to transport your olive oil.

I hoped my letter was discreet enough. He answered immediately.

There is no need to do anything. We have everything covered, but please do come back. You are sorely missed.

I didn’t know where I’d live, or what I would do if I went back, but there was no returning to Kuwait, and no place for me in Amman. I wasn’t sure there was in Palestine either, but I longed to return, and gave myself a couple of months to save some money and sort out the logistics.

Finally I had a clear goal, and it felt good to work toward it. I asked for more hours at my job, and booked as many beauty appointments as I could. I made and sold body butters, cleansers, and moisturizers, imagining Bilal would be waiting for me.