“My home is here. Can I make a quick stop and pick up my son? He’s little and likes to come with me on my drives.”
“Sure.”
Our elderly taxi driver honked as he pulled up next to a concrete home with laundry and garbage in the front yard. A seven-year old boy with wavy auburn hair and washed-out clothes came running while putting on his shoes.
A girl — maybe 11 or 12 — bounded after him. She rested one hand on the car door and another on her waist. She peered in at us, then at her father. Her brother was already adjusting himself in the passenger seat.
“Can I come, too, Baba? Baba, can I come, too?”
“No. Stay here.”
Then, a wife some twenty years her husband’s junior wiped her hands on her pants as she came outside. After a loud conversation about dinner plans and the time of his return, the wife leaned in for a kiss.
“Khalas,” he said not unkindly. “Not now. Balash tiddalali in front of the girls.”
As we made our way from Areeha (Jericho) to a suburb of Ramallah, the seven-year old with his arm out the window excitedly proposed several detours. ”Take a right here, Baba. Let’s visit so-and-so.” And every time the dad replied, “But we have to drop off the girls, right Baba?” And the boy nodded understandingly.
About an hour later, we entered the village of N’s childhood. Beit Haneena.
Where exactly did we want to be dropped off? the driver asked. He had promised to deliver us right to our doorstep. Now it was her turn to tell him which was the right one.
“Straight or merge left?”
“Left,” N said intuitively. But another fork in the road emerged shortly thereafter. Our driver slowed to a stop.
“Keep going straight?”
We looked at her expectantly. She held the seat in front of her and looked around earnestly, like a frightened animal. Then, her eyes watered and she said something that made A and me shudder: “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. I don’t know how to get there.”
It had been ten long years since she’d lived in this village near Ramallah. Of course she’d forgotten. For some reason, though, when I signed up for this trip, I thought we were going off of something more than childhood memories.
But before A and I could weigh the magnitude of our misfortune, N was crying and there was nothing to do but comfort her.
“What’s the name, ya binti?” The driver asked. He stopped at the first warsha (car shop) and asked after the person. They pointed straight ahead.
Tears made way for smiles of recognition. “That’s my school! My uncle’s house! It’s coming back! My God, guys, this was home.”
