“Ordinarily I would use white silk for this thobe, but I found this gorgeous terra-cotta silk that harkens to Jericho. You see here on the chest piece: this is a collar worn by Canaanite queens. I added these geometric patterns typical of Romi thobes from the Ramallah area to show the olive, almond, and pomegranate trees. On the sides here is the crucifixion from when the Crusaders ruled over us, and here, you see, is the crescent for the return of Jerusalem to Muslim rule since the time of Salah Eddein.”

I was in awe. “This is a treasure, Mama.”

“You’re the treasure,” she said. “And here, look closely at these shapes. Verse twenty-one from Surat el Rum in the Quran. A prayer for marriage.”

It was hard to make out the convoluted script, but Mama read it to me. “And of His wisdom is that He created for you from yourselves mates that you may find tranquility in them; and He placed between you affection and mercy. Indeed, for in these are wisdoms for those who think.”

I ran my fingers over the intricate stiches of cyan, terra-cotta, emerald, maroon, and apricot. Life was sweeping me up in an unexpected dream.

Jumana stayed by my side on my wedding day, helping me prepare. Mama had invited cousins I didn’t know from Ein el-Sultan and Haifa. It seemed entire villages showed up to celebrate. Even news cameras from Palestine TV were there to report on the wedding of a national hero. The day turned into evening and into night in a blur of song, dance, food, revelry, zaghareet, prayers, well-wishers, and gifts. My brother footed most of the bill. He knew Bilal and I could not afford it. “Actually, it’s mostly from our grandmother,” he said. Bilal was uneasy about accepting. Jehad said, “Consider it my contribution to the revolution.”

“As if you’re not running websites.” I grinned at him. He smiled too. That was all we had the opportunity to say on the matter of his being our Jordan Contact.

Bilal and I were exhausted at the end of the night. We wanted to have a romantic ending to our wedding, but we barely got out of our clothes and washed up before collapsing to sleep in each other’s arms. I suppose such an uneventful wedding night would concern most couples, but it felt natural and precious. Besides, we still had guests in the house, and we were mindful of making noise.

We were the last to awake the next day, forced to get up by the commotion in the kitchen. “So much for a quiet, romantic morning after,” he whispered to me. My mother and grandmother were arguing in the kitchen. “It’s the opposite of romance,” I said with a grin.

We greeted Sitti Wasfiyeh and Mama. Jehad was on the terrace drinking coffee. “Your mother is making the eggs wrong,” Sitti Wasfiyeh complained.