become more so with the new baby. Besides, Miriam is anxious to have her own home.”
Miriam looked up, startled. They had never discussed a home. Umm Jameel threw her a look. “It isn’t crowded,” she said flatly. “Zareefa and Jameel have moved out.”
“Will you be happy with a home of your own?” he asked Miriam when they were alone.
“It’s what every woman would wish.” She had no way of knowing if he was being foolish or not. Could she depend on him? “But what about the expense? Do we have the money?” It occurred to her that she had no idea if they had money or how much.
“It will only be one room at first but we can add to it,” said Nadeem.
“Of course. That’s all I would expect.” As the idea grew, she became excited. It would be wonderful to have a home of her own. It would be exciting to decide how it would look and to furnish it. “Do you really believe we can do it?”
He was delighted to see her happy. “Yes, I do. In fact I’m certain of it. It’s time for us to move.”
Nadeem ordered a load of mizzi hulu , the hard white limestone that held well with lime cement and was the best for home building. He had the advantage of experience with masonry, but building a house was a haphazard affair. There were no village regulations, no engineers, and no architects. The first task was to dig a hole and make a rainwater cistern, but since this would take precious time away from the main structure, he started with the room.
The wheat harvest was only five weeks away and the fruit harvests would follow, but the haste worked in his favor. He had helped many cousins to build and now they were willing to return the favor.
Miriam was interested in every bit of progress and visited the site daily. Mentally she divided the space . . . we’ll sleep here . . . Khalil there. The table will be here, the khabbiya there.
Nadeem could work on his house only two days at a time. The other days he took the dusty walk to Jerusalem to act as a guide. Unlike Jameel, who welcomed the carriage ride, he preferred to walk and think. Chagrined that his ambitions had no ready opportunity, he had rebellious thoughts. His parents hadn’t prepared him to be competitive or ambitious.
Nadeem’s own father was content to farm a second-rate vineyard that produced inferior grapes. He walked with a small broom with which he swept the dung or snow—depending on the season—from the approach to the Franciscan chapel, where he sat and prayed daily. Nadeem wondered what his father prayed for since his life didn’t change. He and Jameel had been educated without foresight. Father Kuta had come to start the Latin church and had scoured the households to fill his school, hoping to attract the parents away from the Greeks. Nadeem and Jameel had learned to read and write, to add and subtract, to decipher the Psalter in French, and they had acquired a crude knowledge of European history. They knew nothing of the culture of the ruling Ottomans.
When Nadeem became old enough to serve in the Turkish army, his father had paid a head tax through their sheik to have someone else serve in his place. Perhaps Nadeem would have been better off going into the army and seeing something of the world. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so naive.
Opportunity came in the person of Monsieur Freneau, a vivacious businessman from Paris who wanted to visit Jesus’s childhood home in Nazareth. It was a lengthy trip that required an overnight stay. When they camped for the night, M. Freneau asked to share Nadeem’s sweet-smelling olive oil soap and was so appreciative of its aroma and benefits that he asked to keep the bar. “I’d like to take some back to France,” he said.
“I’ll bring all I have to your hotel,” Nadeem offered graciously.
Two weeks after M. Freneau returned to France, Nadeem received a cable at the Hotel St. Anselm, which was his base: SEND SOON STOP TEN GROSS MT. CARMEL SOAP STOP EXCELLENT MARKET HERE STOP GOOD
Miriam looked up, startled. They had never discussed a home. Umm Jameel threw her a look. “It isn’t crowded,” she said flatly. “Zareefa and Jameel have moved out.”
“Will you be happy with a home of your own?” he asked Miriam when they were alone.
“It’s what every woman would wish.” She had no way of knowing if he was being foolish or not. Could she depend on him? “But what about the expense? Do we have the money?” It occurred to her that she had no idea if they had money or how much.
“It will only be one room at first but we can add to it,” said Nadeem.
“Of course. That’s all I would expect.” As the idea grew, she became excited. It would be wonderful to have a home of her own. It would be exciting to decide how it would look and to furnish it. “Do you really believe we can do it?”
He was delighted to see her happy. “Yes, I do. In fact I’m certain of it. It’s time for us to move.”
Nadeem ordered a load of mizzi hulu , the hard white limestone that held well with lime cement and was the best for home building. He had the advantage of experience with masonry, but building a house was a haphazard affair. There were no village regulations, no engineers, and no architects. The first task was to dig a hole and make a rainwater cistern, but since this would take precious time away from the main structure, he started with the room.
The wheat harvest was only five weeks away and the fruit harvests would follow, but the haste worked in his favor. He had helped many cousins to build and now they were willing to return the favor.
Miriam was interested in every bit of progress and visited the site daily. Mentally she divided the space . . . we’ll sleep here . . . Khalil there. The table will be here, the khabbiya there.
Nadeem could work on his house only two days at a time. The other days he took the dusty walk to Jerusalem to act as a guide. Unlike Jameel, who welcomed the carriage ride, he preferred to walk and think. Chagrined that his ambitions had no ready opportunity, he had rebellious thoughts. His parents hadn’t prepared him to be competitive or ambitious.
Nadeem’s own father was content to farm a second-rate vineyard that produced inferior grapes. He walked with a small broom with which he swept the dung or snow—depending on the season—from the approach to the Franciscan chapel, where he sat and prayed daily. Nadeem wondered what his father prayed for since his life didn’t change. He and Jameel had been educated without foresight. Father Kuta had come to start the Latin church and had scoured the households to fill his school, hoping to attract the parents away from the Greeks. Nadeem and Jameel had learned to read and write, to add and subtract, to decipher the Psalter in French, and they had acquired a crude knowledge of European history. They knew nothing of the culture of the ruling Ottomans.
When Nadeem became old enough to serve in the Turkish army, his father had paid a head tax through their sheik to have someone else serve in his place. Perhaps Nadeem would have been better off going into the army and seeing something of the world. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so naive.
Opportunity came in the person of Monsieur Freneau, a vivacious businessman from Paris who wanted to visit Jesus’s childhood home in Nazareth. It was a lengthy trip that required an overnight stay. When they camped for the night, M. Freneau asked to share Nadeem’s sweet-smelling olive oil soap and was so appreciative of its aroma and benefits that he asked to keep the bar. “I’d like to take some back to France,” he said.
“I’ll bring all I have to your hotel,” Nadeem offered graciously.
Two weeks after M. Freneau returned to France, Nadeem received a cable at the Hotel St. Anselm, which was his base: SEND SOON STOP TEN GROSS MT. CARMEL SOAP STOP EXCELLENT MARKET HERE STOP GOOD
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