Muhammad Ali Khalidi is Presidential Professor of Philosophy at CUNY Graduate Center, where he teaches and publishes in the philosophy of science. He has written on various aspects of the question of Palestine, including Palestinian refugee rights. His edited volume, Manifestations of Identity: The Lived Reality of Palestinian Refugees in Lebanon, was published by the Institute of Palestine Studies in 2010. He has translated a wide range of texts from Arabic into English, including the collection, Medieval Islamic Philosophical Writings. He was born in Lebanon to a Lebanese mother and a Palestinian father.

From “My Heart Hangs from a Mulberry Tree” by Wedad Taha

“Mama, I want to be veiled,” I said to my mother absent-mindedly when she came to visit me, as I buried my little head in her lap. I shut my eyes and took in the scent from her long black dress. It was my mother’s scent and lap. She hadn’t visited me in a month and a half, leaving me to toss and turn at night, yearning and longing for her. I missed her dear spirit and missed playing with my siblings. I was the middle child, but I always behaved like a mother to them. I cried for an hour as I buried myself in her lap and held on to her, as though I was trying to plant her in my soul so that I could have my fill of her. My mother was and has always been my comfort and the soul of my soul. I’m not sure whether being deprived of her made me more attached to her, or whether it was her short stories, or her sweet singing that mingled with the steam and smell of soap when she bathed us. I held her head with my hand and told her not to leave me there, to take me with her, wherever that might be. I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know where I stood or how to make sense of what was happening to me. I wasn’t fully conscious of the significance of what I had lived through.

One of the clearest images that I had came from my dreams. Like most Palestinian families, mine was pious, following traditions inspired by the face of God and his power over hearts, minds, and practices. Did I just say the “face” of God? It was a face that I saw through thick, high, white clouds, an ethereal face that visited me in a dream and I spoke to it. I don’t remember what He said, but He spoke to me too. Yes, I spoke to God when I was asleep, and in the same dream I saw the prophet. When I woke up in a muddled state and said, “Mama, I want to be veiled,” my mother refused. She feared that I would take off the veil after a while, and she wanted me to be sure of the first free decision that I would make. Did I say “free decision”? I don’t know how free my decision was, nor do I know the meaning of that idea now. I don’t even know if it was a decision, or just the outcome of the traditions speaking to me in a dream.

All the women around me were veiled. My grandmother was veiled, despite the fact that she continued to flirt with my grandfather into her seventies. My mother was veiled, covering the most beautiful hair of any woman—apart, perhaps, from the hair of nymphs, if they exist—with its waves and thick locks that fell in layers, and its magical, saturated color. I always contrasted it with the thin and wiry hair of my paternal aunts, and I thanked God that I didn’t inherit it. All four of my aunts, and all the women of the neighborhood, were veiled. Even Umm Sulayman in her dark, cramped hole in the wall wore a headscarf, though she never went out and was hardly capable of walking. She had barely any visitors except me, my grandmother, her daily plate of food, the ravages of winter, her grinding poverty, and the memories of her children.

For my first veiled photograph, I smiled before the lens of Ibrahim al-Susi, posing in front of a white background. I sent the picture to my father along with a keychain engraved with the words: “If hearts could be gifted, I would have given you mine.” I didn’t expect much of a reply, but one sunny winter’s day the school principal summoned me. As soon as I crossed the threshold of his office, I saw my father perched giant-like on the black leather couch. I threw myself at him and was pricked by his thick black mustache. He and the principal chuckled at how long I cried, then he kissed me. I felt special because my father had come to pick me up before the end of the school day. It was a rare and strange event. When we got home, my grandfather was resplendent in his usual chair in the living room. There was a lunch in honor of my father, who then took me to our new house. We arrived there exhausted after a long car ride on a road full of potholes, my insides rattled by all the vibrations. The road had gone on and on, scenes of fruit orchards rushing past fleetingly, as my heart raced gleefully, soaking up the exhilaration of the day. As soon as the car stopped, I ran toward the house and took in the aroma of the lentil dish that my mother was preparing especially for me.

Muhammad Ali Khalidi is Presidential Professor of Philosophy at CUNY Graduate Center, where he teaches and publishes in the philosophy of science. He has written on various aspects of the question of Palestine, including Palestinian refugee rights. His edited volume, Manifestations of Identity: The Lived Reality of Palestinian Refugees in Lebanon, was published by the Institute of Palestine Studies in 2010. He has translated a wide range of texts from Arabic into English, including the collection, Medieval Islamic Philosophical Writings. He was born in Lebanon to a Lebanese mother and a Palestinian father.

From “My Heart Hangs from a Mulberry Tree” by Wedad Taha

“Mama, I want to be veiled,” I said to my mother absent-mindedly when she came to visit me, as I buried my little head in her lap. I shut my eyes and took in the scent from her long black dress. It was my mother’s scent and lap. She hadn’t visited me in a month and a half, leaving me to toss and turn at night, yearning and longing for her. I missed her dear spirit and missed playing with my siblings. I was the middle child, but I always behaved like a mother to them. I cried for an hour as I buried myself in her lap and held on to her, as though I was trying to plant her in my soul so that I could have my fill of her. My mother was and has always been my comfort and the soul of my soul. I’m not sure whether being deprived of her made me more attached to her, or whether it was her short stories, or her sweet singing that mingled with the steam and smell of soap when she bathed us. I held her head with my hand and told her not to leave me there, to take me with her, wherever that might be. I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know where I stood or how to make sense of what was happening to me. I wasn’t fully conscious of the significance of what I had lived through.

One of the clearest images that I had came from my dreams. Like most Palestinian families, mine was pious, following traditions inspired by the face of God and his power over hearts, minds, and practices. Did I just say the “face” of God? It was a face that I saw through thick, high, white clouds, an ethereal face that visited me in a dream and I spoke to it. I don’t remember what He said, but He spoke to me too. Yes, I spoke to God when I was asleep, and in the same dream I saw the prophet. When I woke up in a muddled state and said, “Mama, I want to be veiled,” my mother refused. She feared that I would take off the veil after a while, and she wanted me to be sure of the first free decision that I would make. Did I say “free decision”? I don’t know how free my decision was, nor do I know the meaning of that idea now. I don’t even know if it was a decision, or just the outcome of the traditions speaking to me in a dream.

All the women around me were veiled. My grandmother was veiled, despite the fact that she continued to flirt with my grandfather into her seventies. My mother was veiled, covering the most beautiful hair of any woman—apart, perhaps, from the hair of nymphs, if they exist—with its waves and thick locks that fell in layers, and its magical, saturated color. I always contrasted it with the thin and wiry hair of my paternal aunts, and I thanked God that I didn’t inherit it. All four of my aunts, and all the women of the neighborhood, were veiled. Even Umm Sulayman in her dark, cramped hole in the wall wore a headscarf, though she never went out and was hardly capable of walking. She had barely any visitors except me, my grandmother, her daily plate of food, the ravages of winter, her grinding poverty, and the memories of her children.

For my first veiled photograph, I smiled before the lens of Ibrahim al-Susi, posing in front of a white background. I sent the picture to my father along with a keychain engraved with the words: “If hearts could be gifted, I would have given you mine.” I didn’t expect much of a reply, but one sunny winter’s day the school principal summoned me. As soon as I crossed the threshold of his office, I saw my father perched giant-like on the black leather couch. I threw myself at him and was pricked by his thick black mustache. He and the principal chuckled at how long I cried, then he kissed me. I felt special because my father had come to pick me up before the end of the school day. It was a rare and strange event. When we got home, my grandfather was resplendent in his usual chair in the living room. There was a lunch in honor of my father, who then took me to our new house. We arrived there exhausted after a long car ride on a road full of potholes, my insides rattled by all the vibrations. The road had gone on and on, scenes of fruit orchards rushing past fleetingly, as my heart raced gleefully, soaking up the exhilaration of the day. As soon as the car stopped, I ran toward the house and took in the aroma of the lentil dish that my mother was preparing especially for me.