The Brightness of a Star, a Christmas Story by Elisa Shua Dusapin

Published on December 21, 2024 at 12:09 p.m. / Modified on December 21, 2024 at 12:18.

5 mins. reading

It's a park where I go in the evening when it's cooler. It is located in front of the mosque, on Jabal Amman Hill. I need it for its trees and the presence of cats, despite that of the police because of the embassies of Germany and Saudi Arabia. From there, we can see the hill opposite, more popular, a refugee camp little by little transformed into limestone huts, crumbled by the desert winds, the alternation of heatwave and frost in the capital of Jordan, almost a thousand meters above sea level. I have lived there for five months.

This evening, a woman in a niqab sits on the same bench as me. A grenadier towers over us. It no longer has fruit, but the palm trees are still crumbling under dates, they hang like the nests of obese insects. From a shopping bag, the woman takes out a thermos, fills two tiny paper cups with tea, hands me one which I accept out of politeness. His movements made me see a wrist with strong bones. She immediately covered it. Her dress is finely embroidered. My head is bare, the nape of my neck covered by a bun. Embarrassed by her efforts not to show anything of her body, I barely dare meet her eyes while thanking her. Mascara, eye shadow, she wears a lot of makeup, and must be my age. A pendant around his neck represents a slice of watermelon, the fruit in the colors of Palestine, which has become a symbol of the flag banned west of the border.

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