I’d never seen her hair before.
It was a deep brown, pulled back into a loose bun, garnished with a floral clip. Her dark eyes, now framed by bangs, were more stunning than usual.
She opened the door wider. ‘You’re welcome.’
If the lack of head shawl wasn’t a warm enough welcome on a cold evening, her three-year-old made sure of it. He bounded around the corner, launched himself at my legs and grabbed my hand.
‘This is my house! This is my house!’ he declared, pulling me up the stairs.
Ramy’s voice only had one pitch (high) and one volume (loud). Everything was exciting at his age - especially in this new country and especially a visitor, so close to bedtime.
Little Aisha - a year younger and always a fraction slower than her brother – scrambled behind us. Using her small palms, she pushed me onto the couch and climbed onto my lap.
With the daze of beautiful hair and the commotion of children I almost forgot what I’d practiced all the way down the drive.
‘Eid Mubarak*,’ I offered
‘Eid Mubarak,’ Mariam smiled, chasing away the toddler and placing a cup of hot, sweet tea into my hands.
‘Shookran^. How is Ahmed?’ I asked.
‘My husband…good…maybe too good,’ she laughed. ‘He is with family. Today party in Dubai. Me...I am here. This my house.’ She gestured towards the immaculate living room. How she kept it so clean with her hyperactive progeny, I will never know.
‘And your family?’
‘My family – no party. Hmm… one second...’ she pulled out her phone and typed into the translator. ‘Gaza is a complicated situation,’ it spat out.
Ahmed and Mariam had moved into the first of our four unit block last November. I first saw them in the front yard as I stepped out of my airport taxi. Bible study was starting in 10 minutes, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet new neighbours.
He was an engineer and a friend had told him that Australia was a good place to live. Upon that review, he moved his family from the Middle East to our small suburb in Melbourne.
She was from Palestine, one of fifteen children (fifteen! I exclaimed) and held degrees in psychology and counselling.
‘After graduating, then married, then Dubai,’ she explained. Then children.
Ahmed had been working overtime in the weeks leading up to his departure. His mother was ill and he wanted to see her, perhaps for the last time. Mariam seemed unfazed at fending for herself for two weeks, declining my offers to help with shopping.
‘Thank you but I know how to go,’ she reassured me. ‘One supermarket – bus and walk 10 minutes, no problem. Other supermarket: train and walk 5 minutes. I am OK.’
And really, it turns out, she was OK. Slowly, and between sips of tea, she described the complex situation back home. Her family had been evacuated from their house in southern Gaza. They were now in tents, along with everyone in the whole country it seemed. It was summer now, but the war wouldn’t be over before winter. We both glanced at the inclement weather outside.
‘Not good’, she sighed. ‘Very bad’.
Aisha was now filling my empty lap with her toys. Ramy had found my keys and was transporting them in his dump truck. Both children blissfully unaware of their grandparents’ plight.
Mariam refilled my tea and placed a slice of semolina cake in front of me.
‘And you? How are you?’
‘Me? I am good!’ (War was foreign to me; how could I be anything but excellent?) ‘I worked late last night. On Sunday, we lost our soccer game – again! This weekend I will be away hiking. I hope it won’t be wet like today!’
‘You always busy,’ she laughed. ‘You, strong girl.’
It was true that I always thought of myself as a strong, independent woman: left home at 17, titled ‘Dr’ at 22, travelled the world at 25, purchased unit 4 last year. But the more I waffled on about my week, the more I wondered what the true measures of strength were.
I spotted the time.
‘Eight-thirty! I’d better let you get them to bed. Hey Ramy, can I have my keys please?’
Ramy planted the keys in my palm and a kiss on my cheek. His sister clung to me in protest, tears welling up under her long lashes.
‘Don’t cry Aisha! I’ll be back another day. You know where I live!’
‘Thank you, my friend. Please come again.’ Mariam meant it.
‘I will! Send my greetings to Ahmed. Let me know if you need anything!’
‘Yes, shookran, I am OK.’
The kids blew me kisses through the window; their mother stood behind the curtain.
I zipped up my jacket, tucked my hair into my hood and stepped out into the rain.
I knew who the strong independent woman was.
_______________
*An Eid greeting - Eid being the festival to celebrate the end of the month-long Ramadan fast.
^Thank you
