Sahlab

For days, my mother worries that the garage mechanic, Gonzales, is scheming against her with the smog man, repeatedly finding new things to fix before her car can pass the test. Finally, he sends her off with instructions to drive for fifty miles and then return — if the car can make the trip without a problem, he’s satisfied his work is done.

We all pile in because we have nothing better to do and any drive out of foggy San Francisco this summer is a blessing, even if it is to the suburbs I have never seen before, by the airport, going against traffic so we don’t have to sit in the car with my grandma and my two little boys for any longer than necessary. It’s good for the car to be full and heavy, my mother explains, imbuing our family excursion with importance. A quick group decision: after we hit the 25 mile mark, we’ll take the first exit in search of a cup of coffee, then head back.

We find ourselves in Redwood City sooner than expected, and the combination of warm weather and houses with lawns and suburban streets lined with sidewalks makes us all feel like we’re home, back in a small town in Israel, in the outskirts of Tel Aviv. Just a few minutes out of SF, and here we are, in a simplicity, a warmth. In the slowness of a suburb, where trees are for climbing, the sidewalks for strolling. My childhood hometown, which I visit each year with both affection and disdain, is similar to this place and yet not: I fled because I refused to raise my children there, to teach them the violence that afflicts my home. But the warmth, the trees –– we’re nostalgic, content, almost intoxicated, with the car windows rolled down now, the warm breeze against our faces.

Greater than fear is the shame, the helplessness, the unfulfilled eagerness to break open the truth, laugh at the similarities, realize the closeness of our existence. An apology.

Now off the freeway, we search for a place to land and to stretch out crammed bodies. At the first cafe we spot, we park, we get out of the car and breathe in true summer air — not the damp fog that fills our lungs for months in San Francisco. Stepping in one at a time, grandma trailing behind the kids, we are welcomed warmly by a man who introduces himself as Mike and quickly takes our orders: coffee for the adults, frozen yogurt for the kids.

He’s dark and lean, a handsome man who looks as if the world has hit him across the face more than once, but that he has always found a way to smile back. Realizing that he might be of Arab descent — our “cousin” in our people’s coded language — we lower our loud Israeli voices. It’s not fear that makes us automatically aware of our Israeli existence and attempt to humble it, although there is always the anxiety (irrational though it may be) of being poisoned or kidnapped or just kicked out. It’s not so much fear as a feeling of intrusion, perhaps, of wishing to hide what we have come to represent, no matter how many nights of our childhood we sat on our parents’ shoulders in city squares holding signs to end the occupation.¹ No matter how many members of our family were killed or hurt, had songs or novels written about their heroic lives and tragic deaths. Greater than fear is the shame, the helplessness, the unfulfilled eagerness to break open the truth, laugh at the similarities, realize the closeness of our existence. An apology.

The sahlab is what finally gives us away, three lines down from the top of the chalk menu, hidden in plain sight, under the warm drinks, after the lattes, before the hot chocolate. Coffee in hand, I linger as my family sits down at one of the tables.

“Sahlab,” I say, almost a whisper.

I say it just loud enough to grab his attention, not in an effort to order it, not questioning what it is, simply noting the unexpected familiarity of the word — sahlab.

Mike looks up — Mike who is probably really Musa, Arabic for Moshe, which is my son’s middle name. I smile shyly, realizing I have exposed myself by the mere pronunciation, by the knowing tone in my voice, by my accent. Beneath, and within, all this lies the richness of memories folded into my sahlab, the milky pudding topped with rosewater, crushed pistachios, and shredded coconut.

“Yeah, it’s still up there, but we haven’t been serving it for years.”

Mike, who is Musa, who is Moshe, smiles, trying to read me like a map, looking for the borders, the capital, where the water sources are, where I was born, to whom, and in which quarter of a city.

I exaggerate my disappointment over the sahlab, hoping to find mutual ground with this stranger, with whom all I might have in common is an origin story, the sensation in our lungs as we breathed in that thin, holy air back home, the shared knowledge that there is no solution, no matter how much we talk, no matter how often we say that both sides are at fault, that it is the leaders, not the people, that it is ridiculous to be so similar and yet so hateful. If only we could all meet in cafes like this one, in liquor stores, in restaurants. Miles away from home.

“Americans don’t know what’s good.” I smile. “Too exotic for them, too many flavors.”

The smile he returns sends his glance down to the counter, and after a few moments he looks back up, straight into my eyes. The smile is now gone, replaced with a blankness, a hesitation, perhaps a snapshot of a memory floating before his eyes, on his way to mine.

“So, where are you from?” I ask.

“Palestine.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You?”

“Yeah, me too. I mean, you know, we’re from, uh… Well, I was born in Jerusalem.” I pause. “If that makes it where I’m from.”

Mike laughs softly. “Me too,” he says, “From Jerusalem.”

I think of his Jerusalem, of where he was born, under which occupation, with which hands he was pulled from his mother’s womb, and into which part of the old city he was taken, swaddled in a hospital blanket. The lines on his face tell me he was born in a different Jerusalem than mine. I think of the ancient stones, the muezzin rolling over the city calling to prayer. The alleys, donkey hooves, the market. A history. That is what we share.

I am suddenly ashamed of the racket my family is making. Noisy, forever noisy, forever claiming space as our own. We’re always loud Israelis, no matter how hard we try to refine ourselves, far from home. Far from what we call home, anyway, from what once was home, but also never home, a stolen home, a deserted home, a home with high ceilings that my grandparents moved into after the war. Bought for cheap. Taken with blood. A home where Mike and I would never meet, where we would never speak, where we would never stand facing each other, our hearts longing for the same place we call home, for the sweet taste of milk pudding topped with crushed nuts, coconut, rose water, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Sold on almost every street corner.

“You should bring it back.” I smile. “I’ll make the trip over here from the City to have some. Any day.”

I round up my family, leaving him with my peace offering, my attempt.

As we drive back into foggy San Francisco through the suburbs of Redwood City, we are all momentarily quiet, the car making its way along the freeway. I think of the corner store owner Phil who is really Physil, and of our Palestinian friend John who is really Hanna, and of many other cousins I have met here, familiar faces speaking a different language, smiling with understanding as I apologize with my body — with my words, if I am given the chance. Apologize for my existence in their history, for the noise we make, for what I have come to represent in their lives. I think, if we could all meet in cafes, away from our home, then — maybe. Just maybe.

1) Editor’s Note: Since 1967, Israel has occupied the West Bank, including East Jerusalem and the Gaza Strip.

Naomi Anne Goldner is a San Francisco-based writer currently revising her first novel. She holds an MFA in Fiction from San Francisco State University and is the founder of WordSpaceStudios, a literary arts center.

Naomi Anne GoldnerDecember 17, 2021