“Praise God, Mhammad managed to elude the Jews to comfort her in her last hours. At least she saw him one last time. But I know it burned her heart not to see Bilal. May God burn the hearts of the Jews. Amen,” one of the sisters whispered to us. Another shushed her: “Lower your voice! Mhammad might not be safely out of the country yet.”

I turned to Jumana for answers. She caught my eye but looked away. I wondered what she knew, but it wasn’t the time to ask.

Once again, Bilal’s detention turned into weeks, then months. Over the forty days of mourning, with people paying their respects streaming in and out of the house, Bilal’s hunger strike started to attract attention. Israel’s English newspaper published an article about his deterioration, which spurred several international media outlets to follow suit. Telesur, Al Jazeera, and the BBC did stories about Bilal’s detention without charge or trial. I filled those dark days with an exhausting determination to keep some continuity. I cooked and cleaned for the mourners, worked in the salon daily, and picnicked with Jumana in the groves at least once a week, to keep up Bilal’s watering scheme.

Years before, when the almonds were dying off, Bilal had changed the configuration of the trees so most of the water-intensive almonds were replanted behind the more drought-resistant olives to prevent Israel from seizing the land on the pretext of dying trees. The irrigation tubing he’d devised ran from the center outward, so most water went to the almonds, and now they appeared healthy again with delicate white flowers, although not yet with nuts. The cousin who had taken over Jandal’s job brought the sheep to graze regularly to ensure the soil would get enough nitrogen. Even the burned patch was showing signs of life, with weeds sprouting here and there. We had wrapped the burned trees with white cloth—a bandage to reflect the sun and hold in moisture—and I extended a hose to the area to soak the soil as much as possible from the water tank, which we were still siphoning from the settlers’ water pipe. Trees aren’t much different from people in that way. You protect the burned parts from the elements, keep hydrating and nourishing the body, and wait for life to heal itself.

“I want Bilal to find this place alive when he comes out,” I said to Jumana. “I know it must kill him to not have been here when she passed… .”

She looked away, out at the trees.

“Something’s on your mind. Just say it,” I said.

“What if they don’t let him out this time?” she finally asked.

“You can be such a downer! What if aliens invade us tomorrow?”

She laughed. “Okay, remind me again how this works, in case aliens invade and snatch you up,” she said, reaching for the pump.