Where the Streets Had a Name (5 page)

This morning Samy isn't interested in how I spent my time during the curfew. All he wants to know is which contestant has been eliminated on
X Factor
.

‘I'll race you to school,' I cry, after I've painstakingly explained every single detail of the elimination episode. ‘I need to move again!'

We pant and puff our way up the long stone road, squeezing ourselves in between the masses of people enjoying their first morning under the open sky in days.

We dodge honking taxis, donkey carts, chattering families and minibuses. We run through the capillary system of narrow alleys, past churches and mosques, through crowded bus stops and up the stone paved roads, towards Manger Square. We run past walls painted with slogans in Arabic and English:
Just Peace! Freedom! Down with the Occupation!
We sprint alongside beautiful limestone villas and ostentatious colonial hotels and wave at other children playing in front of apartment blocks. We jump over the outstretched legs of men who sit on their doorsteps soaking up the sun as they caress their prayer beads or fiddle with their crosses. We run under and around clothes hanging on makeshift clothes lines. We run and it is good to feel the sun touch our faces, to feel the wind whip through our hair. Most of all, it is good to hear life again.

Samy fights for me. He punches Khader in the gut. Khader returns with an uppercut, which Samy blocks.

‘You sissy orphan!' Khader spits. ‘Defending a girl. A girl with a face like mincemeat.'

Samy lunges at Khader's stomach head-first. ‘
Ibn Haraam!
' Samy screams. ‘Bastard!'

Khader, who has a far more solid build, shoves Samy, who trips and falls to the ground. Khader raises his leg to kick him.

‘Leave him alone!' I shout, slapping Khader's neck and crouching down to look at Samy.

Khader bursts into laughter. ‘Have him!' He walks off, clearly delighted with himself.

‘Are you okay?' I ask Samy.

‘No.'

‘Where does it hurt?'

Samy pulls himself up. ‘Hurt?' he repeats in an angry tone. ‘My reputation, ya Hayaat! Coming to my rescue. Oof! If I was bleeding like a cow in a butcher's shop I would not want you to come to my rescue. All my credibility is gone now! Just leave me alone.'

By lunchtime Samy has forgiven me because that is simply how it is with us. We can never stay angry with each other for long – there are too many things to do together. He steals an open tin of paint from one of the classrooms and persuades Adham, Theresa and me to join him at the section of the Wall that circles part of our school. Adham and Theresa harbour some doubts. Being associated with Samy often means getting into trouble with the teachers. The cane is never too far away either. But Samy knows how to dangle the carrot before the donkey. Accusing Adham of being a coward in front of Theresa, who has long silky hair and blue eyes, is enough to puff out Adham's chest and send him to the Wall, Theresa following out of curiosity.

As we approach, the concrete looms over us, absorbing us into an unnatural shade. It is strange to be sitting in the open air and yet to feel like a bird in a cage. The Wall snakes its way through the land. A huge mass of concrete slicing through villages and cities, cutting off families from each other, worshippers from their churches and mosques, my father from his land. The Wall scares me. I feel as though it will crush and suffocate me, even while it stands.

I look at the Wall and remember the day Rawya Amiry, the physiotherapist, lost her brother to it. This is what happens when I see the Wall. I see loss and death.

Rawya's eyes are so grey they are almost violet. She never wears make-up. Her hair is short and always slicked back with Brylcreem. (Mama used to consider her unfeminine but stopped talking negatively about Rawya after what happened. Rawya was suddenly promoted to the status of being one of the most beautiful women Mama has ever met and Mama says that Rawya's hair, while short, is at least silky.) When I returned home from school that day I overheard Mama in the kitchen with Amto Samar. They were speaking in hushed tones as they chain-smoked, sipped sweetened coffee and read their coffee grains. I hid behind the door to listen to them, peeking through the gap in the slightly opened door.

‘Rawya went to work,' Mama said, respectfully adopting the quiet tone she reserves for woeful tales, ‘just like any other day. They say she massaged a woman's wrists and applied magnetic heat packs to a man with disc abnormalities. Perhaps she spoke about the weather or the peace talks or the best way to make cheesecake.'

‘She had no idea,' Amto Samar lamented with a cluck of her tongue.

Mama blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling and took a sip of coffee. ‘She came home and found that her heart had been ripped out of her body and flattened with a bulldozer!'

‘Ya Allah!'

‘Her deaf and mute brother, Hisham, you know him, yes? Always seemed a little creepy, but of course that was because he could do nothing but stare, God have mercy on his soul.'

‘
Ameen
,' Amto Samar sang.

‘He didn't stand a chance, ya Samar. The neighbours say they heard one of the soldiers shout out a warning through a loudspeaker. They tried to rush towards the driver of the bulldozer to tell him that Hisham was inside. But they were held back and Hisham was squashed into pieces, along with the rest of the house.'

‘God have mercy!'

I heard the click of the lighter and saw Amto Samar light another cigarette.

‘I went with Foad and some of the others and searched through the rubble all night. Only parts of Hisham's body were found . . . his head was near the refrigerator.'

Adham, Theresa, Samy and I stand at the foot of the Wall, not far from a menacing watchtower. We're as small as ants.

‘You first!' Samy says to Adham, motioning at the paint tin and brush.

Adham suddenly looks reluctant. ‘What if we're caught?'

Samy smirks, folding his arms over his chest and flashing a glance at Theresa. ‘So what if we're caught?
I'm
not scared.'

Adham raises an eyebrow and then snatches the brush and tin of paint. He leans close to the Wall, his tongue slightly protruding as he frowns in concentration.

Jesus Wepped
.

‘Ah!' Theresa exclaims. ‘I know that verse!'

Adham beams and Samy snatches the paintbrush from him.

‘My turn now! I can write in English too, you know!'

He starts to write:
F Y T

I step up beside Samy. ‘
F-I-G-H-T
,' I discreetly whisper into his ear. Before he can yell back at me I rush on with my words: ‘And I am only telling you to
save
your credibility in front of Theresa.'

Samy gives me a furious look, although I know he's secretly grateful for my advice. I grin and step back, enjoying his struggle to exercise self-restraint in front of Theresa, whom I suspect he likes given that he always tries to hold her hand during the
dabka
.

He quickly corrects the message and, when he finishes, steps back to admire his work.

F
YT
IGHT THE WALL UN TIL IT FOLLS

Theresa and Adham burst into laughter.

‘Hey! What's so funny?'

‘Nothing, Professor Samy,' Adham says.

‘Shut up then!'

‘I think it's very special,' Theresa says in a sickly sweet voice.

‘Then why are you laughing?' Samy snaps back, unable to hold his temper, even in front of the silky-haired Theresa.

She shrugs and his ears burn red.

‘Just a silly girl,' he says angrily.

‘Don't you dare call me silly!'

‘Stop shouting like a silly girl.'

‘You're stupid! And . . . and . . . you can't spell!'

She turns on her heel and storms off.

Adham chuckles but soon regrets it. Samy's fist swiftly comes in and connects with his shoulder.

‘You humiliated me in front of Theresa, you idiot!'

I throw myself onto Samy and try to pry him off Adham.

‘You're crazy!' Adham cries, rubbing his shoulder. ‘You should be locked up in Etzion prison with your father!'

Fifteen minutes later Samy and I are sitting in the school office. Ostaza Mariam is with Adham, nursing his broken nose.

The principal, Ostaz Ihab, calls Samy in first. Ostaz Ihab stands at the door to his office, caressing his moustache as he clucks his tongue with disappointment. Samy, who's highly familiar with Ostaz Ihab and his cane, walks defiantly into the office and the door slams shut behind them.

A short while later Samy emerges, his hands red and raw. Ostaza Mariam walks past carrying a bloodied bandage in a plastic bag.

‘Let me see your hands,' she says tenderly, approaching Samy.

Samy quickly snatches his hands away and scowls at her. ‘I don't need your help,' he shouts and runs out of the office.

Ostaz Ihab lectures me about playing with boys, avoiding troublemakers and being more feminine. ‘You are a sweet girl,' he says. ‘The girls are much better company for you.'

I touch my face and stare at the frames decorating the wall behind his desk. Somebody has typed various popular songs and rhymes and framed them.

‘Promise me you will make friends with the girls,' he says. ‘Hayaat? Are you listening?'

‘Yes, Ostaz,' I say distractedly.

‘Is that yes you are listening or yes you will promise?'

‘Yes,' I say.

 

 

I wake up before God has granted the sun permission to rise.

Tariq has just kicked me in the face and hissed in my ear that he has supernatural powers and will fly to America to eat a hamburger. I leave him with his dreams and shift my position on the bed. Then I notice Sitti Zeynab sitting on the edge of her bed, a round blue biscuit tin perched on her lap.

‘Why are you awake, Sitti?' I whisper, stumbling out of bed and sniffing the air as I sit beside her. I don't want to enter her personal zone with a fresh fart in the air, particularly as we ate fried cauliflower for dinner.

‘Sleep would not come, my darling.'

‘What are you looking at?' I point to a photograph she is fondling in her frail, wrinkled hands, snuggling myself close beside her.

‘Your grandfather. I miss him.'

‘I wish I'd met Sidi.'

‘You would have loved him. And he would have loved you. I am sure of it. He loved children. And his garden. And me.' She flashes me a toothless grin and then casts a shy gaze at the photo.

‘He had the eyes of a jinn—'

‘A
jinn
!' The image is alarming.

‘What do they teach you at school, those brainless donkeys? Did they not teach you that God made the jinn from fire, man from clay, and that the jinn worships God as man is supposed to? Just as there are wicked men, there are wicked jinn. And just as there are good men, there are good jinn. So he had the eyes of a good jinn, full of magic and dance. Among our friends he was called “the smiling one”. He was so mischievous.

‘One day I caught him in our garden with your Khalo Saleem, God rest his soul. Saleem was young. I saw them through the kitchen window – I could see everything from that kitchen window, Hayaat. My village was perched high in the hills of Jerusalem and our house was at the top of the village. Through my kitchen window I saw your grandfather and Saleem crouching on the grass, their heads close together in some sort of conspiracy. Your grandfather's voice was loud and excited. All of a sudden I heard Saleem scream. I ran outside. Your silly grandfather, God rest his soul, had been conducting an experiment with Saleem. Shall I tell you what it was? I am not a scientific woman but I will never forget that experiment till the day I die. We spoke of it so often afterwards.'

‘Yes, tell me!'

She rubs her hands together, clearly delighted with my enthusiasm.

‘The two had dug a tiny hole in the ground. In it they put some water and covered it with an upside-down funnel. Then they threw some white powder that Saleem must have brought from school straight into the funnel. Bang! The mixture exploded and the funnel hit Saleem in the forehead leaving a bloody mark. They both dared to laugh hysterically! I chased Saleem all around the garden and when I caught him I gave him a big smack on the bum with all my might! The son of a donkey had given me a good fright! He could have been killed!'