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“
Didn
’
t
you
suspect
?
”
Jessica
asked
.
“
Sh
-
h
-
h
-
h
,
”
Alia
said
.
A
distant
rhythmic
chanting
came
to
them
through
the
hangings
that
separated
them
from
the
sietch
corridors
.
It
grew
louder
,
carrying
distinct
sounds
now
:
“
Ya
!
Ya
!
Yawm
!
Ya
!
Ya
!
Yawm
!
Mu
zein
,
wallah
!
Ya
!
Ya
!
Yawm
!
Mu
zein
,
Wallah
!
”
The
chanters
passed
the
outer
entrance
,
and
their
voices
boomed
through
to
the
inner
apartments
.
Slowly
the
sound
receded
.
When
the
sound
had
dimmed
sufficiently
,
Jessica
began
the
ritual
,
the
sadness
in
her
voice
:
“
It
was
Ramadhan
and
April
on
Bela
Tegeuse
.
”
“
My
family
sat
in
their
pool
courtyard
,
”
Harah
said
,
“
in
air
bathed
by
the
moisture
that
arose
from
the
spray
of
a
fountain
.
There
was
a
tree
of
portyguls
,
round
and
deep
in
color
,
near
at
hand
.
There
was
a
basket
with
mish
mish
and
baklawa
and
mugs
of
liban
—
all
manner
of
good
things
to
eat
.
In
our
gardens
and
in
our
flocks
,
there
was
peace
.
.
.
peace
in
all
the
land
.
”
“
Life
was
full
with
happiness
until
the
raiders
came
,
”
Alia
said
.
“
Blood
ran
cold
at
the
scream
of
friends
,
”
Jessica
said
.
And
she
felt
the
memories
rushing
through
her
out
of
all
those
other
pasts
she
shared
.
“
La
,
la
,
la
,
the
women
cried
,
”
said
Harah
.
