Nur Mahdi al-Shahdi wasn’t born just once, but several times throughout the years of his life in the alleys.
Nur Mahdi al-Shahdi lahir bukan hanya sekali, melainkan beberapa kali sepanjang hidupnya di lorong-lorong.
The first was on April 1, 1991, when he lived and his mother Noura died, along with her twenty years of age, her golden curls, and the sun of Al-Lydd, which was eclipsed when his father was arrested just weeks after his wedding only to return from captivity five years later broken, betrayed, and bewildered, silent and silenced.
Yang pertama terjadi pada tanggal 1 April 1991, ketika ia hidup dan ibunya Noura meninggal, bersamaan dengan usianya yang dua puluh tahun, keriting emasnya, dan matahari Al-Lydd, yang meredup ketika ayahnya ditangkap beberapa minggu setelah pernikahannya, hanya untuk kembali dari penahanan lima tahun kemudian dalam keadaan hancur, dikhianati, dan bingung, diam dan dibungkam.
Nur was born a second time from his father’s silence and his tea and coffee cart, and he took refuge in his grandmother Sumayyah, who raised and nurtured him on stories of Al-Lydd and his mother Noura. That was until Sumayyah died or, rather, decided to die on the fiftieth anniversary of the Nakba, her efforts to produce descendants and strengthen her family tree having failed. Mahdi and Khadija had been struck by drought, and their bed was dry and desiccated, waterless down to its depths.
Nur lahir kedua kalinya dari keheningan ayahnya dan gerobak teh dan kopinya, dan ia berlindung pada neneknya Sumayyah, yang membesarkannya dan membenihkannya dengan cerita tentang Al-Lydd dan ibunya Noura. Itu terjadi sampai Sumayyah meninggal atau, lebih tepatnya, memutuskan untuk meninggal pada ulang tahun kelima puluh Nakba, upayanya untuk melahirkan keturunan dan memperkuat garis keluarganya telah gagal. Mahdi dan Khadija telah dilanda kekeringan, tempat tidur mereka kering dan gersang, tanpa air hingga ke kedalamannya.
Nur was born the third time when his grandmother died and he was trained, whisper by whisper, in his father’s silence in the still house where, some nights, he would awake to sobs and whimpers spilling from either his father or his father’s wife.
Nur lahir ketiga kalinya ketika neneknya meninggal dan ia dilatih, bisik demi bisik, dalam keheningan sang ayah di rumah yang sunyi, di mana beberapa malam ia terbangun karena tangisan dan erangan yang keluar dari sang ayah atau istri sang ayah.
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Arabic was the language of his heart, English the language of his mind, and Hebrew the language of his shadow side and his Ashkenazi features. Thus his face became a mask he put on when he sold his labor in Zionist marketplaces and squares, feeling the fatigue of earning a good wage, which he wouldn’t have gotten around Ramallah. He didn’t feel the enormous contradiction between his grandmother’s stories about Al-Lydd and his work there as a laborer, rather than a returning refugee.
Bahasa Arab adalah bahasa hatinya, Bahasa Inggris adalah bahasa pikirannya, dan Ibrani adalah bahasa sisi bayangan dan ciri-ciri Ashkenazi-nya. Begitu wajahnya menjadi topeng yang dipakai saat ia menjual tenaganya di pasar-pasar dan alun-alun Zionis, merasakan kelelahan karena mendapatkan upah yang layak, yang tidak akan ia dapatkan di Ramallah. Ia tidak merasakan kontradiksi besar antara cerita neneknya tentang Al-Lydd dan pekerjaannya di sana sebagai buruh, bukannya seorang pengungsi yang kembali.
The first time he discovered the advantages of his features was when a Zionist police force raided a construction site he was working on with Murad and some others in the Rishon LeZion settlement north of Tel Aviv, the largest Zionist colonial settlement. The police were there to check the workers’ permits and IDs and apprehend anyone working illegally, and Nur was among those unfortunate Palestinians denied work permits for the Zionist market, either due to previous arrests for resisting the Occupation or because a relative had been arrested. In Nur’s case, he was held accountable for his father’s offense. That day, however, he had a rare stroke of luck. He was relieving himself in a far-off corner of the site when the commotion started, and he saw the police surrounding the site and checking the workers’ IDs. A wave of confused indecision washed over him as he looked around for some life raft that would protect him from the officers’ blows and the several days of detention at the station, followed by being tossed out on his head at the nearest border checkpoint between the occupied West Bank and the center of the Zionist world. But Nur couldn’t see a way out, so he headed to turn himself in to the police, who were absorbed in their security duties. He walked up to them with what remained of his calm, confidence, and composure. He was about to stop and surrender himself to their fists when a policeman turned toward him at random, briefly examined his face, then greeted him in Hebrew and turned to check another laborer’s work permit, not suspecting for a second that Nur was classified as a refugee, an “illegal,” or a “laborer from the Palestinian territories.” No sooner had Nur put some distance between himself and the construction site and police custody than he took off like the wind. He didn’t return east, where the road led to Ramallah, but instead went west, toward the sea, toward Jaffa, the Bride of Palestine, and paced the shore as her groom, intoxicated by his small, wily victory over the police.
Inilah ciri-cirinya, maka.
Pertama kali ia menyadari keuntungan dari ciri-cirinya adalah ketika sebuah kepolisian Zionis menyerbu sebuah lokasi konstruksi tempat ia bekerja bersama Murad dan beberapa orang lainnya di pemukiman Rishon LeZion, sebelah utara Tel Aviv, pemukiman kolonial Zionis terbesar. Polisi datang untuk memeriksa izin kerja dan identitas para pekerja serta menangkap siapa pun yang bekerja secara ilegal, dan Nur termasuk di antara warga Palestina yang malang yang ditolak izin kerja untuk pasar Zionis, entah karena penangkapan sebelumnya karena perlawanan terhadap Pendudukan atau karena kerabat telah ditangkap. Dalam kasus Nur, ia yang bertanggung jawab atas pelanggaran ayahnya. Hari itu, bagaimanapun, ia mendapatkan keberuntungan langka. Ia sedang buang air di sudut jauh situs ketika keributan mulai, dan ia melihat polisi mengelilingi situs dan memeriksa identitas para pekerja. Gelombang keragu-raguan membanjiri dirinya saat ia melihat sekeliling untuk menemukan semacam rakit hidup yang akan melindunginya dari pukulan petugas dan beberapa hari penahanan di pos, diikuti dengan dilempar ke udara di pos perbatasan terdekat antara Tepi Barat yang diduduki dan pusat dunia Zionis. Namun Nur tidak melihat jalan keluar, jadi ia menuju untuk menyerahkan diri kepada polisi, yang sibuk dengan tugas keamanan mereka. Ia mendekati mereka dengan sisa ketenangan, kepercayaan, dan ketenangannya. Ia hampir berhenti dan menyerahkan diri kepada tinju mereka ketika seorang polisi memutar tubuhnya secara acak, menilai wajahnya sejenak, lalu menyapanya dalam bahasa Ibrani dan berbalik memeriksa izin kerja buruh lain, tidak curiga sedikit pun bahwa Nur diklasifikasikan sebagai pengungsi, seorang “ilegal,” atau seorang “buruh dari wilayah Palestina.” Tak lama setelah Nur menjauh dari lokasi konstruksi dan tahanan polisi, ia melesat seperti angin. Ia tidak kembali ke timur, tempat jalan menuju Ramallah, melainkan ke barat, menuju laut, menuju Jaffa, Pengantin Palestina, dan berjalan di tepi pantai sebagai pengantinnya, mabuk oleh kemenangan kecilnya yang licik atas polisi.
It was the features, then.
Itu adalah ciri-cirinya, maka.
His features were a mask. He whooped. Danced. Dove into the sea. He was alone on the beach at Jaffa, and it was winter, and by the time Nur got back to Ramallah that evening, and then to his camp, he could no longer remember—had he been shouting in Arabic or Hebrew? The question lingered in his mind as he and Murad celebrated his lucky escape from the police.
Ciri-cirinya adalah sebuah topeng. Ia bersorak. Menari. Menyelam ke laut. Ia sendirian di pantai Jaffa, dan saat itu musim dingin, dan ketika Nur kembali ke Ramallah malam itu, lalu ke kampnya, ia tidak lagi bisa mengingat—apakah ia berteriak dalam bahasa Arab atau Ibrani? Pertanyaan itu terngiang di benaknya saat ia dan Murad merayakan pelarian beruntungnya dari polisi.
The labor pains of this final, definitive birth had become more violent one autumn day three years ago as he wandered through Jaffa’s famous flea maret. He was immersed in contemplating the wares displayed on the carts and in the shops—old, dilapidated antiques; paintings; outdated appliances; and more—fascinated by the past and their accumulated history, trying to imagine the fates of their previous owners. Then, in the hustle and bustle of the souq, his gaze fell on a dark brown leather jacket hanging on a rack of used clothing in front of a shop. He crossed over to it quickly, drawn by how handsome it was. He examined it with the skill and expertise of someone with a weakness for stylish things and confirmed that it was real leather. He took it off the hanger and tried it on, studying his appearance in the shop mirror and admiring the leather. He decided to buy it. He went to the shopkeeper and began bargaining for the jacket in his Ashkenazi-accented Hebrew, finally reaching the reasonable price of fifty dollars. Then he left the souq in the jacket, happy in all his leather-clad Ashkenazi glory.
Rasa sakit kelahiran terakhir ini menjadi lebih ganas pada suatu hari musim gugur tiga tahun yang lalu saat ia menjelajahi pasar loak terkenal di Jaffa. Ia tenggelam dalam merenungkan barang-barang yang dipajang di gerobak dan toko—barang antik tua yang reyot; lukisan; peralatan kuno; dan lainnya—terpesona oleh masa lalu dan sejarahnya yang terkumpul, mencoba membayangkan nasib pemilik sebelumnya. Lalu, di tengah keramaian souq, pandangannya jatuh pada jaket kulit coklat tua yang tergantung di rak pakaian bekas di depan sebuah toko. Ia mendekat dengan cepat, tertarik oleh betapa tampannya jaket itu. Ia memeriksanya dengan keahlian seorang yang memiliki kegemaran terhadap barang-barang bergaya dan memastikan bahwa itu adalah kulit asli. Ia melepasnya dari gantungan dan mencoba memakainya, memeriksa penampilannya di cermin toko dan mengagumi kulitnya. Ia memutuskan untuk membelinya. Ia mendatangi pedagang toko dan mulai menawar jaket itu dengan bahasa Ibrani beraksen Ashkenazi-nya, akhirnya mencapai harga yang wajar, lima puluh dolar. Kemudian ia meninggalkan pasar loak itu dengan jaket itu, bahagia dalam seluruh kemewahan kulit Ashkenazi-nya.
He stuck his hands in the jacket pockets as he made his way toward the central bus station to head back to Jerusalem, where his tour agency was headquartered. Then he began to rummage through the other pockets, and when he reached into the inner chest pocket over his heart, his fingers brushed against something. He pulled it out with eager curiosity. It was a blue Israeli ID card, intact, which the jacket’s owner had apparently forgotten about when he sold the jacket at the market. Nur stopped in his tracks, looking around nervously—the knee-jerk reaction of an Arab refugee, despite the features protecting him from the scorching sun of Zionist Tel Aviv. There were some people passing nearby, so he walked slowly toward a wooden bench by the sidewalk, shaded from the sun and prying eyes by the thick foliage of a tree. He looked around again; everything was calm, life proceeding as usual, nothing to worry about. He took the card out of his pocket and flipped open the plastic casing, looking at the owner’s information and picture, from which a handsome young man gazed back at him.
Ia memasukkan tangannya ke dalam saku jaket ketika ia menuju ke stasiun bus pusat untuk kembali ke Yerusalem, tempat kantor agen tur-nya berada. Lalu ia mulai menggali saku-saku lainnya, dan ketika ia memasukkan tangannya ke saku dada dalam tepat di atas hatinya, jarinya menyentuh sesuatu. Ia menariknya dengan rasa ingin tahu yang besar. Itu adalah kartu identitas Israel berwarna biru, utuh, yang pemilik jaket tampaknya lupa saat menjual jaket itu di pasar. Nur berhenti di tempatnya, melirik ke sekeliling dengan gugup—reaksi refleks seorang pengungsi Arab, meskipun ciri-cirinya melindunginya dari terik matahari di Tel Aviv yang Zionis. Ada beberapa orang lewat di dekatnya, jadi ia berjalan perlahan menuju bangku kayu di pinggir trotoar, teduh dari matahari dan mata yang ingin tahu oleh dedaunan tebal sebuah pohon. Ia melihat sekeliling lagi; semuanya tenang, hidup berjalan seperti biasa, tidak ada yang perlu dikhawatirkan. Ia mengeluarkan kartu itu dari saku dan membalikkan casing plastiknya, melihat informasi dan foto pemiliknya, dari mana seorang pria muda yang tampan memandangi dirinya.
FIRST NAME: OR
NAMA DEPAN: OR
LAST NAME: SHAPIRA
NAMA BELAKANG: SHAPIRA
MOTHER’S NAME: LITAL
NAMA IBU: LITAL
FATHER’S NAME: NITZAN
NAMA AYAH: NITZAN
BIRTH DATE: 15/8/1985
TANGGAL LAHIR: 15/8/1985
PLACE OF RESIDENCE: TEL AVIV
TEMPAT TINGGAL: TEL AVIV
The owner of the card was five years older than he was. Or Shapira…
Pemilik kartu itu berusia lima tahun lebih tua daripada dia. Or Shapira…
He was struck by the name: in Hebrew, or meant “light,” just like nur in Arabic. A slight smile spread over Nur’s face as he gazed at the ID; then he tucked it back into his inner jacket pocket, resting against his heart. And turned his steps back toward the camp.
Namanya membuatnya tertegun: dalam bahasa Ibrani, or berarti “cahaya,” sama seperti nur dalam bahasa Arab. Senyum tipis melintas di wajah Nur saat ia menatap kartu identitas itu; lalu ia memasukkannya kembali ke saku dalam jaketnya, bersandar di dadanya. Dan ia melanjutkan langkahnya kembali ke kamp.
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From A Mask the Color of the Sky by Bassem Khandaqji. Used with permission of the publisher, Europa Editions. Copyright © 2026 by Bassem Khandaqji, translation copyright © 2026 by Addie Leak.
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Dari A Mask the Color of the Sky oleh Bassem Khandaqji. Digunakan dengan izin penerbit, Europa Editions. Hak Cipta © 2026 oleh Bassem Khandaqji, hak terjemahan © 2026 oleh Addie Leak.
