“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!”

Ghassan ran to them as Bilal was lowered slowly to meet him. The two friends held each other, their faces buried in the other’s shoulders. When Ghassan lifted his head, tears glistened in his eyes, surely the bitter joy of holding the thin, fragile body of a friend who had been so strong. Seeing Bilal make his way to me, I thought there could never be words big enough to hold such love and desire for one person. His arms circled around me, and I put mine around him. Love eclipsed propriety this time. I could feel his ribs beneath the sweater, but he was the whole world in my arms. He whispered in my ear, “You are everything, Nahr.”

Reluctantly I went back to living with Jumana. Rectitude had to win until we were married. Bilal’s aunts took turns staying overnight while he recovered, and I came during the day, which no one seemed to mind.

“Maybe they think sex only happens in the dark,” Bilal joked.

“I guess they didn’t consider our thick curtains.”