Under normal circumstances, I might welcome the interruption. But not this day. Not for this explosion of news in the middle of my lecture. “The Jews are bombing Egypt! There is war!” he yells, and leaves, running down the hall. War. The word detonates a baggage of dread, which I have lugged on my back since I was five years old. Since 1948, when war and I were formally introduced. It makes my blood run cold. By the time I regain my bearings, my students have cleared out of the classroom in a frenzy, rushing beneath a sound banner of “Allaho akbar.” I must get back to Jenin. Throngs are already filling the hallways and streets of Bethlehem. I run, pushing and shoving my way toward the dormitory where I rent a small room run by the Omar Bin al Khattab Mosque. Haje Um Naseem opens the peep flap of the ancient wooden doors and closes it quickly when she sees me. In a moment, preceded by the clang of unlocking bolts, the heavy door swings open, slowly. Haje Um Naseem’s tiny frame is dwarfed by the immense door as she waves me in.
