19

From Leah’s emails, I gleaned that the meeting with the Odehs went better than anyone could have anticipated – that the connection was genuine, the family lovely, and the outcome beyond expectations. She reported that the family welcomed me with open arms. Told Leah they wanted me to come. That I should come and meet them. And that they would ask Mohammad, on their next visit, about meeting me. That they would ask him personally and tell Mariam, the translator, Mohammad’s answer.

Upon reaching the end of these emails, my head spinning, I closed the computer and walked to the old farmhouse where we stayed. Noa jumped off the porch and ran toward me screaming, “Abba, Abba. You said we could go to the agam. Can we go to the agam now? Please? You said. You said.”

“Yeah, we can go swimming,” I said. “Go get your bathing suit on.”

“Yipee,” she yelped, skipping up the stairs and into our room.

“And do a last potty,” I yelled, following.

“But I don’t need to.”

“She hasn’t had anything to drink all day,” Jamie said, rocking on the porch.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, she just hasn’t.”

“We have to make her drink, Jamie. It’s hot.”

“You make her drink.”

“I mean get her something.”

“Her bottle is right there,” she said, pointing to the railing.

I sighed as Noa ran toward me, jumping. I turned to Jamie. “Hey, don’t open my computer.”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“I mean, there’s Israel trip stuff on there that I need to deal with when I get back, and I know you don’t really want to deal with the details and stuff right now.”

“Thanks for the warning. I won’t look at it.”

Though we had not talked about my journey to Jerusalem in any detail, nor intimately discussed my reconciliation plans, Jamie understood the essence of what I was attempting, and had been wholly supportive, being invested in my healing. However, she also did not want the psychological burden of another recovery on her hands. Understandably so.

I picked a towel off the laundry line and walked Noa down a gravel path to Travis Pond, plopping down on the sand as she ran into the shallows, particular phrases churning to the surface. Considered the gentlest of the family / filled with remorse for what he did / wishes he could roll back time. None of it made any sense, and I didn’t know whom to trust – an enemy welcoming me with open arms or the Israeli government bent on dragging its heels. I wanted to believe the Odeh family, wanted to trust their words, but it seemed too clean, too perfect, having come to expect nothing but obstruction and insincerity. I knew better than to accept as reality that which others projected – that the Israeli government really wanted to help, or that a Hamas murderer wanted to roll back time. And yet my intuition kept leaning toward the enemy, kept nudging me and saying, Why would the family lie about this?

But I knew they had already lied about certain things, if only for the purpose of self-preservation, lies they needed to repeat in order to survive, still viewing Mohammad as kind, as gentle. They all feel that if you meet Mohammad you will see his humanity and his heart very clearly.

 

Me:	They’re delusional.
Me:	They have to be.
Me:	Seriously. He’s a murderer. I’m not the least bit sorry he can’t hold his kids. Tough shit.
Me:	Yes. But it is sad for the kids.
Me:	It’s horribly sad, but fuck if I’m going to feel sympathy for him. He robbed parents of their children. He should now be robbed of his own.
Me:	Not exactly the words of a reconciler.
Me:	I’m willing to talk with them, understand them, learn about them. Make that effort. Consider them in ways I’d never conceived. But I don’t have to forgive.
Me:	No you don’t.
Me:	I’m not going to.
Me:	Then don’t.