Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah
I look around for Samy. With the exception of the man with the cramps and David and Molly, he’s the last to enter. His movements are slow and controlled. He climbs the step and looks back at the soldiers. I’ve never seen his face so composed. It chills me.
The man with the cramps looks like he’s about to cry as he tries to limp back towards the door. Molly goes to his assistance, offering him her arm to lean on. The driver stands in front of the soldier who had earlier pointed his gun at us.
‘Cramps,’ he explains frantically, his hands jabbing the air as he speaks. ‘The man is suffering cramps and needed to get out.’
David hurries over, calling out something in Hebrew. The soldier yells something back at him and David suddenly turns on his heel, grabs Molly’s arm and leads her back into the minibus.
‘Why are you back here?’ somebody yells. ‘Speak to them!’
‘He called us traitors,’ David replies, ‘and threatened to imprison the driver and man if we didn’t get back in.’
‘Your ID!’ the soldier demands.
The driver pulls his wallet out from his trousers and produces his card.
The soldier looks at it and then throws it back at the driver. He then walks over to the man with the cramps.
‘What problem?’ he yells in broken Arabic, towering over the man.
‘Cramps,’ the man splutters. ‘I suffer cramps. There was no room—’
‘You not leave bus!’ He slaps the man in the face. The impact propels the man a step backwards. He cries out, raising his hand to his cheek.
‘You want trouble?’ the soldier yells.
The man stands silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. I want to vomit. My head swims as I watch him avoid eye contact with the soldier.
Then the other soldier approaches. The two soldiers converse quickly in Hebrew and the second soldier says: ‘It’s okay. Fix cramps quick. Then back in bus.’ His voice is stern but gentle.
Somebody cheers. Another claps. ‘What a good man he is!’ somebody exclaims. ‘He is so caring compared to the other one,’ another cries.
‘That soldier was nice, wasn’t he?’ I say to Raghib after everybody has calmed down and a quiet has descended over the van.
‘When I was young my father told me a story,’ Raghib says in a low voice. ‘Do you want to hear it, Hayaat?’ Seeing me nod, he continues. ‘Once upon a time a fisherman went out to sea. He caught many fish and threw them into a large bucket on his boat. The fish were not yet dead, so the man decided to ease their suffering by killing them swiftly. While he worked, the cold air made his eyes water. One of the wounded fish saw this and said to another, “What a kind heart this fisherman has – see how he cries for us.” The other fish replied, “Ignore his tears and watch what he is doing with his hands.” ’
Chapter FOURTEEN
Fifteen minutes pass. The man is pleased to announce that his cramps have gone. Several people praise God. Several curse Middle Eastern summers. Some offer him advice on how to increase magnesium in the blood.
We sit bottled up in the minibus like the bubbles in a shaken can of fizzy drink, waiting to explode.
Twenty-five minutes. Somebody remarks that it’s odd to experience cramps in this heat. They usually occur in cold weather, don’t they?
Half an hour. David and Molly’s heritage is discovered. Oh, the excitement! Peace activists! Israeli peace activists! Such courage, such integrity. Demands for David and Molly to share their stories. Abo Jaffar, a fruit grocer, offers David and Molly some apples and pears from the boxes he has squeezed under his seat and balanced on his lap. ‘Itfadalo. You are welcome,’ he says, urging them to eat. So they crunch on an apple and pear each and we hear about the time they helped a family to harvest their fruit orchards in the face of settlers who had tried to prevent them from entering their land. Some trees poisoned. Some shots fired. Then there was the time Um Mazen’s house was demolished because she had no permit. They could not stop the demolition. Actually, maybe that was not such an interesting story to tell, they remark. What about the summer camp for Israeli and Palestinian children in Jaffa?
What a lovely idea!
This is what we need more of!
Yes, the children spent one week together on the beach, at historical sites, in the bazaars, playing sports, doing art and craft.
Good. Good. Very good.
I try not to be jealous.
An hour. Could we not open the windows any further? No, that is as far as they open.
Well then damn the flies and peace talks.
One hour and ten minutes. A signal. A soldier flicks his finger and our driver laughs and turns the ignition on. The service rolls forward a few metres, and then the driver is ordered to stop. The ignition is turned off.
Play the oud!
Marwan beams. But then we realise there’s no room for we’re squashed, squashed, squashed.
I stare at the blindfolded men crouched on the ground. It seems such a normal sight because their presence doesn’t raise a stir among the passengers in the minibus.
I wonder what the men have done. It can’t be too serious as there’s only one soldier standing guard over them and he doesn’t look too concerned. Have they been caught with the wrong papers? The possibility sends a shiver through my body, given that we’re about to do the same thing to try and enter Jerusalem.
Two hours. It’s now three o’clock.
Marwan has dozed off, his head rolling sideways and forwards. The sun swells. There are no white or brown faces, just red ones. Samy fidgets as best as he can. I try to count the number of lines on Raghib’s shirt.
We will ourselves to be patient. I marvel at how many people trust in God when all I can think about is stabbing the soldiers’ eyes out with their black sunglasses and quenching my thirst with one of Abo Jaffar’s pears. Molly marvels too, but for different reasons. During a conversation about her nephew’s Bar Mitzvah, she somehow reveals that she’s an agnostic. The passengers are suddenly in a frenzy.
‘But you’re Jewish!’
‘Ya Molly, give thanks to Him who shaped you in your mother’s womb.’
‘So what do you say when you stub your toe?’ That’s Samy, who dislikes church but believes in God in the same way I dislike school but believe in education.
Molly admits to saying oh my God in times of crisis or toe-stubbing. Samy looks triumphant. ‘Aha! So you do believe in God!’
‘Yes! Yes! Good point, ya Samy,’ Grace cries.
‘He got you!’ somebody exclaims with glee.
Molly’s crinkled eyes sparkle as she giggles. ‘You all sound like Orthodox Jews. Perhaps you might have more in common with them than I do! If there is a God, he certainly has the best lawyers sitting here in this bus.’
‘But there are no lawyers here,’ Samy says, looking puzzled. ‘Is anybody here a lawyer?’
‘Teacher!’
‘Glass maker!’
‘Engineer!’
‘Student!’
‘Bored housewife,’ one woman says, provoking laughter among the passengers.
I stare at Molly, curious to meet an agnostic for the first time in my life. She notices me staring and smiles. Not wanting to be impolite, I explain to her that I’ve been staring because she’s an agnostic and not because I want to make her feel uncomfortable. There’s something about Molly I really like – she always seems to have a big fat laugh itching to escape her crooked, pink mouth. Before she can answer, Samy dives in.
‘Yes, but we proved she’s not an agnostic, Hayaat! She fell over her words and can’t pull them back into her mouth now. They’re out there with witnesses who can all testify that she calls on God when she stubs her toe.’
‘My goodness, Samy!’ Molly exclaims. ‘It turns out we do have a lawyer in the bus after all.’
Samy still thinks she’s a Shabak agent. Maybe that’s why he tries to hide the grin spreading over his face.
The tail back of cars builds up. The long queue moves slowly. Somet
We’re at the mercy of their moods. The waiting isn’t nearly as frustrating as being ignored.
An old man on board a service directly in front of us suddenly disembarks. His tall, thin frame is supported by a walking stick.
‘That’s it,’ David roars. ‘Molly, come on, get the camera out. They can’t touch us.’
Some people cheer as David and Molly climb down and walk towards the soldiers, their cameras visible around their necks. I look at Samy, who’s following David and Molly’s every step. There’s a confused expression on his face.
The old man walks purposefully towards the huddle of soldiers standing at a distance from the blindfolded men. David and Molly follow. We all watch nervously. Those few passengers who are able lean their heads out of the open windows to listen.
A young soldier turns towards the man and orders him back into the minibus. The old man stops, fixes the soldier with a stare and, to our astonishment, refuses.
‘Is he senile?’
‘Somebody talk to him!’
‘David and Molly must do something!’
‘Wait! Look!’
The soldier appears startled. The two other soldiers look on in confusion. The old man demands that the passengers be granted permission to disembark. The soldier again orders the old man to return to the service, this time in a gentle tone. The old man stands defiantly and refuses. The tension is palpable. David and Molly step in, raising their cameras at the soldiers. The soldiers look uncomfortable and appear to be demanding that David and Molly put their cameras away. David and Molly stand firm. It’s like watching a mime. Although we can’t understand their words, we’re nonetheless able to interpret what’s going on.
After a few tense moments, the soldier relents. He sends the old man away with a dismissive wave. The old man seems unperturbed by this indignity. I look on in disbelief as he makes his way back to the service and motions for those on board to disembark. The door is flung open and the passengers pour out. The three soldiers run over yelling: ‘Only women and children!’ The men stay on and David and Molly snap away with their cameras. The old man ignores the orders and stands leaning against the service. The soldiers don’t approach him. One of them glares at David and Molly.
Our driver opens the door of our minibus and Raghib motions for me to step out. I follow after Grace, Molly and four other women, feeling guilty that the men are forced to remain inside. Samy seems unsure whether he should stay with the men or disembark with the women. But the prospect of fresh air is too tempting and he steps down and joins me.
‘Is the jar still in one piece?’ he asks.
I open my bag, retrieving it and displaying it to him. ‘Not a scratch,’ I boast. ‘If it had been with you it would have probably smashed. Boys are always rough.’
Samy gives me a look of mock indignation and grabs the jar out of my hand, crouching on the ground and scooping soil into it with his bare hands. ‘I have an idea,’ he says as he proceeds to fill the jar. I crouch down next to him.
‘We’ll fill a jar for each part of the journey. This is the jar of the soil at Container checkpoint. We’ll find some more jars and then fill one with the soil of the checkpoint into Jerusalem. Then a jar of the soil of your grandmother’s village. She can put them all beside each other on her mantelpiece.
Samy tightens the lid on the filled jar and, as we stand up, the soldier whose order was disobeyed by the old man approaches, demanding to see all our papers.
He examines people’s cards and papers dexterously, using his walkie-talkie to cross-check certain names with the border police. His eyes eventually focus on me and I hand him my birth certificate. I look up into his eyes. Cough and he’ll break out in a rash and do cartwheels around the checkpoint, I say to myself. I cough. He doesn’t cartwheel. Or break out in a rash. I cough again and he asks me why I’m travelling alone. I explain that I’m visiting family in Abo Dees and cough some more. He hands my papers back to me and moves on to Samy.
It’s just the way it is with Samy. He infuriates adults even without saying a word. His very presence seems a deliberate insolence. The cocky tilt of his head, the nonchalant, sometimes contemptuous way he looks through them instead of at them. Samy stands, pigeon-chested, staring at the soldier as his papers are scrutinised. The soldier reads through Samy’s birth certificate and then looks down to find Samy’s stare has not broken. He announces Samy’s name into the walkie-talkie and Samy stares on.
‘And why you travelling alone and not with parents?’ the soldier demands while he waits for a response from the other end of the walkie-talkie. He has an irritated look on his face. The kind our teachers often have when dealing with Samy.
‘Because you killed one and imprisoned the other,’ Samy replies.
The soldier blinks violently. I cough and cough but to no avail. With cool detachment, Samy stares up into the soldier’s eyes.
A voice floats out of the walkie-talkie and the soldier raises an eyebrow. ‘So you the son of a prisoner?’ he asks in a tone that doesn’t invite a response. ‘And where you going?’
‘Abo Dees,’ Samy says after a long pause. He just can’t manage the humble tone. His voice oozes contempt, like when our teacher asks him a question and he takes his time answering, as though he’s deciding whether to grace the teacher with his attention.
‘Not thinking of being terrorist like your father, I hope.’
‘He’s a hero,’ Samy shoots back.
The soldier suddenly grabs the jar from Samy’s hand and raises it close to his face to examine it.
‘And what is this?’
‘My land.’
The soldier bobs down to Samy’s eye level. Samy’s eyes are impenetrable as he maintains his stony stare. But then I notice his hands by his side. They’re trembling.
The soldier rises, glances at Samy and then smashes the jar onto the ground. Samy’s trembling hands clench into tight fists.
‘If you think you are man,’ the soldier says calmly, ‘you welcome join men inside service. Otherwise, you stay out here with the women and children. I leave to you choose.’
He smiles gloatingly and turns his back, moving on to the next person. Samy looks at the broken pieces of glass on the ground before him. He looks up at the steps of the service, then at the women and children crowded outside. Suddenly his shoulders slump and that hard, defiant expression collapses into defeat and shame.
I walk up beside him. ‘Samy, we’re in Palestine,’ I say, feigning a light tone. ‘There are hummus jars everywhere, remember?’
He grunts and turns away from me.
Chapter FIFTEEN
Some of us are eventually allowed through, Samy and I included. Others are not.
Those allowed to continue take their seats on the service. With some passengers turned away, there’s more room. Our driver runs the engine, fidgeting impatiently in his seat. We approach the iron gate slowly. A soldier activates it and simply flicks her finger to signal that we can pass.
We’ve been at the Container checkpoint for just over two and a half hours.
My bladder starts to throb again. It screams at me, threatens to humiliate me, pleads with me that the occupation is none of its business. I beg it to understand but it refuses to stop throbbing.
I’m now worried about whether I’ll make it to a toilet. Not to mention the overall delay. We’ll be expected home from school soon and our absence will raise an alarm. As the service’s last stop is the town of Abo Dees, I decide that when we arrive I’ll find a toilet and then telephone home. I’m anxious to find out how Sitti Zeynab is doing.
It’s odd. In reality we’re less than six miles away from home. For those with blue cards, a car ride of minutes. And yet I feel as though we’ve journeyed to another country.
We drive through the village of
I reboard the minibus and we continue on to the town of Abo Dees, under the Mount of Olives. The driver makes a sharp U-turn, narrowly missing a taxi, a boy selling safety pins and a sleepy-looking grocer. Having been through Wadi Al-Nar, I don’t even flinch.
‘Al Quds,’ I whisper under my breath, pressing my nose up against the window. My stomach winds itself into tight knots as I take in a panoramic view of the holy city of Jerusalem and the surrounding green rolling hills filled with olive trees. I suddenly understand that there is dignity in being able to claim heritage, in being able to derive identity from an olive tree, a rocky hill, a winding mountain road. Sitti Zeynab’s village has never stopped calling her, beckoning her to return home. Her soul is stamped into these hills and I feel her presence as strongly as if she were standing on the peak of one of the mountains.
‘I went to a wedding in Abo Dees,’ Sitti Zeynab once told me. ‘Back in the day when travel was not so difficult. Your mother will be very angry with me for telling you this story but that’s what grandmothers are for. The groom’s name was Husni but some weeks after the wedding he was called Abo Ades, Father of Lentils, and nobody ever called him Husni again.
‘Abo Ades had decided to take on a second wife because he was bored with his first. He was a donkey, ya Hayaat, abusing religion like that, but that is life and the way of men with no brains.