While many other American novelists continue to explore the safer territory of a character's domestic life, insulated from the wider political and social landscape, Kim Jensen, an up-and-coming Baltimore writer, looks beyond the individual, and beyond a single nation, to capture the true complexities of love in the modern world. Fearless in both language and scope, Jensen's debut novel The Woman I Left Behind explores the relationship between an American and a Palestinian exile who, despite their best intentions, discover that there can be no separation between political and personal identity, even in matters of the heart.

In this excerpt, tragic events unfold in the childhood of the main character, Sayeed—events that influence the rest of his life.


In the village square, the soldiers came to a standstill in front of Sayeed. They called out to him, Hey, little Arab!

The boy said nothing. He just stared them down with a glare in his eye.

Dirty Arab! Why don't you say hello?

The soldiers waited and watched the boy.

It was seven years after East Jerusalem, including Tel Zahara, had been conquered by the Israel Defense Forces. Already on the hilltops, they had built two settlements—flimsy portable units surrounded by barbed wire. Ancient olive groves, including his grandfather's, had been annihilated in minutes by monstrous bulldozers. Everyone in the village had lost land. Sayeed, even at his young age, seemed aware that the jeers of these soldiers were not a personal attack, but part of a well-calculated plan.

Filthy Arab! Move so we can get some water, one of the soldiers barked out to Sayeed. But Sayeed remained stone-faced. He had decided to stand in front of the well until they were gone. So help him God, none of those soldiers would take one drop of village water. And nothing would make him speak, run, leave, or turn his head away. Another soldier from the group joined in saying, Hey, little shithead, where's your mama?

At that moment a breeze danced across his hot forehead, and the corner of his lips twisted into a smile as he thought, This water still belongs to me, and so does this wind. No one can steal the wind!

As she waited for her nephew Sayeed to come home from school, Aunt Salwa continued to prepare dinner methodically, using her fingernail to clip off the tiny bean stems on both ends, snapping them into inch-long pieces, discarding the scraps in a small bag between her legs. Soon she would fry chopped onions in olive oil with a small amount of meat, just for flavor. Then she'd add the beans, fresh chopped tomatoes, and bharat, a mixture of rich spices. This was her solace: the smell of traditional recipes prepared the same way her mother and her grandmother had done it. As a matter of habit, she always cooked enough for at least six people, in case of guests. As a matter of principle, her door was always open for their possible arrival.

Salwa looked up at the wall clock. Sayeed was much later than usual. It was already past three o'clock. Normally he came home from school, had a small meal, and then headed out to play with his friends. She was constantly worried about him. She'd told him probably a thousand times not to speak to or even look at the Israeli soldiers who patrolled the streets. They are just looking for an excuse to beat or shoot someone. Don't give them an excuse, she had warned him, not a thousand but a million times.

It's the sounds you remember when recalling something you would rather forget. The sounds and the smells come first, then the image or words whispered on the inside of your ear. The sound of the door opening. A glass falling and shattering on the ceramic tile. The scent of perfume, or the pungent odor of fruit left too long on a hot day. For Salwa, it was always the sound of sheets flapping in the wind that echoed through her mind just when she thought she had forgotten the past. That sharp wounding noise remained with Salwa in the inner ear, even on windless summer afternoons.

When war broke out, Salwa had spent the whole day at Yusuf's family's tiny fl at. In the evening they heard on the radio that the fighting had spread to all the villages on the West Bank too, north and south. She panicked, worried about her family, but the radio kept insisting that a victory would soon be theirs. The shelling was so intense, she knew that she had to stay in Jerusalem for the night, maybe longer. After many hours of sitting up with the family, she finally went to lie down in the one sleeping room. Tossing, turning, filled with restless images, listening to the storm of jets passing overhead, she half-slept on a blanket on the floor. It was just after dawn when Salwa was awakened by an abrupt noise.

She sat straight up and opened her eyes with a start. A bed sheet that someone had forgotten outside was flapping against the window. First the sheet made a loud cracking sound. Then it trilled with a rippling clamor. She immediately saw the haunting sight of the white sheet whipping against the glass. At that moment she was more terrified than during the previous day's sirens and bombings. This eerie sudden awakening was ominous. She imagined her mother's face in the window behind the sheet. I must go home immediately.

She remembered the ancient army rifle that her father had hanging on his wall, a souvenir from the revolt of the '30s and then '48. She imagined that his having this gun was probably more of a danger than not having it. She knew her father—he would certainly try to use it before giving up his house and town. She jumped up and practically slammed the window where the sheet was still flapping.

It defied common sense to run out now, but she had made up her mind. She went into action, straightened her clothes, and went to tell Yusuf goodbye. He was brooding at his desk to the sporadic sound of a blast in the vicinity. She came in quietly. And without sitting down she leaned over, kissed him, and said, I'm going to try to get back home now, quick as I can. Goodbye. I'll be fine. Before he could stop her, she ran out of his room and straight out the door. The cool morning air hit her in the face, and it felt, just for that instant, good to be outside.

The streets immediately before her were deserted. She didn't see any other people or soldiers around. Every few minutes, however, the earth shook with deafening explosions that she prayed would stay away. As she made her way toward the Damascus gate, she saw more and more Jordanian soldiers. Then, as she approached the gate, she saw that the soldiers there were actually engaged in a battle. She had to argue with two of them who didn't want to let her through. She told them that she had to go home to her family in her village. They scoffed at her and told her that she'd never make it alive, but they finally let her pass.

As soon as she got outside, she couldn't believe what she saw. Jordanian soldiers' bodies were scattered about. Right by the Eastern Gate was a civilian bus charred by a bomb and the people strewn like debris, all dead. Could this be true? How could so many people have been killed in one day of fighting? Right down the road she could see several Israeli tanks firing straight at the walls of the city and jeeps moving rapidly toward the Old City. She ducked out of sight of the oncoming troops and ran up a side street that seemed safer.

Seeing that it would be impossible to go on the main Ramallah road, she decided to go the back way, over the mountains, toward her home. Skirting the city wall, heading northwest, she went through the suburbs of North Jerusalem—all of it was already occupied. Not one Arab soldier was to be seen. Soon she was in the hills, walking along the goat paths that she knew well. When she looked down toward the main road below, she saw a whole battalion of Jordanians scattered along the road. Some of their vehicles were still burning and smoking. They had obviously been attacked from above. Her heart sank, and she began to run as fast as possible toward Tel Zahara, over stones and rocks. What would she find when she got there? Fear and nausea grabbed at her stomach and throat as she ran toward her village.

As she came down one of the last hillsides, she spotted a small flock of sheep grazing without their shepherd. The animals, white and newly shorn, were alone on the mountain, some grazing or bleating, some wandering in circles. It was a scene that she would never forget, the sight of that flock of sheep lost above the road strewn with bloody corpses.

When she finally reached the hill next to her own village, she looked down at the houses in the dim light. The sight that greeted her brought her to her knees. Tel Zahara was surrounded by several tanks, jeeps, and soldiers on foot—she couldn't see everything, but it was a siege. She had never imagined such a swift and terrible defeat. It seemed that not only was her village coming under fire, but the Israelis were firing from Tel Zahara on Arab units across the way.

She quickly calculated who was armed in the village, possibly three or four homes. Some of the older men, including her father, still had old rifles and some ammunition left over from the British days. A few of the young men had joined the Jordanian military, but were not present. She knew that the Jordanian soldiers who were supposed to protect them were mostly lying dead on the roadside. She wanted to run down and tell her neighbors to surrender because she could see from this hill that the situation was impossible.

Crouching behind a rock, she watched and listened. There was an exchange of gunfire. Then silence. Then more gunfire and screaming. A few small explosions and some smoke rising from somewhere inside the village. She couldn't make out what was being screamed, but it seemed desperate and frenzied. After several minutes, she heard a harsh voice shouting, as if commands were being given. Tanks and jeeps started moving quickly into the village. From where she crouched she could see that the Israelis were going street by street, shooting their rifles down alleys, into homes. She watched them moving their vehicles quickly into the square.

It's then that she broke into a run, heading down, darting behind shrubs, rocks, and olive trees. By some miraculous stroke of luck, no one seemed to notice her scrambling down the hill, taking cover when she could. When she reached the edge of her neighbor Im Azme's paddock, she hopped the stone wall, went around the house, and ran down a small alley. Slipping in the back door of her own house, she immediately saw her brother, Hanna, and her father standing by the front window, both with old rifles in hand, taking potshots out the window. She ran into the back bedroom and found her mother, her sister-in-law, and Sayeed huddled behind some furniture. She collapsed on top of them hugging them all, especially her nephew.

Baba, she called out to her father, Throw the guns out the door and surrender. I saw the Jordanians dead on the road. It's a
failure. A complete failure. There is no army coming. You've got to surrender before they burn this village to the ground.

As if glued to whatever destiny would hand him, Sayeed had somehow come to understand, without planning or thinking about it, that this day by the well would be decisive. There would be no in between for him anymore. No running, like his friends, who scattered like chaff in the wind at the sight of the army. He had never consciously planned to stand up to them. But for some reason he didn't have it in him anymore to act fearful of soldiers, whose smell alone filled him with disgust.

The soldiers made a move to surround Sayeed, who still refused to budge. One of them was a young Polish kid. He took a step toward Sayeed and looked down into his face. So what's wrong with you? Sayeed still offered no response, but glared out of two angry eyes shaded by a forest of dark brow.

Baba, Salwa begged, for God's sake! Stop it. Throw down the rifle, it's hopeless. The village is already occupied. She ran from the bedroom out into the living room. Her father was standing by the window; so was her brother. Pushing the loose corner of his checkered kuffiyeh away from his face, her father lifted the ancient gun, carefully taking aim at something or someone out on the street. Then he fired and ducked back. Within seconds a group of five or six soldiers stormed the door, spraying the room with bullets as they rushed in. Salwa dropped back behind the couch and covered her head. When she lifted her eyes again, she saw her father collapse. Hanna rushed straight toward the soldiers, who grabbed him, holding him at gunpoint while he thrashed about, trying to free himself.

When Halima heard her husband's screams, she rushed out to the living room. She paused at the door. First she saw Hanna being held by three soldiers. Then she looked over and saw her father-in-law dead on the floor. That's when she lost her mind, shrieking, Let him go. Let him go. Salwa told her to calm down and get back in the room, but the woman was raving, Leave my husband alone. Don't you dare hurt him. She rushed at the soldiers, clawing them, battering them with her fists. One of them, an officer, drew a small pistol from his belt, put it to her head and shot twice.

With the same pistol, he made a brusque gesture toward the corner of the house. The soldiers led Hanna to the corner and forced him to kneel down next to the wall. The officer walked over and shot him too, execution style, in the back of the head. Then they all left as quickly as they had come.

In the bedroom, Sayeed was wrapped in his grandmother's arms, behind the bed. He kept whispering to his grandma, What's happening? I'm scared. And she pressed her lips against his ear telling him, Don't worry, darling. Everything's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right. But when she heard Salwa calling out in a strange voice that was barely human, Keep Sayeed in the room, Yumma. Keep Sayeed in the room, she knew something was wrong. She knew that something terrible had happened. Something horrible and irreversible.

Though the older woman held onto Sayeed as tightly as she could, she couldn't stop him from breaking away from her grip. He ran out and went straight to his mother, whose eyes were still open, staring up at the ceiling. A trickle of blood seeped from her mouth. The minute Sayeed collapsed on his mother's chest, Salwa scooped him into her arms and held onto him tightly. Outside they could hear the sounds of shouting and screaming, tanks rumbling through the narrow streets, and the smell of smoke that lingered for the next thirty years.

The Polish soldier took another step toward Sayeed and in broken Arabic said: You know there are things you don't understand.

Sayeed looked at him intently. The soldier continued, Did you know that this well will soon run dry? The soldier paused and went on. We're pumping all the water through our neighborhoods and then back down to you. Fish mai, he said in Arabic, gesturing by crossing his hands in the air. No water for you. Then he paused and looked straight into Sayeed's eyes saying, So here, drink this. Turning deliberately, he spat into the bucket that sat on the ground next to the iron pump.

As soon as the soldier spat into the water, Sayeed lashed out. Tears leapt to his eyes as he lunged and grabbed the soldier's head with both hands. Pulling back and forth uncontrollably, he screamed, I hate you. I hate you, yanking handfuls of hair out with each convulsion. The skirmish was over as soon as it started. The others immediately surrounded the pair in a swoop, bashing Sayeed on the head with the butts of their guns. Throwing him to the ground, they kicked him a couple of times for good measure. Then without saying a word, they picked him up easily and threw him into their jeep. Three of them restrained him. One pointed a gun into the boy's face. One drove north on the main road.

By this time there were a few neighbors coming out of their homes and shops. Some had witnessed the end of the confrontation and had come running. But they were too late. The jeep was already driving away, raising a cloud of dust behind it. They had seen a few confrontations like this before. They thought, as they ran towards Salwa's house, that the soldiers would take Sayeed in for questioning, rough him up a bit, then release him.

Salwa had stopped cleaning beans now and was sitting with her eyes closed, her head leaned back, her head gone back into lost days and hours. She knew that there was nothing she could do to turn back time. … A homeland, gone. A brother, a sister, gone. … She didn't stir. She clamped her eyes shut. For once, the beans sat uncooked in front of her on the table. She had held everything together. She had worked the bakery alone for three years, then sold it when her mother died. She had given herself over to the task of sumood. Steadfastness. When she heard the news about Yusuf being martyred in Jerusalem with his father, she had given herself over to a vow: never to marry, to remain faithful, not just to him, but to her family and her people, and especially to their city, the city of prayer.

Now she sat with her head back and her eyes clamped shut. Until she heard the voices of the neighbor children calling her name from outside, Ya Aamt! Ya Salwa! Aunt Salwa! They rushed into her open door with worried faces. And she knew immediately. She jumped to her feet saying in a hoarse whisper, Sayeed.

—This is an excerpt from the first chapter of The Woman I Left Behind, published this month by Curbstone Press.

Kim Jensen has lived and taught in California, France, and the Middle East. Her writings have appeared in a wide variety of publications including Al Jadid, Rain Taxi Review of Books, Poetry Flash, and the Boston Book Review. In 2001, she won the Raymond Carver Prize for Short Fiction. An editor for The Baltimore Review, Jensen also teaches writing and literature at the Community College of Baltimore County.

Jensen lives in Baltimore with her husband and their two children, Ahlam and Besan. She will read from her debut novel at the Central Branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library on April 25 at 6:30 p.m.