My suitcase Basma.
By: Asil Talahma
Edited by: Anna Talhami

Hi to the roads,
Hi to exhausted suitcase
Hi to our souls,
To the crowded aisles
Hi to the plans that don’t leave us in our country
It would not be a long vacation. I had been planning it for two months. The gifts I would buy for my family and my vacation schedule didn’t even cross my mind. I bought the gifts one day before my departure. All I was thinking about from the beginning of June until August was going back to Palestine. From Turkey to Jordan and from Jordan through three bridges to my mother’s lap, side by side with Basma, my friend on the journey.
Picked up by friend at the airport, the road was ready for a lot of nostalgia — speaking in Arabic, the Arabic coffee that he bought, and our endless conversations about Jordan and Palestine. I had to tell him, The road is difficult for me. I am very tired, tired of Jordan and bridges. I want an airport and a state. I’m exhausted.
Since I left Palestine, I have realized that the beginnings have no end, the rough and sad beginnings that go along your way as you drag them, drag them like a colorful exile with you, those beginnings knew exactly like you do that the roads you will run are winding and long.
I wrote to my family: I’m leaving Queen Alia Airport now. I’m going to the Jordan Bridge. I continue my calculations and try to postpone their departure to meet me. Dad, do not go out early. I do not guarantee you anything on the three bridges that I have to pass.
It costs a lot to be a Palestinian, I said, telling my friend driving me from the airport to the bridge. I’m ready for what I do not want — from Queen Alia Airport to the Jordan Bridge for almost an hour, then waiting in a long line on the bridge, being a Palestinian costs too much. I wait alone on a queue for bus tickets to take me to the Israeli bridge, then for bag inspection, women’s inspection, another queue, a form to fill, the passport, the green card that allows us to enter Jordan as Palestinians with Palestinian passports, the white card, waiting for a long queue again, then I decided to create my world — James Brown and Luciano Pavarotti in my ear “it’s a man’s world”
This is a man’s world
This is a man’s world
But it wouldn’t be nothing
Nothing without a woman or a girl
I looked around me carefully, sounds were louder than the music: the noise of the children, the cries of the mothers to their children, a policeman calling for the names of the passport holders, mixed with:
He’s lost in the wilderness
He’s lost in bitterness
He’s lost in loneliness
I was quiet with an internal battle. I do not like to wait, but I can, I can. When I need to create additional worlds to hide in, I hide myself in my own musical playlist, from James Brown and Pavarotti to Nick Cave, a more chaotic world. At 6 pm, I still can balance, stamped my passport, routine questions, what are you doing in Turkey, have you come directly from the airport? I took my passport, I remember it is only the beginning, the beginning is endless, when you are a Palestinian you have surplus from the accumulated beginnings, after the stamp of the passport I remembered that my brother had asked me to bring him tobacco from the duty free shop. Sometimes it is good to look strange. From unexpected respect in unexpected places, the customs officer spoke to me in English. My appearance did not look Palestinian with my tailored cargo pants, my bleached blonde hair, and my idiot smile, which later became amusing.
Waiting in the third line to get to the bus to take us to the “Allenby” bridge, things got strange to me. The existential questions about my friend Basma, which is my name for my suitcase, overflowed. Did I have to find Basma and put her in the vehicle behind the bus? Or will the workers put her there? I had to decide. If I left the line now, I would have to wait another hour. I gathered my strength and asked the officer who was trying to manage the situation because I was dealing with my personal things with pride. My suitcase is beloved to my heart. She suffers with me on these bridges, sometimes more than I do. I asked, Should I bring Basma? He asked me, Who is Basma, your daughter? My world started beating, No, it’s my suitcase, we set it up when we entered, I thought you are putting it, sir. He stared at me: You seem to know nothing here. Run fast, bring your suitcase, nobody serves you here.
I did not expect that the woman who helped me find my bag on the Jordan Bridge would be sad and terrified, trying to pretend she was strong, smiling, wearing beautiful clothes. She was definitely from the north. I said to myself: Women of her age in the South do not wear formal trousers and jackets.
We waited more, ahead of us two buses. We had to wait until they finished to be allowed to pass over the Israeli bridge. I was in rotation, sporadic turnover, Pavarotti again, the woman’s voice that helped me find my bag came from behind, saying to me, You are very beautiful. I smiled at her. I’m not used to hearing praise from our people. We do not like direct praise in general. Her voice came again, It seems you did not buy cigarettes. I told her, No, just tobacco for my brother.
She asked me, Is there a problem if you helped me move two packs of cigarettes with you?
I will see you after the Palestinian bridge, I agreed. I did not understand it, I understood later. It is the same reason my brother asks me each time I travel home to get his tobacco from the duty free shop on the Jordanian bridge. The taxes on cigarettes and smoke climb very high in Palestine. We got off together from the bus, me and the woman. Our bags were waiting for us. It was not a nice wait. I turned off Celine Dion’s songs. This is not an appropriate way to put our suitcases on the roads, they have been thrown. Basma, my bag Basma, sadly I tried to drag her by my side, this way, I told myself, I and Basma, this time without music, just the sounds of the suitcases, a Palestinian employee at the checkpoint took my bag and told me that I had to get my passport card and a bag. I told the Israeli soldier, One bag in English. He asked me if I and the person standing next to me were together. I answered in English, I am alone, not together, with my idiot smile, which I use as a way of pulling out from situations when I’m tired. The man next to me asked me in Arabic, What did he say? Another man said, Foreigner. See how she smiles, she is quiet and nice, not like us.
I was sad, I rejoiced, I felt the absurdity of my idiot smile trying to hide 24 hours without sleep. I wanted to say to them I’m like you. I was not used to smiling so I was not calm, but then I changed. I realized that there were a lot of situations and circumstances that we had to accept, for example, being Palestinians, I and Basma separated. I went to the other side. I saw her past the inspection and passport procedures. I crossed the gate to where the bags, where Basma was waiting for me.
I was free, I passed the hardest, I will get my ticket for the second time and get up the Palestinian bridge bus, it was easy, the hardest part was to find the woman who asked me to bring her cigarettes. I waited inside. After a half hour, and desperate to find her, I decided to go out and cut off my memories. She was waiting outside for me. It seemed that each of us had lost the other, I said. We went to the bus. How difficult it is to be a Palestinian.
It was the easiest station on the Palestinian bridge. There were not many procedures to seal the passport quickly, take the bag, search and exit, but I thought that Basma would wait for me outside, and I went out without her, met my brothers, my sister in law and my sister. You look like a zombie, my sister teased. I think because I did pass three bridges — could be, right? We moved on to the car. Then I did, I did remember that I forgot Basma.
*Basma: in Arabic language, it means “smile”.