Where the Streets Had a Name (8 page)

‘What if we die?'

‘Eh?'

‘What if we get shot?'

‘I probably won't. I have my cross for protection. I can lend you one if you like. But you're Muslim, so it might not work.'

I giggle. ‘Yeah, probably not.'

‘Anyway, you'll be a martyr.'

I don't like the idea. Once, when my face was normal, I used to think it was all very well to die for freedom, peace, justice and so on. But it would have to be spectacular, I thought. Like throwing oneself in front of a tank to protect an old man and being flattened in front of a crowd. Sometimes I'd fall into a daydream, usually after Mama or Baba had scolded me and I wanted to punish them by dying and making them feel guilty, and I'd imagine that I had died in heroic circumstances and my parents and school were all consumed with grief. People would chant my name and women faint with distress and my family would gather around and share stories about me. They would say that I lived like an angel and they would have conveniently forgotten all the times I was clipped on the ear for not making my bed or refusing to eat okra. I would feel my chest swell as I imagined all the nice things they would say about me.

Now, however, I know a courageous death is nice in theory only.

‘Although,' Samy says, ‘I wouldn't want to be stuck in the afterlife while my framed photograph is displayed in the house for people to say a prayer over as they eat pumpkin seeds and salted nuts during evening visits.'

‘I would rather live,' I say.

‘Me too. So we'll try our very best not to get shot. Don't wear that awful pink and red dress you insist on blinding everyone's eyes with. My cross will only work so far.'

‘I love that dress.'

He rolls his eyes. ‘Even a cock-eyed trainee soldier would spot you in that dress. We need money for the transport.'

‘I'll take some from my parents after they leave to go to the hospital tomorrow morning. They have a stash hidden in my father's underwear drawer. I'll borrow some. It's for a good cause. And I'll also borrow some from Jihan. She's been saving her money to buy an exercise machine.'

‘She'll kill you.'

‘I know.'

‘I have a little money too and I can always steal some from Amto Christina's charity tin. Helping Sitti Zeynab counts as charity. So what do we put the soil in?'

I rummage through my school bag and retrieve an empty hummus jar.

‘Good idea. But you've got my stomach rumbling now.
Yallah
, let's buy a sandwich from George's Bakery before school starts!'

Mama and Baba come home later that night without Sitti Zeynab. Baba immediately heads to the kitchen to prepare his
argeela
. Mama drops into a chair. Her legs are outstretched and she clasps an unlit cigarette in her hand. She leans her head back and closes her eyes, releasing a weary sigh.

‘Well? Mama, is she okay?'

‘Yes,' Mama says without opening her eyes. ‘It's just old age,
habibti
. Her heart is getting weaker. God keep her with us. She'll be home tomorrow,
inshallah
, God willing.'

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.

 

 

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 lean my head in between my legs and inhale slowly.

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.