At daybreak, Salma, a plump, brunette woman in her early forties, was wrapping some bundles of Naji’s favorite food and cigarettes. When she finished packing everything into a bundle, she dressed up and prepared herself as well. Confusing feelings occupied her. She didn’t know whether she should be in high spirits, as she was, or dejected, as she intermittently felt. It was only a few hours that separated her from seeing her son for the first time in the three years since he was caught in a failed attempt to sneak beyond the borders. During these three years, Salma used to sit where her son kissed her goodbye, weeping and sniffing each of the letters her son sent her. She lived sobbingly reproaching herself for letting him go—as though she had any way to put a stop to what he was up to. She grew more pallid each day as she languished after her lost son. She wept so bitterly over him that her eyes seemed to have been drained of tears. It struck five in the morning, and Salma carried the two bundles and left the house. Her son, who hadn’t been on trial yet, was in the Nafha desert prison inside Israel.
Tightly clenching a package in each hand, Salma alighted from the car with anxious thoughts whirling through her head. She felt ready to drop, but she had to pass one last checkpoint before she could gain access into Israel. After having her neatly organized packages inspected and then messed up, she had to stuff them hurriedly and go through the metal detector. When she passed through it, it gave a buzzing sound. Her blood ran cold. A blond, capped officer with freckles on his face asked her to check if she had any metal pieces or coins with her. Salma examined herself thoroughly but failed to find a sign of any metal. The officer, then, required her to go through the metal detector for a second time. As she returned, Salma felt her heart pounding so loudly, she was sure the smirking officer could hear it. She stepped toward the metal detector and attempted to steady her legs while she passed through it. And then “Zzzzz”—it buzzed again. Immediately, two slender female officers came ambling toward her, when it flashed through her mind: it was the buckle of her watch that made all the fuss. “Good riddance,” she said to herself, feeling stupid and happy that she could eventually pass through without the machine buzzing. Salma, cursing the occupation for making her look stupid and awkward, saw the image of her Naji draw nearer and nearer.
It had been three and a half years since Abu Naji passed away of prostate cancer. His wife, Salma, had to contend with the daily life of a depressed family, along with her son, Naji. Naji prematurely became the head, and the only breadwinner, of the family.
Naji was tall and skinny, a young man in his early twenties. He struggled to bring his mother and himself their daily sustenance early in his life. He would get up early every day, pick up the sandwiches his mother wrapped for him, and he would get back late in the evening with a little cash. The new work Naji had obtained at the smuggling tunnels was good enough to bring them food; it was enough to keep them alive for a day or two more, yet it was likely to bring them death.
Salma felt disconcerted while Naji was having his usual modest supper with her at home. Salma took notice of Naji’s absent-mindedness. Still staring at his sullen face, she refilled his cup of tea. Naji’s eyes were leering at the pastry in his hands, his lower jaw moving up and down as sluggishly as his body appeared to be.
Breaking the silence, Salma asked, “How was your day at work?” fully aware of the answer. “Tiring, I suppose?” she continued. Naji, however, sounded uninterested in his mother’s question. He was transfixing his eyes unblinkingly at the small, scattered pieces of sage floating on the surface of the hot tea. It had been a while before Naji realized that his mother was uneasily exchanging with him nervous looks from the edge of her watery eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked him once more.
“Nothing,” Naji lied.
“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped at him. “You’ve been acting strangely since you came home. What happened? Just let me know,” she tersely continued. Naji finally told her what happened between him and his boss, Abu Sham, inside the rotten chamber near the tunnel where he worked.
“It’s dangerous. I know,” said Naji.
His mother kept silent.
“I’ll make 4,000 shekels for a two-day job. I can use the money to start a small enterprise. I can be free,” he added convincingly, “I sneak in, bring the package, and then come back.”
“Do you even know what that package is?” his mother finally asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” he replied.
Naji was up early in the morning. Salma was preparing his breakfast when he came in, already dressed. She started singing in a low voice. Her singing was mixed with sporadic heartbreaking sobs. While having their breakfast, Naji cleared his throat and raised his eyes to meet his mother’s. “I don’t want you to be angry with me. I’m doing this for us,” said Naji in a distressed voice. Salma, who was not eating, shot him an angry yet compassionate look. Lowering her face, she said nothing. Naji got up to his feet and headed to where his mother was sitting. “I’ll be back in two days; I promise.” His mother raised her face again while Naji was grabbing her hands. Salma felt that it was a moment of farewell. It was a moment of inevitability. Naji lowered himself and kissed the back of her hands. Failing to gulp back her tears, Salma tightened her grip of his hands before she let go of them—of him.
Salma finally reached the prison. She entered a big hall; she had never seen anything like it before. Shortly after, she realized she would be inspected again. There was bustling. She heard many loud voices coming from here and there. It seemed like dozens of quarrels were taking place at the same moment. The view of her son was fading in her mind when she found herself in a row of elderly women waiting to hand in their papers.
After what seemed a long while, Salma found herself face to face with a blond female clerk. She was slim and short, and seemed to be sinking in the chair. Salma stood still while the blond clerk sat at a large, glossy desk and spoke as hastily as she typed. She looked up at Salma, and moved all four fingers back and forth next to her thumb at the end of her stretched hand to tell her to hand in the papers. Salma handed her the papers and examined her fingers while they were hitting the keys gently. The officer pushed her papers back to her, and Salma moved hastily to release herself from the restless, nudging women behind her.
Salma didn’t have the slightest idea where she should go. She was roaming the place with the bundles in her hands and the papers curled under her arm. She had a passing thought of inquiring about where to go from an officer at one of the gates, but she spotted the nudging woman limping with three huge bags outside the hall. Salma hurried to catch up with her.
“Hello, ma’am,” Salma said, doing her utmost to keep up her strides.
“Hello,” came the throaty voice of the old woman.
Salma was about to ask where they were supposed to go before the nervous woman’s voice came again. “So, visiting your son?”
“Yes,” Salma answered, straining to walk by her side. “And you?” she went on.
“Grandsons. Two,” the old woman answered her promptly.
“Seeing them now, are we?” asked Salma.
But the old woman broke off to rest from the heavy weight of the three bags before moving on. Salma was waiting for her answer while she was taking short breaths. Then, the old woman said, “Not yet, still have to pass the last inspection.” Salma felt disappointed at hearing the word “inspection.” She couldn’t take the waiting and felt more waves of longing breaking through her body as she made more strides, now behind the old woman. “I know it feels embarrassing, but that’s it; we have no chance of seeing our sons if we think about being embarrassed,” came the restless voice of the woman again.
Salma thought for a moment the old woman was not talking to her. Then, when she assured herself that she was, she tried to interpret what she meant by “embarrassing” before she replied, “Uh, sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.”
The old woman said, “The inspection; I am talking about the inspection.”
Salma felt as though she should have felt embarrassed at each of the inspections she went through so far. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked, feeling truly embarrassed.
“What? Don’t you know?” the old woman looked dumb-struck.
“Know what?” Salma replied, sounding stupefied; her heart was beating fast. The old woman looked at her pityingly. She told Salma that at the last inspection before she could see her son, she had to submit herself to a cavity search in case she was hiding explosives.
Three years later, Salma, now at the age of forty-five, sounded paler and feebler than ever before. Stretching on her bed in a bundle of shawls, she was striving to picture the vague vision of her son whom she saw for the last time six years ago. Sweat was mingled with a few tears and trickling down her cheeks. While she was reenacting in her mind the last moments she spent with her son, she recalled his promise that he would come back. Another tear made its way down her cheek. The poor mother felt her heart drop again when she heard a sound echo loudly in her mind, the sound that penetrated her ears for three years. It was the sound which bore her the news of her son’s death. The last tear had come to a halt at her lips. Her lips curled. The tear dropped off.