When we finally met two weeks before Bilal’s release, we were stunned to see what Ghassan had deposited underground: shelves stacking a cache of twenty crossbows with more than four hundred arrows. Some were more complicated than others, some made of wood, others of plastic or metal. The most complex of them had multiple wire strings, levers, and a scope, and were made of fiber-glass and metal alloys. They seemed expertly crafted. None of us knew Ghassan had been commissioning them, nor how he’d paid for them.

“Whoever made this one is an artist,” Faisal said, running his fingers in awe along the smooth metal and taut wires of one crossbow. The arrows were also expertly made and varied. Some looked like long steel pencils, while others were more conventional, with feathered tails and metal arrowheads.

“This must be because of those posts about ancient warfare,” Jumana said. “It’s amazing Israel hasn’t infiltrated the website.”

All eyes shifted to me. “Why does everyone always look at me whenever there’s mention of the website?” I asked. “Is my brother behind it?”

“Yes!” Wadee exclaimed. He surveyed the others, protesting, “Why are you looking at me? She already knows!”

“Habibti,” Jumana said to me, “we all thought you should know and wanted to tell you, but your brother was adamant that you not know. I guess he wanted to protect you. But I don’t think he understands how involved you are.”

Homecoming

HOMECOMING

WE WEREN’T SURE how to celebrate Bilal’s homecoming this time. It would be his first confrontation with Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s death, and he was still ill from the prolonged hunger strike. His organs had suffered permanent damage during the ten weeks without food. Kidneys, I think. And heart. I hoped it had all been rumors. Ghassan and Bilal’s aunts and their clan were gathered at the house waiting for news. The military typically dropped off prisoners wherever they fancied, and we didn’t know when or where he’d be. A group of little boys came running to the house first, yelling over one another, each wanting to be the first to deliver the news.

“Take a deep breath,” I said, ready with sweets in my hands. “Each of you take one of these. You”—I pointed to the smallest of them—“tell me.”

“Ammo Bilal was walking and all the men went with him,” he said.

“Okay. Now you.” I pointed to another.

“They went to the cemetery to read the Fatiha for Hajjeh Um Mhammad.”

“How did he look?”

They exchanged confused looks. One said, “He looked like Ammo Bilal.”

“Okay. Thank you, boys. Here, have more sweets.”

Ghassan rushed out the door, I supposed heading for the cemetery, but just then we heard chanting and singing. Then we saw them, Bilal carried on the sturdy shoulders of his comrades. His aunts said to me, “Enshallah, the next time he’s carried like this will be on your wedding day!”