She met me, alone, at the train station. She wore a pink tank top; her thick brown hair tickled her bare shoulders. “I hope I don’t have to go back to America,” she told me later, on the train. “I don’t want to go back.”
If I had come a week earlier, she would have met me with B, tall but unassuming, sensitive features, adolescent moustache. He would have worn dark colors, a snug tee-shirt hugging sand-dune abs, kafia wrapped fashionably at the neck.
Her head, arms, and ankles would be covered, one fabric flowing featurelessly into the next.
Three years ago, she was a Colorado girl. Mommy, Daddy, sister Annie, collection of tiny plastic pigs. Religious affiliation Bob Dylan. Big brain, bigger heart, both wide open and hungry. Impossibly, from seven time zones to the east, Israel was calling to her.
One year ago, she took an oath in front of a panel of witnesses (though strictly speaking, only two were required): Allah is the one true god, and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah.
One week ago, she went for a swim at the beach in Tel Aviv. Swimming was what she had missed the most, she told me. (Wherever you tried to swim, a man was bound to show up sooner or later.) That and instrumental music.
Now, what she missed most was B. He hadn’t answered her calls or emails since she had given him back the ring. He was certainly depressed. He was working nights. He had to move out of the dorms soon, and it was unclear where he would go.
But her immediate concern was B’s family. I sat on the couch pretending to read as she returned a call to B’s sister. She slipped deep into her Israeli accent as she answered a frantic stream of questions. “No, I am not with him… I don’t know where he is… he didn’t tell you?” (B had not called his family, either.) “Yes, it’s for good… no, I’m not…” (covering her head.) Now she was near tears. “I don’t think I will see you again… I will miss you so much, and I will miss your mother…” (I am near tears too, as I remember her voice.) “No I can’t… I can’t… I will miss you so much… ”
B’s family had been so proud of her. They knew how long her journey had been — they had been with her through the reading, the soul-searching, the questioning. They saw themselves as her own family in Israel, or maybe just as her own family. And she loved them with all her opening, opening heart.
But now she was afraid of them too. When she told B’s sister what had happened, she had set a chain of events in motion, and she did not know where the chain ended. Her rejection of the family would certainly hurt their pride; her rejection of their religion would both provoke and legitimize their anger.
It is generally accepted in Islam that the punishment for apostasy is death.
She is thinking of changing her phone number, taking down her Facebook account. She is rooming with a friend, and she did not tell the family where. She has not heard anything from B’s father yet, or either of his brothers.
“I hope I don’t have to go back to America,” she told me, breaking the thick silence on the train to Rehovot. “I don’t want to go back.” It is not a plea, but a prayer, even and measured as the year of daily prayers that preceded it. It is woven with love and fear — of her country, of her newly estranged family and perhaps her newly estranged God.
When she covered her head, cashiers could not understand her Hebrew, and Jews would not meet her eye in the street. When she uncovered it, Muslim women would no longer smile at her, and her coworkers were happy for her — too happy. She has had alcohol every night for a week, and a celebration of new freedom has giving way to a late-night darkness that she will have to face. She has thrown off the head scarf, but now she compulsively buys sun hats and head bands. When we met, she was beautiful and simple. After three years in Israel, she is very, very complicated.
But her voice is measured, heavy with self-knowledge. She knows exactly how far she will go for love, and she has found roots that will not be moved. Just like so many other Israelis, she has deliberately chosen her way of life, and it gives her strength.
She does not want to go back. Three years ago, she came to love the land and the people; now they have left their mark. She belongs in Israel, and Israel belongs to her.