Etaf Rum

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A Novel

Evil Eye

Lindsay

All roads lead to you, even those I took to forget you.

She knew she was moving too fast, racing from one task to the next. The problem was, if she slowed down, everything only felt worse.

It was because all her life she’d learned to feel safer in obedience than to be free.

Tabea Lüth

Teta opened her mouth then closed it. She shook her head, but tears welled in her eyes. "You don't have to go, ya binti. You can stay here with me, at home in your country.“ “I wish I could, Yumma," you told her. “But Palestine is no longer ours, and there's nothing left for me here." 

During her first term teaching the intro course, Jonathan had sat in on her class and was stunned to see she was teaching the works of African American painter Philemona Williamson and Lebanese painter Helen Zughaib, that she was refusing to center whiteness as the custodian of high art.

"I think it’s obvious what‘ happening here“, Mama finally said. “What?" "You're cursed." Yara blinked, rubbing her eyes. “What do you mean, cursed?“ “With the evil eye, of course.” “Why would anyone curse me?" "Why wouldn't they?" Mama said. "You're educated and successful. You're married to a wonderful man, and you have two beautiful children. That's a recipe for envy, habibti. But you should already know this by now."

“If a small garden in a refugee camp is enough to bring about the evil eye,” Mama continued, “what can be said about your life? All those fancy photos you put on the internet for everyone to fawn over?" Yara gave an embarrassed laugh. "I didn't realize the evil eye applied online." “Of course it does when you put your private life there for the world to see!" Mama clucked her tongue, then lowered her voice to a tight whisper. "Displaying your blessings too proudly will only bring you hasad. You know how dangerous envy can be." 

“Right.” He nodded, his cheeks flushed. "I guess I meant, where is your family from?" “A country that doesn't exist." Silas looked at her. "How's that?" She sighed, not wanting to get into the politics. After a moment she said, “They live a few miles outside Jerusalem. “You’re Israeli, then?" "No," she said abruptly. "Im Palestinian."

She had never belonged anywhere-not in Brooklyn, not in Palestine, and certainly not here. Her soul had always been cracked in the center, her body split in two, her feet stretched so wide between opposite sides of the globe that she couldn't stand straight. She was American but un-American: Arab, but not entirely.

"After the Israeli planes bombed the olive trees," Teta began, "the soldiers gave us thirty minutes to leave our home. I remember watching my mother turn off the stove before leaving the house. My father locked the front door and clutched the house key, as if certain we would return soon. It seems so foolish now, looking back. But what we were experiencing was unfathomable." She frowns, pushing out the words slowly. "Can you imagine someone breaking into your home, on land you've lived on for generations, and forcing you to leave?"

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