Jehad could barely say Mhammad’s name. It wasn’t only that he had abandoned me and disappeared without a word, but there had been rumors that Mhammad had become (and might have been all along) an Israeli informer. Few believed it because of his history, and of course because of the respect his brother, Bilal, commanded. But there had been enough sightings of him in Tel Aviv to refute the story that he was living in exile somewhere in the West.

“Really? How do you know? You’re hiding something from me. I can feel it,” I said.

“Nanu, I’m not. That’s all I know,” he said.

“Are you working with Bilal somehow?” I moved closer, looking deeply into him for some hint.

He looked down at me with softer eyes. “Nanu, I just met the guy. I’m trying to look out for you. You have to cut this last string with Mhammad, or else you’ll never be free.”

Free. As if any of us could ever be so.

“Fine. I’ll go. I’ll get the damn divorce. I have to save up some money first,” I said.

Before I left for Palestine, Jehad invited us all to his new place for ghada. He had moved out not long after returning from Palestine to a rent-free place in exchange for maintaining the landlord’s property. He was still cooking when we arrived but would not allow us to help. “I’m not letting you take credit for this feast.” He winked his good eye and shooed me out of his kitchen. “Nanu, you can set up the space.”

He had a rather elaborate computer setup, like something one would see at a major business enterprise. Until then, I had only seen computers at the Internet cafés popping up around the country. I had heard that rich people had private computers.

“What is all this, Jehad?”

He peeked out from behind the kitchen wall. “It’s nothing. I’m fixing up a used system to have my own server.”

“What’s a server?”

“Forget it. Can you set up for the food? I’m almost done.”

Mama and I unfolded a plastic cloth on the floor and arranged floor cushions around it. After half an hour of clanging kitchen-ware, Jehad emerged with a tray of maqlooba—layered eggplant, rice, and chicken in special spices—bowls of cucumber and yogurt sauce, and various salads and pickles. “How is it I never knew you could cook?” I said, surprised how delicious it was.

“I figured I needed to learn before we get ulcers from all the hot spices you put in our food,” he teased, his warm smile reminding me how close we used to be.

“Don’t you bad-talk your sister,” Sitti Wasfiyeh said.

“Ordinarily you would take a crack at my terrible cooking,” I joked.