Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah
I sit on the edge of the couch and bite my nails. Relief floods through me. The scary things – stroke, heart attack, cancer – have been ruled out, thank God. But the fragility of Sitti Zeynab’s health still terrifies me.
I go to my room. Jihan is busy doing lunges in the corner and singing to her walkman. I get a piece of paper and write down the name of Sitti Zeynab’s village and her description of her home. I tuck it into the Shrek backpack Baba got me as a present. I check that the empty hummus jar is secure and decide to wrap it in one of Mohammed’s blankets to cushion it properly. I’ve packed some snacks for the journey. My birth certificate is folded in an envelope, secured in the front pocket of my bag.
I go to bed early. I dream of tanks chasing me down the streets of Jerusalem. I dream I’ve been buried alive. Maysaa scoops dirt over me but I can’t scream because my mouth is full of rocks and compost. I wake up in a cold sweat. I look over at Sitti Zeynab’s empty bed and realise just how much I need her. I force myself to close my eyes and replay the words of a pop song in my head until I fall asleep.
Chapter SEVEN
I leave the house early the next morning. I write Jihan a note telling her I’ve gone to school. It’s still early and she lies snoring beside Tariq on the bed. None of us even contemplated sleeping in Sitti Zeynab’s empty bed.
Samy and I have no idea how to get to Jerusalem and so we agree to head to the main service taxi rank at Manger Square.
Bethlehem hasn’t fully woken yet. Most of the tourists with their astonished and wonder-filled eyes who walk the stone streets of the holy town are probably still snuggled fast asleep in their hotel beds. They come in their jeans, walking shoes, T-shirts and baseball caps. Sports bags perched on their backs, cameras dangling off straps around their necks, they’re eager to experience the place where Jesus was born. Samy and I watch them sometimes as they listen eagerly to their Palestinian tour guides who happily explain the history behind the Church of the Nativity and lead them to souvenir shops where they can purchase mugs, T-shirts, paintings or mouse pads with prints of the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus (all at a special commission to the tour guides, Baba says).
Samy and I enjoy talking to the tourists. They’re either overwhelmed (in which case we feel sorry for them and will shoo the beggars and child merchants away) or excited (in which case we pose in photos with them and practise our English skills on them).
As we’re walking we overhear two men in loud conversation. Samy grins at me and cries out to them: ‘We speak London too!’
Laughing, I grab Samy’s arm and pull him away.
‘People don’t speak London, silly!’ I say.
‘Well what was that then?’
‘It’s an English accent. They were speaking English.’
‘London, English, it’s the same thing.’
‘You need to stop sleeping in Ostaza Mariam’s classes.’
‘Okay, teacher’s pet.’
We start to kick a smooth grey pebble, taking turns in passing it to each other as we walk along the street. Then we get into another argument, which we often do. It all starts when I tell Samy that I want to be a vet and zoo operator when I grow up. He snorts and then asks me what kind of zoo.
‘A zoo where people can walk around with the animals.’
This seems to amuse him very much. ‘You can’t have a zoo without cages. People would get eaten by the animals.’
‘No they wouldn’t. I would train the animals to be gentle.’
‘You can’t tame a lion to take a stroll with a human. Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘You can so!’ I shout, infuriated by his cynicism. ‘There are places in the world where people observe animals close up! They’re called safaris.’
‘Safaris? It’s sarafis, silly.’
‘It is not.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Is not.’
‘Is too.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Sarafi! Sarafi! Sarafi!’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Anyway, what are you talking about? And stop talking as though you have any idea what’s out in the world. You’ve never even seen a lion. Or a monkey. Not even a camel. And we’re in the Middle East, for God’s sake!’
I kick the pebble hard and far, sending him running to kick it further. The rule is that the first person to miss the next kick loses. And neither one of us likes to lose.
‘I’ve seen them on television!’
‘And that’s how you’ll become the first Palestinian lion tamer?’ He doubles over with an exaggerated laugh and then kicks the pebble, forcing me to retrieve it from a tricky angle in the gutter.
‘I’ll obviously study for the position,’ I say, managing to kick the pebble a short distance.
‘Study where? There are no courses.’
I stop in front of him, placing my hands furiously on my hips. ‘You donkey, that’s what universities are for!’
‘Well the animals won’t be able to get through the checkpoints. Can you imagine an elephant begging a soldier to let him pass? Your idea is stupid. And you’re not such an animal-loving person after all. You just called me a donkey!’
‘Oh, shut up. Anyway, my idea’s not stupid! I’ll write to people around the world and they’ll send the animals and the Israelis will say yes.’
‘Why?’ he asks, a sneer on his face. ‘Because they like animals more than they like us?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘They’ll say yes. And I’ll open the first zoo without cages. And it’ll be open for everybody! Except you!’
He gives me an angry look. ‘Stop dreaming stupid dreams.’
‘It’s not a stupid dream!’
‘Yes it is!’
We’ve suddenly forgotten all about the pebble.
‘Well what do you want to be then? Huh?’
He frowns. ‘What’s the point of wanting to be anything?’
I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. ‘Are you saying you wouldn’t want to be a doctor? A shop owner? A truck driver? A teacher?’
‘A teacher? Hayaat, you must be crazy! Imagine if I had to teach somebody like me. I would have a nervous breakdown the way Ostaz Shady nearly did after I superglued his briefcase closed. And a doctor? Too much blood. A shop owner? People are poor, so what’s the point? A truck driver? Why? So it can get confiscated like Abdullah’s did? Or so I can spend every day from checkpoint to roadblock? No thank you. I don’t dream stupid dreams, Hayaat.’
For a moment I don’t say anything. Then, after I swallow my anger, I stare into his eyes. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I whisper.
He holds my stare and then grins. ‘Does wanting to be a soccer player count?’
I offer him a shrug. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well that’s what I want to be. And when your cageless zoo idea fails, you can always come to me and I’ll employ you as my personal assistant. You can manage my fan mail and advertising contracts.’
I dive at him but he’s too quick, stepping to the side and erupting into a fit of laughter.
We press on towards the main centre of Bethlehem. The marketplace is already noisy and chaotic, even at this early hour. We dodge the taxis and cars that race through the streets, somehow negotiating their way through pedestrians, fruit stands, ambling donkeys, broken footpaths and redundant traffic islands. Shop owners stand outside their shops, smoking as they lean against their doors, surveying the scene with bored expressions on their faces. Children run after their mothers and fathers, carrying shopping bags and cartons of fruit and vegetables. We run in front of an overcrowded bus and wave at the passengers. We run past the Armenian Convent and down Milk Grotto Street with its numerous souvenir shops selling silver jewellery and hand-made crucifixes, medals, rosaries and boxes carved in olive wood and mother-of-pearl. We run past restaurants, cafes and bars, where men sit at the entrances haggling and gossiping over small cups of Turkish coffee. Finally we reach Manger Square. We spend a couple of moments trying to catch our breath. I
Now we’re here I decide I want to pay a quick visit to the Mosque of Caliph Omar, which stands at the edge of Manger Square.
Samy is incredulous. ‘Are you joking?’ he splutters. ‘Why?’
‘I won’t be long. I promise.’
We approach the entrance to the mosque and are greeted by an old man who’s sucking on a cigarette like a baby on a dummy. He looks us up and down, a goofy grin on his face.
‘Give alms for the martyred ones!’ he cries, shaking a tin of money in his crusty old hand. His red gums are laid bare for us to see as he laughs boisterously. It’s obvious that he’s not right in the head.
‘Give alms for those who fight the Israelis!’ he cries, shaking his tin.
I ignore him, averting my eyes from his as I scurry past. I take off my shoes and place them neatly in a shoe rack. Samy walks tentatively into the mosque, kisses his cross and mutters, ‘God forgive me.’ He then throws his shoes off and looks down at his feet. ‘A hole!’ he declares and then holds one foot up close towards his face. ‘My feet stink! Amto Christina will kill me if she knew I’d entered a mosque, of all places, with smelly socks and a hole!’
I grab a scarf from a clothing rack and throw it over my hair.
We walk in and I caution Samy to stop whistling. We pick a corner of the mosque, careful to avoid eye contact with a group of men sitting in a circle.
I kneel down on the carpet and raise my palms in front of my face and make dua. Please keep her with us. Please keep her alive. Please help us at the checkpoints.
‘Amto Christina wouldn’t be impressed if she knew I was here,’ Samy mutters. ‘Wait for a moment. I need to go to the bathroom . . . I’ll be back.’ He suddenly bolts out the door.
Several moments later a girl in a green hijab crouches down beside me. I turn to face her, curious as to why she’s chosen to sit beside me when she has the entire mosque. Grinning at me, his teeth practically luminous under the lights in the mosque, is Samy, draped in a green hijab. He bats his eyelashes at me and forces back a hysterical laugh.
‘Are you mad?’ I exclaim.
‘No,’ he whispers. ‘I just want to see if anybody notices.’
‘You’re the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen. Praise God for making you a boy. I never realised how big your nostrils were until now. And your eyebrows – there’s only one.’
‘Was it always like that?’
‘It’s warmed the top of your nose ever since I can remember. Come on, let’s leave. I’m finished.’
I grab his arm and lead him out, away from the curious eyes of the men, who, judging from the steady hum of conversation coming from the direction of their circle, seem to be enjoying a gossip session rather than a religious lecture.
As we step out of the mosque I notice a small boy who looks our age talking to the old man. Upon seeing us, the old man whispers something into the boy’s ear and the boy runs after us, cutting off our path. A plastic bag filled with packets of tissues dangles from his arm. His hair is dishevelled and dusty, the heels of his feet cracked, and his clothes are ragged and too big for him.
‘Tissues?’ he asks. ‘May God give you a long life.’
‘Go away,’ Samy says, although he says it without much energy. It’s a standard response to street hagglers and the boy doesn’t even flinch. ‘Do we look like tourists? Leave us alone; we’ve got important business.’
The boy’s eyes light up. ‘My uncle thought you looked suspicious.’
‘That crazy man is your uncle?’ Samy says.
‘Yeah. So what business do you have?’ He licks his lips in anticipation of Samy’s response.
‘We’re on a private mission,’ Samy replies importantly.
‘Tell me,’ the boy pleads. Then he looks at me. I’m twirling the end of my plait in my finger, thinking about how dirty his skin is.
‘Where are you from?’ I ask. We start to walk and the boy follows us.
‘My uncle and I are from Aida refugee camp. Are you from there too?’
‘Certainly not!’ I cry with indignation. That Mama was born in a refugee camp and lived there until she was married isn’t something I like to advertise. Anyway, Mama generally doesn’t approve of me mixing with children from the camp. ‘God knows our life is hard, Hayaat. But in the camps it can be unbearable. I don’t want you to mix with people with no hope, ya Hayaat. Some of them have nothing left to lose and sometimes they feel there is nothing to live for. People prey on that desperation. They play God with people’s lives. Promising heaven and meetings with angels and twisting God’s words to suit them.’
I didn’t ask Mama if, since the settler roads took my father’s land, we’ve become desperate too.
For some reason, looking at that scruffy, skinny boy makes me angry. ‘Why don’t you wash?’ I ask scornfully. ‘I’m sure there’s soap in the camp. You smell! And your clothes are filthy.’
The boy shrugs. ‘Tell me about your mission. I’m bored.’
‘Go away,’ I say, flicking my hand in the air as though I’m trying to get rid of a fly. ‘We don’t have time for you.’
‘Why is your face like that? What happened to you? Does it hurt?’
I turn around swiftly and glare at him. ‘Shut up! Leave me alone, you filthy, stinking refugee!’
His eyes suddenly moisten. And what stabs me is that he tries to hide it. He makes as if to tie his shoelace. But his slippers don’t have laces. The shame I feel in that moment is overpowering. It floods my body with such force I feel as though I might topple over. To think that somebody has to protect their self-respect and dignity from me. After all the teasing I’ve endured at school. After all the times I’ve looked in the mirror and felt embarrassed by my reflection. I have to redeem myself.
So I buy his entire bag of tissues.
‘What are we going to do with all those?’ Samy asks as he watches me stuff the small packets into my backpack.
‘What we do with them isn’t the point,’ I mutter.
‘I saw an episode of Spider-man,’ the boy says thoughtfully, ‘where he rescues someone who tries to climb up a building with bedsheets tied together.’
I give the boy a funny look. Samy is interested.
‘Imagine if you tied the tissues together and climbed the Wall.’
‘Imagine if the soldiers saw us doing that,’ Samy says with a laugh. ‘I think they’d let us over to reward our pure genius.’
‘A tissue crumples with a bit of snot and you two think it’s going to carry our body weight?’
‘Where’s your imagination?’ the boy asks, giving Samy a knowing look.
‘She’s being Miss Practical today,’ Samy says.
‘Come on, let’s get moving,’ I say. ‘If you both shut up I’ll show you the kite I have stuffed in my bag. We’ll get Spiderman here to hold it over the Wall while you and I dangle off the ribbons, Samy. Now yallah. We need to find out how to get to Jerusalem.’
Chapter EIGHT
The dirty boy from Aida refugee camp who has no tissues left to sell is named Wasim. We let him walk with us because he’s been recruited by a United Nations–sponsored soccer team to play in international tournaments. Samy is instantly impressed. I don’t know whether he wants to embrace Wasim or hit him.
‘Why you?’ Samy asks, his voice drizzled with envy. ‘How did you get picked? I mean, you’re a refugee.’
Wasim grins. ‘That’s the point, ya zalami.’ I can’t help but snort in laughter. Ya zalami means ‘oh man’ but only old people say such things. It sounds funny coming out of Wasim’s mouth. ‘Because I’m a refugee they took pity. I’m going to be trained. Proper training! With proper soccer boots and T-shirts and knee pads!’
‘Knee pads?’ Samy’s eyes are as big as the saucers Mama uses to serve mansaf when we have guests over. ‘Huh! Liar.’
‘I swear to God, ya zalami. And the trainer is from England with a proper accent and everything!’
‘
‘Ya zalami, he drinks more tea than we do!’
‘Stop lying!’
‘I promise on my mother’s grave. The foreigners came to Aida camp with an idea to help the kids and they saw we love to play soccer and decided to sponsor a team. It was just a tiny bit of their budget. And wallah, I swear by God, I would rather soccer than food. So do you want to play? Practise with me? We could do it every week. Every day, even!’
Wasim’s been promoted to hero status. The two of them are boring me with their inane sports talk. I huff and puff, not caring in the least about soccer moves and famous players, but they’re oblivious.
‘Where will you play?’ I ask, eventually conceding defeat and deciding to join their conversation.
Wasim jumps up and punches the air. ‘In Italy!’
Samy is clearly distressed. He stops, shuffles along and then stops again, grabbing Wasim’s arm. ‘Well, can’t you . . . ask them to let me play, too? I’m excellent! Hayaat, tell him how excellent I am. Tell him. Go on. Tell him!’
‘He’s terrible,’ I say. In a split second I realise that if I don’t correct myself Samy will die. He’s losing his colouring and the oxygen doesn’t seem to be reaching his lungs.
‘I’m only joking!’ I holler. Samy goes from an off-shade of vanilla to pinky-white again.
‘I’ll see what can be managed,’ Wasim says in an important voice, straightening his back with pride. ‘Maybe you should practise with me for a while.’
‘What about the coach?’
‘We can play and then I’ll approach him about you.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘I’m his favourite. So I’m sure he’ll take my opinion. I’m the goalkeeper and I’m momtaz! The coach says so himself.’
‘I thought you said he was Englizee?’ Samy says. ‘How is he calling you momtaz when he is a tea-drinking Englizee?’ Samy crosses his arms over his chest and frowns suspiciously at Wasim.