Chapter 1 – A Journey Into Sunset
The alley outside was still humming with the last threads of day. Children’s laughter bounced off the cracked concrete walls, and a goat bleated somewhere in the distance. Adara’s bare feet slapped against the ground as she ran toward the little house at the end of the lane, her hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. She loved the open air; it made her breathe freely. Yet even in her dreams, she sometimes felt the awful suffocation of being trapped. She never spoke of it to anyone, but each time she woke, a faint, macabre unease clung to her.
“Adara! Come inside, supper is ready!”
Her mother’s call was an adjournment to her play — a pronouncement of the day’s end. Adara loved her mother’s voice, soft yet firm, carrying the tenderness of a woman left with no other belonging except her daughter. And yet, the close of day always unsettled her.
She was six years old then, old enough to marvel at the patterns of nature, yet young enough to fear many of them — including sunset, because it brought darkness. What if the sun forgot to rise tomorrow, thrusting the entire world into darkness? What would her mother do then? She is alone with me, Adara thought, or perhaps she has always been alone. At least, I have only ever seen her that way.
As she ran toward the house, the aroma of warm rice and dates grew stronger, stirring her appetite even more.
Inside, their single-room home glowed with the low orange light of a kerosene lantern. Flickering shadows of their few frugal belongings danced upon the patched walls like a well-choreographed puppet show.
Electricity was rare in their community, and they had learned to adapt to its unscheduled appearances. Life here was not driven by light; the absence of sorrow itself was treated as a celebration of survival. The joy of life had withered into small, fragile moments — barely enough to feed the stubborn fire of hope.
Salma, her mother, was offering prayers as Adara stepped inside. Her broad forehead touched the floor mat, bowed not only in supplication but also in complaint — a silent questioning of what He had done to her fate. Still in her twenties, Salma’s smooth complexion, big black eyes, and long lashes lent her a beauty that even hardship could not dim. Her high forehead framed by dark, graceful brows gave her an air of quiet dignity.
Life had been unfair to her — though in Gaza, who could claim fairness at all? People here aged with tragedies, not with years.
Even those with a comparatively better social status carried the pain of the Nakba in their bellies. Land was not just a belonging for them; it was their reason for existence.
Life was a constant struggle for Salma, but not one she openly complained about. She never did — perhaps she reserved such words for God alone, the One she believed in so deeply despite His apparent disinterest in her condition. Her resilience was unmatched, yet the persistent hardships had left so many scars on her body and soul that they had become her very identification marks.
Katy greeted Adara at the entrance with a primordial gaze — warm and expectant. The scrappy cream-colored cat was more than a pet; she was a reminder of faith, a small living proof that trust could still exist in a broken world. Katy was no pampered, fluffy house cat; she was a street cat, lean and weathered. Yet she had opened a window in Adara’s heart, letting in the fresh air of love and the rare experience of joy. She rubbed against Adara’s ankles, meowing softly. Adara grinned and tore a piece from the dry pita she had saved in her pocket, dropping it to the floor. Katy pounced, tail flicking in gratitude.
By the time Salma finished her prayers, the room felt warmer, more alive. She began placing two tin plates of muhammar, the sweet, sticky rice dish they both loved. “Wash your hands,” she said without looking up, setting the plates on the low wooden table.
Adara obeyed, splashing cold water over her fingers in the metal basin by the door. The shock of it made her shiver, but the anticipation of food made her ignore it.
They ate in silence, mother and daughter sitting cross-legged on the thin mat. The muhammar was soft and sticky, tasting of dates and browned butter. The smell mixed with the faint smoke from a neighbor’s cooking fire drifting through the half-open window.
Adara helped her mother collect the utensils and put them in a corner where a half-rusted water tap with a hanging rubber pipe dripped water. Salma, widowed before Adara’s birth, did everything herself. She wanted her daughter to study and become a doctor — a dream she had once held for herself, only to have it shattered by a love she could not escape.
After dinner, Salma stretched out on the mattress with a weary sigh. Her days were long, filled with errands, prayers, and the constant quiet labor of survival. “Come here,” she said softly, patting the space beside her.
Adara curled against her mother’s side, her small head on Salma’s shoulder. She traced her fingers along the stitching of her mother’s dress in absent circles, staring at the shadows the lantern cast on the ceiling.
But sleep would not come. The night pressed in, and the silence felt too big.
“Mama,” Adara whispered, “do you think the sun will rise tomorrow?”
Salma smiled faintly in the dark. “Of course it will. The sun never forgets.”
“But… what if it does?” The girl’s voice trembled with a kind of wonder. “Sometimes I feel like one day the sun will go to sleep and leave us all in the dark forever.”
Her mother turned to face her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then I will light a lamp for you, my Adara, and we will wait for the sun together. But it always comes back. That is its promise.”
Adara hesitated. Her voice was small when she spoke again. “Mama… will you tell me a story? About you and Baba… how you met?”
For a moment, Salma’s chest tightened. Memories pressed against her ribs like stones. She had not spoken of Samir in this way for months — not as the man in the shroud, but as the boy who had made her heart race like a startled bird.
She exhaled slowly and kissed the top of Adara’s head. “Alright,” she said. “I will tell you how I met your father.”
Her voice slipped into memory, soft and rhythmic, as if the words themselves were walking through the past.
“I was about your age when I first began helping your great-uncle at the market in Jenin. I used to wake before the sun, and the stones of the alley would still be cold under my feet. The market would come alive slowly — first the smell of fresh bread, then the sound of goats and roosters, then the shouting of the men.
“One morning, I was stacking bread loaves at the stall when I saw him — your father, Samir.”
Her voice softened further, a smile flickering in it like a candle.
“He was young, only twenty, but he walked like the street belonged to him. He asked for two loaves of bread, but he didn’t leave. He leaned against the stall, asking me for directions to the old olive press. I pointed, but he already knew the way. He just wanted to talk to me.
“The next day, he came again. And the next. Sometimes he bought bread, sometimes only a few olives, but always with that smile.”
Adara giggled sleepily. “Did you smile back?”
Salma chuckled softly. “No. I was shy. But my heart… it wasn’t shy.”
She paused, letting the memory breathe, letting her daughter imagine the dusty streets, the scent of warm bread, the boy who lingered by the stall for no reason at all.
“After a few months,” Salma continued, “he spoke to your grandfather about marrying me. Your grandfather said yes — he liked Samir’s spirit. We didn’t have much for a wedding, but we had joy.
“Oh, Adara… the night of my wedding, the camp was full of music. The women sang zaffeh, their voices rising and falling like birds in the sky. Someone hung a string of lights between two houses, and they shone like stars close enough to touch. I wore a cream dress that my aunt sewed for me, and she pinned jasmine flowers in my hair. I was drenched in perfume, and my heart was filled with joy I have never felt again.
“There was dancing in the street. The children ran around with sparklers, and the old men clapped to the beat of the darbuka. For one night, it felt as if the world had no walls, no soldiers, no fear — only love and laughter.”
Adara closed her eyes, imagining the lights, the music, the flowers. “I wish I was there,” she murmured.
“You were there,” her mother whispered, kissing her forehead. “In my heart, you were always there.”
The room was quiet again. Outside, the wind rustled the tarpaulin on a neighbor’s roof, and Katy stretched in her corner with a faint purr.
Adara’s breathing slowed, her body softening against her mother’s. Salma stared into the dim ceiling shadows, her heart full and heavy at once.
In the darkness, she allowed herself one silent thought: if only the story could have ended there, with music in the streets and jasmine in my hair.
