Susan Abulhawa

Waking limbs stretched, water splashed away sleep, hopeful eyes widened.

AMAL WANTED A CLOSER look into the soldier’s eyes, but the muzzle of his automatic rifle, pressed against her forehead, would not allow it.

The moon hung low, like a buckle fastening earth and sky, just a sliver of promise shy of being full.

urns and belongings on

There was some oil, but mostly almonds, figs, a variety of citrus, and vegetables.

Babel Amond market, where Hasan

Decades after war had divided the two friends, Hasan told his youngest child, a little girl named Amal, about his boyhood friend. “He was like a brother,” Hasan said, closing a book that had been given to him by Ari in the autumn of their boyhood.

each, at a young age and in his own world and language, had found refuge in the pages of poets, essayists, and philosophers.

no small measure would contribute to his tenured professorship at Hebrew University decades later.

For this decision, Hasan would tell his little girl, Amal, many years later, “Habibti, we have nothing but education now. Promise me you’ll take it with all the force you have.” And his little girl would promise the father she adored.