Chapter 9

“Why not just draw a line right through it?” the minister asked with exasperation.

Standing in front of the giant map of Gaza, he gestured angrily. “We have two million Palestinian refugees. We’ve agreed to take in up to a million more. The population in Gaza is already nearly two million. Why not just draw a line from here to here and make it Jordanian territory?” He turned away from the map, glaring. “You’re not giving us anything other than mouths to feed.”

“Three reasons,” I said patiently. “One, the entire history of colonialism will tell you that drawing arbitrary lines on maps does not end well. Two, Israel will not accept a reduction in its territory – even occupied territory. Three, we have infrastructure agreements in place for rehousing, and have extended Jordanian fishing rights to compensate you. Plus, some of those Palestinians will be relatively wealthy from right-of-return settlements: they won’t be coming to you with empty pockets.”

“We’re already taken in nearly two million Syrians!” someone further down the desk retorted.

“And you have agreements in place that if the majority of those refugees have not returned to Syria in the next six years, further international aid and trade concessions will be forthcoming.”

“I still don’t like it,” a moustachioed general grumbled. “You’re not just giving us hungry mouths. You’re giving us fanatics. They’re as dangerous to us as they are to you.”

“Attacks have declined 90% in the last year,” I pointed out. “Everyone moving into Jordanian territory will be giving up their arms, while signing their withdrawal from Hamas and affiliated groups. Everyone will all be working together to make sure they’re not rearmed or re-radicalized.”

The room was silent.

This was the second day of negotiations. And they were negotiations. The Minister was right: Jordan had acted above and beyond in placing and supporting refugees. The problem was that the majority of Palestinians, and their descendants, remained refugees in Jordan, even after 60 years of settlement. They received services – supplemented by the international community – but were not citizens.

With the binational agreement and right-of-return compensations, it was expected that some of the refugees in Jordan would return to Israel-Palestine. But surveys showed that many would choose to remain in the country they had been born and raised their families in. Still others would regard the newly conjoined country with suspicion, even loathing, and would choose to emigrate east to Jordan. For all of them, a pathway to citizenship had to be opened, to avoid the mistakes of the past. Experts had disagreed wildly on what exactly it would be equitable for Jordan to do, forcing these closed-door negotiations.

I wasn’t taking any particular side. There was a bevy of lawyers, demographic statisticians, economists and human rights activists in the next room advocating for their respective positions, feeding their conclusions into this chamber of the Rhaffa Palace. I was here to make sure that at the end of the conference something was done.

I stood on the balcony of the palace in the cool air, listening to the evening call to prayer echo through the city of Amman as night fell.

The day had been very long, but productive: meetings were much more efficient when formalities were removed and everyone involved was commanded to tell the truth. A rough agreement for re-settlement had been hashed out; the remaining days would be devoted to detailing where and how additional Palestinian refugees might be sheltered, together with a support process for fully integrating them into Jordanian communities.

The phone in my pocket purred. Smiling, I slipped it out.

“I miss you,” Yael’s words were immediate and heartfelt. I felt my chest ache again.

“Miss you more,” I replied.

“The house feels so empty without you.” I could hear her voice echoing off the walls. “Will you be back soon?”

“Two more days, I think.”

“Is it okay if I invite Liora to stay over? It’s a little crazy with just me and the Silent Sams.”

“Of course. Will you... “ I left the question unspoken.

“Maybe.” I heard the smile in her voice. “We haven’t really spoken about that since I moved in. Is it okay?”

“Yes, of course. But you’re really making me regret not being there.”

Her laugh was full-throated. “Oh, you wish.”

It was so easy to become overwhelmed with detail that every once in a while I had to stand back and appreciate what was being achieved. Here, we were talking about building entire cities and suburbs – quality communities, equally attractive to both native Jordanians and new citizens. In Israel, I had successfully moved the planned Red Line light rail route through Gaza, rather than outside the border. The economy in the West Bank was surging.

There were always last-minute points of order to every meeting. Compromises that could never be reached, that I had to splice together with command. It had been four days. But finally, we were there.

I found the point in my throat. “Gentlemen. The accord is in front of you. Agreement has been reached. I suggest we take it to his majesty the king.”

I was a little high from the signing. Not from alcohol – the event was a strictly Muslim affair – but from the feeling of accomplishment at having another important cornerstone of the plan finally slide into place. I had an urge to cartwheel down the palace hallway.