Quandary
Yamina arrived one morning to clean my rooms,
wearing black leggings, long-sleeved blouse,
her hair covered up by a headscarf, despite the
summer heat. I liked her instantly—could sense
her gentle spirit, she had entered timidly not
expecting me to be there. I greeted her, waved
her in. Returned to my desk, revising a poem
based on a psalm. She started in the living room
while I continued in the bedroom, listening
to women’s voices singing acapella
in Hebrew—which she could probably hear
and might find upsetting. Who knows what she
felt about Jews. I felt our disparity: she, sweeping
my floor while I led a poet’s life—having been
granted this seaside apartment for a month. I knew
she must be Muslim. I had seen several Muslim
women covered up at the beach, could detect
no trace of Jews. Perhaps they blended in
like me who always covers up my identity—
never wearing a Star of David in the open.
Should I switch off the music? I wondered,
wanting her to be comfortable. Yet she
had entered my space. Was it the same
as when I enter a taxi and Arabic music is
playing? Except I love its plaintive
songs. And she? What did she love
or hate? It must have been no more
than two minutes when I switched
to Chopin’s Études. Did I do the right thing?
Why do I always feel I have to cover up
who I am? Especially now when hatred
has sprung up again persistent as bamboo
whose rhizomes stretch far beneath the earth.
