In the early years after I moved to Israel, the Arab women in the English classes I taught at university did not come to school wearing a hijab. They dressed in jeans and t-shirts and summer dresses in bright colors. Maybe this is what led me to think that my friendship with Amna could be simple and straightforward. There was little in her outward appearance to discourage closeness. She liked burgundy and deep brown colors which accentuated her olive complexion. Her hair was a wavy, thick, ebony-black that fell loosely over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and darkened with kohl, but she used no lipstick. There was a strength in her face, in the curve of her cheekbones and around her mouth.
We met in the maternity ward where I stayed after giving birth to my daughter, Daphna. This was in the 1980s when babies were brought in at feeding times, then whisked away so their moms could rest. Curtains around the beds were rarely drawn and comradery among the women developed easily as a result.
Amazingly, Daphna’s birth occurred exactly on my husband’s birthday. Ben sat on the edge of my bed, bursting with excitement. “Can you believe it, Miriam? This is definitely the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten!” He spoke so loudly that both Amna, who was in the bed next to mine, and Taher, her husband, looked up. Amna had just given birth to her son, Mahmoud.
“Here’s something else you’ll find hard to believe,” Taher (to whom...
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