In another day’s time, a local carpenter had mended broken cup-boards, drawers, and shelves. Over the following weeks Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s sisters, and the multitude of families who loved her, brought more food than we could eat. We refrigerated some and gave away the rest. The sun went down and rose again, as if nothing had happened, indifferent to Bilal’s and Ghassan’s absence, to the knowledge that they were being harmed in ways we couldn’t bear to imagine. There was no charge. No trial. Both were held in “administrative detention.” All of this just to secure a bit of water for the trees.

The tenacity of heartache can take a toll on the body. Hajjeh Um Mhammad grew thin in the months after Bilal’s arrest, and I stayed to care for her. Jumana split her time between her own house, ours, and the salon. Once a week, she also accompanied me to run the pump and fill the water barrel. Ghassan’s sister and other family members took over running the bakery. Continuing Bilal and Ghassan’s work was how we all coped with their imprisonment.

Their administrative detention orders were renewed twice at six-month intervals. Neither Bilal nor Ghassan was charged with a crime. In those eighteen months, Wadee married his fiancée, Samer got a scholarship to study in Russia, Hajjeh Um Mhammad spent a week in the hospital, and the olive harvest came and went without her and me, as I remained by her side while the whole village picked, sorted, and pressed the olives. Settler attacks increased, but in all it was a good crop, I was told. It was the first harvest Hajjeh Um Mhammad had ever missed in all her life.

It was late October again, another harvest season, when news came that Bilal would be released. Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s joy was effusive. “Praise and gratitude to you, Almighty. Praise Him!” she sang, laughing and crying at the same time. Giddy for the rest of the day, she moved about the house in song. Her sisters and friends arrived to help make mansaf, Bilal’s favorite lamb dish. We didn’t know exactly when he’d be released, but his lawyer assured us today was the day. Hajjeh Um Mhammad busied herself all morning preparing the meat and the jameed, fermented dried yogurt. She sent Jumana and me out to source the best and freshest lamb cuts.

“If it has a gamy smell, it was slaughtered too old, and the meat is no good. Same with color. Make sure you look for meat that has a lighter pink color. Red meat is too rough and won’t be as tender when I cook it,” she instructed.

“Haader, ya sit el kol,” we both replied. Yes, ma’am.

“Get some fresh cardamom too. I’ll grind it here.”

“Haader, ya sit el kol.”