5

Flower Farm

Just before sunrise, as if yawning, carnations bloomed in the plastic greenhouses. At four in the morning, Shimon’s tense and raspy voice would billow, urging Maryam, the oldest and most experienced of his workers, to get to work, even before the shift had begun officially. Once the sun is high up, and the flowers are in full bloom, the crop would be ruined. They had to be plucked when stems were the longest to be ready for export.

Inexpensive foreign labor from China to Romania had flooded the market in recent years. But Shimon preferred Palestinian women from the West Bank. Despite the difficulties of securing work permits for them, they were faster and more efficient. Moreover, he didn’t need to worry about finding housing or health care for them, as is done with foreign laborers. A car took them from the edge of Balata refugee camp in the morning and went through the checkpoint to drop them off at the farm. He doesn’t know anything about them, or their lives, except for their full names and ID numbers, which he’d recorded. He only dealt with Maryam. Even when he needed to address the other workers, she was his messenger. When he happened to be in a good mood, he joked with them, but that was quite rare. He often chastised them and ordered them to keep plucking flowers whenever he heard chatter, or noticed that their work rhythm had slowed down a bit for whatever reason.

Maryam’s days started before dawn. She woke up at three in the morning to do some housework and prepared school sandwiches for her kids. Everyone would still be asleep when she left and sat silently with the others in the car. Even the soldiers at the checkpoint on the way to Shimon’s farm were sleepy. But they insisted on being sticklers and made everyone wait for a long time. She usually sat next to the driver and would look at the spectacle through the windshield. Waiting for a signal from one of the soldiers to move forward. Every single day a gesture from a soldier’s hand, or his finger, decided their fate as they crossed the checkpoint from Palestine to Palestine. The despair of all the workers crossing was hidden beneath the morning calm.

When Maryam got to the farm she plunged her whole body into a sea of flowers, waiting to be plucked. Her back would bend and rise, as if it were independent of her fatigued body, or the silent morning. The white cover she used to wrap around her head and face could only repel the chemicals drenching the flowers. Their odor, and that of her own sweat, which trickled down her face and body, would soon reach her nostrils.

Her coworkers often accused her of taking Shimon’s side and always coming to his defense. But all she wanted was to keep feeding the bodies waiting for her back at home. The Israelis threw her husband in jail, and when he was released, she didn’t recognize him. He waited for her at home and she wasn’t sure he recognized her. “They threw him out on the street after keeping him in prison for six months. No one knew where he was. He came back a mad man. I don’t know what they did to him.” She would say that and quickly wipe her tears away. “There is no time for sadness or pain. Come on, girls, let’s finish our work, for God’s sake. We don’t want any trouble.”

They complained about the chemicals Shimon sprayed. Badriyya once protested: “This guy drenches the flowers with chemicals. I’ve had so many problems with my face and skin since I started working here. I guess we should just dress like the Taliban and cover our faces and leave nothing but a sieve to avoid all these chemicals.”

Maryam shushed her: “For God’s sake, Badriyya. You never stop complaining. God help whoever is going to marry you. I’ve been working for years. I cover my face with a cloth and never had problems. Let’s pluck them roses. May God pluck our lives to end this one.”

Shimon used to tell them to stop blabbering when he heard them arguing. But this morning he stood alone, perplexed amid a sea of silent carnations. No whispers, complaints, or the sound of scissors severing elegant stems. Where are they? Why are they late? It’s not a holiday. He thought of what he was going to lose that day because of their absence. He looked at his watch again, stumbled out of the farm, and headed to the storage room. He wanted to look at the calendar on its wall to make sure today was neither a holiday nor a feast for any sect or religious group in the country. It turned out to be just another day. He headed to the main door of the storage room, opened it, and stood watching the road leading to the farm.

He reached into the pocket of his khaki pants and took out his cell phone to call the neighboring farm and ask the owner if there were any closures in the West Bank. Maybe they couldn’t cross the checkpoint. His neighbor confirmed that there was no curfew or problems at the checkpoint and said that his Arab workers were no-shows too.

Shimon was so angry he almost injured his fingers dialing the driver’s number. Nidal’s cell phone was lying on the kitchen table at his home, right next to a full cup of tea. The sugar at the bottom had not dissolved. The phone kept shaking as it rang. It crawled to the edge of the table with each call until it fell on the floor.