Where the Streets Had a Name

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘Ahlan, welcome to the service!’ Samy sings, twirling and dancing on the spot. ‘God bless the service!’

  He grabs my hand and we dance the dabka, twirling a tissue in the air as we kick and step around our audience. Some of the people look at us and laugh.

  We pay for our tickets and board, taking our seats at the rear. The service is typically rundown with the seats almost reduced to springs, the left-hand mirror absent and the driver’s ashtray overflowing. A large vanity mirror like the one Mama uses when she plucks her eyebrows is Scotch-taped into the empty frame of what was once a rear-view mirror. Photographs of three grinning children and a stern-looking elderly man wearing traditional Palestinian dress are stuck on the dashboard.

  Molly and David climb on board and sit on the seats in front of us. David is so tall he has to hunch himself over as he enters to avoid a nasty bump from the low door. Passengers slowly fill up the service until we’re a total of eight. Everybody introduces themselves, Assalamu alaikoms ringing through the air.

  ‘I must first check the water and play with the motor a little,’ the bus driver tells us. ‘Here, listen to some music while you wait.’

  He turns on the stereo system and Kazem al Saher blasts through the speakers. Samy and I turn our noses up in frustration.

  ‘He sings classical poetry!’ I moan.

  ‘Put some pop music on!’ Samy cries.

  The bus driver raises the volume and grins. ‘Pop music? Huh!’

  Through the open windows I can hear the driver singing out of tune as he fiddles with the engine, oblivious to the pain he’s causing us.

  ‘We have Israelis with us on the bus,’ I whisper to Samy as softly as I can. ‘That means we can probably get through the checkpoints.’

  ‘They’re probably agents,’ he hisses into my ear. ‘Like the ones that took my father.’

  I lean my elbow on my thigh, cup my chin in my hand and study David’s profile as he turns and speaks to Molly. I can just see the side of his nose, mouth and eye, all so ordinary. The rough stubble around the pointy chin: it could be the stubble that Baba grows in between breakfast and lunch. Put David in the olive fields, in a pew in the Church of the Nativity, in the bazaar at Manger Square, in a keffiyeh, in a galabiya, and nobody would know the difference between him and a Christian or a Muslim.

  ‘The Jews and Arabs are cousins,’ my teacher told us. ‘We descend from Prophet Abraham.’ But I’ve never been sure what to do with this piece of information.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ asks a woman who introduces herself as Grace.

  ‘We were both born in Tel Aviv,’ Molly replies in Arabic. ‘But we’ve been American citizens for the past ten years. We’re back for a visit. We’re working with a human rights watch group.’

  ‘But you both speak Arabic fluently,’ a young woman called Nirvine remarks.

  ‘We’ve studied Arabic,’ David says.

  ‘They have television accents,’ Samy whispers in my ear as David explains where they’ve studied and the Arab countries they’ve visited. ‘We’re Arabs. We know phlegm when we hear it. It’s probably part of the training. The American accent is a cover.’

  ‘They don’t look like agents,’ I whisper back. ‘She’s wearing red nailpolish on her toes and he has an earring in his eyebrow.’ I tap my finger against my forehead. ‘Do you think it would hurt?’

  ‘Even if it did, they’re probably used to pain. Part of the training. An earring in the eyebrow is nothing to him.’

  One of the men on the service introduces himself as Raghib. He’s wearing a thick pair of spectacles and his eyes appear as tiny brown dots. Like Samy’s Amo Joseph, he has combed the few strands of hair on his head to the side, but the exposed parts of his balding head are shiny. He looks funny, but when he speaks his voice is gentle.

  ‘And how is it possible that Israelis can sit here with us, wrapped in the flags of two people?’ he asks.

  ‘We’re peace activists,’ Molly explains.

  ‘Ahh! Hippies!’ Nirvine says through giggles.

  David raises his eyebrows and smiles. ‘Not quite.’

  ‘So what’s your story then?’ Grace asks. ‘Sorry to pry, but the majority of Israelis I encounter have guns in their hands.’

  ‘Well,’ David says, running his fingers through his hair, ‘we’re here because we report back about the human rights abuses. We don’t all support what’s happening.’

  ‘Yes, we know that,’ Nirvine murmurs, while several other people clear their throats.

  Samy nudges me in the side. ‘Do you think he’s lying?’

  I shrug, still trying to make up my mind.

  ‘We want a just peace,’ David says.

  Molly interrupts. ‘We’re here because we care about justice for everyone.’

  ‘Don’t tell us,’ Grace says. ‘Go tell your government.’

  ‘You want me to prove my worth?’ David says a little testily. ‘I’ve paid a price for my beliefs. That’s why I live in America now. I was forced to leave my birthplace. I’m a refusenik. I was part of the IDF—’

  ‘You were part of the army?’ I’m shocked.

  All eyes are suddenly boring holes into David.

  ‘You were part of the army?’

  ‘The IDF?’

  ‘You were part of the occupation?’

  David sits upright in his chair. ‘Yes, conscription is compulsory. I was eighteen and had to enlist.’

  ‘David, you were part of the army?’

  ‘David, are we terrorists?’

  Raghib roars at us to be quiet. ‘Let him finish!’ he hollers. ‘Let him tell his story.’

  ‘Yes, let him finish.’

  ‘We’re being rude.’

  ‘Let him talk.’

  ‘Let us be quiet and let David speak.’

  David fidgets in his seat. ‘And I thought Jews were the only people who spoke over each other,’ he says softly.

  For a moment there’s blank silence and then, as glances are exchanged among the passengers, an eruption of laughter. From that moment, something in the air changes.

  ‘Yes, I was part of the IDF,’ he continues, his voice relaxing. ‘I grew up believing in a land without a people for a people without a land. Don’t mistake me. I believe in Israel. That may offend you but it’s who I am. But I’m against what’s happening. I just want to do what I can in my own way.’

  ‘You believe in one people taking over the land of another people?’ Grace asks.

  David runs his fingers through his hair again. ‘Look, it’s complicated, I know. I don’t have all the answers. I just want the occupation to end and then we can talk about how to sort out this mess.’

  Nirvine smiles at him. ‘Well, it’s good to have people like you supporting us.’

  ‘They have fallen for him, naive fools,’ Samy whispers to me. I tell him to shut up as I want to hear what David has to say.

  ‘When I was in Gaza we took over a Palestinian home that was in a strategic position. The family had no choice in the matter. We arrived and forced our way in. We ordered the family to live on the bottom floor, a family of nine in one living room. We took the second level and the rooftop. Some of the soldiers trashed the rooms. They thought it was fun to write on the walls and mirrors and ransack the family’s belongings. It sickened me when I saw they had written Gas the Arabs on one of the walls.’

  ‘I’ve seen that,’ Nirvine says quietly. ‘On a wall in Hebron.’

  ‘When they wanted to use the toilet they had to ask our permission,’ David continues, ‘as the toilet was on the second floor. One day, the father needed to use the bathroom. Some of the other soldiers teased and taunted him. They made him wait.’ He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. ‘I watched as the inevitable happened. The man broke, and the wet patch spread right before the eyes of his children. But it is his eyes that will haunt me forever . . . That night I refused to serve for a minute longer. I was arrested, eventually tried, and sentenced to a prison te
rm of seven months.’

  My skin prickles as David speaks. I imagine strange men in my home strapped with machine guns, sleeping in my bed, smoking on my rooftop, telling me when I can use my bathroom. I try to picture him in his army fatigues. But I can’t. I can only see the face of one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. I’m momentarily overcome with mixed emotions. It’s less complicated to think of all Israelis as my oppressors. It’s less complicated to resent them all.

  ‘I don’t envy your soldiers their power for one moment.’ These words are spoken by a middle-aged man sitting in front of David and Molly. He introduces himself as Marwan. He has earphones dangling down his chest, the faintest sound of rock music streaming into his ears. He is wearing jeans, a striped pastel blue shirt and a chunky gold necklace. His shoes fascinate me: scaly grey leather so pointed at the front I think he might be able to reach the dashboard with the slightest flick of his foot. Propped up against the window beside him is a large oud case. ‘You know something?’ he says. ‘I’m afraid for the future of your children just as much as I’m afraid for the future of mine.’

  Grace shifts in her seat, fanning herself with her purse. ‘I don’t pity them,’ she says. ‘I see the way they look at us at the checkpoints and roadblocks, like animals to be herded. Why should I pity them, ya Marwan? I am sorry, David and Molly, but there is no room in my heart any more to care for those who sit on the stolen tops of our mountains, watching us as though we’re insignificant cockroaches, mere nuisances to their aims and claims.’

  ‘And that is why,’ Marwan says, ‘the occupation steals from the humanity of the occupier and the occupied. We are all losers.’

  Grace purses her lips and then, her voice taut, says: ‘Perhaps. But I did not ask for my land to be occupied, and to be honest I don’t care about my attitude when I find it difficult to feed my children, have a normal life and give my children a safe future. It will never end, I tell you. Sometimes I feel I have given up hoping.’

  ‘The grown-ups have gone mad,’ Samy mutters.

  ‘Shall we solve the Middle East peace process here?’ Raghib says with a gentle smile.

  Grace looks down at her hands and then sighs. ‘I’m sorry, David and Molly. I didn’t mean anything against you both personally.’

  Molly raises her hand, motioning for Grace to stop apologising. ‘We understand how you feel.’

  ‘They’re decent,’ I whisper to Samy.

  ‘They train them to lie, silly.’

  I roll my eyes at him.

  ‘Well,’ Raghib interrupts, ‘I can tell you now that the Middle East conflict will erupt if that driver does not hurry up. What’s happening, ya zalami?’ Raghib leans out of the window. ‘It has been fifteen minutes now!’

  The bus driver stands up, dusts his pants and jumps into his seat, slamming the door behind him. ‘If I could only get my hands on that stupid mechanic in Beit Sahur! I am sorry, my friends. Oof! Yallah! La ilaha ilalah!’ He squirms in his seat, trying to get into a comfortable position. He lights a cigarette and then turns to face us, the smoke curling its way out of his mouth to hang thick in the stale, hot air. ‘We have guests with us today. I am Karim and I extend a warm welcome to our friends, Molly and David. Ignore these people who are interrogating you like they are at Oslo instead of Deir Salah. I don’t care if you pray in a synagogue or shave your hair for Buddha. Anybody who wants peace and pays their fare is welcome on my service. Sorry there is no airconditioning. It broke down sometime in the seventies. Huh! God knows why you wish to travel through Wadi Al-Nar. Maybe my bus is so very charming that you can’t resist the ripped seats, yes?’

  The driver’s good humour is infectious and Molly and David smile.

  ‘You are both crazy, huh? Good! We need more crazy people in this land. It is just the thing we are lacking! Huh! If the bus crashes over the side of the mountain, the authorities will scratch their heads. Jewish, Muslim, Christian bodies! Huh! What fun it would be to see their faces!’

  Chapter TWELVE

  The minibus jerks its way along the road that leads us past the village of al-Obadiah on our way to the Valley of Hell. For a moment I’m sure we’re going to die as Karim uses his knees to manoeuvre the steering wheel as he pours tea from a battered-looking red thermos into a plastic cup. ‘Would anybody like some?’ he says, raising the thermos in the air.

  ‘Put your hands on that steering wheel!’ Nirvine shrieks.

  ‘Yes, yes, ya madam,’ he says. ‘Do not fear. These roads are my home. I can drive this bus blindfolded. In fact, I have. Let me tell you a story . . .’

  I shut out his voice and lean my head against the heated aluminum window frame, desperate for a gust of cool wind to blast over my face. A metallic taste sets in my mouth and the pit of my stomach churns as the service winds its way through the massive valley, its wheels negotiating the narrow unpaved lanes that I’m sure were intended for donkey carts, not cars and minibuses. In some sections of the road there’s no fencing or railing between the road and the edges of the mountains. Nothing to protect us from dropping to our deaths, particularly with a driver who seems to think there’s nothing wrong with drinking chai, smoking a cigarette and handling a steering wheel all at the same time. With every skid and bump I watch Grace frantically cross her heart and mutter a prayer. David and Molly are bent over clipboards writing notes. Marwan clutches onto his oud case as he leans his head against the windowsill. Nirvine sits in the front seat listening to Karim’s story, interjecting with a ‘Watch out!’ and ‘Slow down!’ every now and then. Raghib’s head is snapped back against the chair, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gently snores.

  Instead of a cool breeze, harsh specks of dust fly into my eyes as we drive over the snaking dirt track. I rub my eyes, suddenly uneasy. It’s noon and I’m expected home from school by four. I wonder whether Mama and Baba are at Sitti Zeynab’s bedside. I picture the night nurses mistaking Sitti Zeynab’s flatulence for bombs and smile to myself.

  I stare out the window. Parts of the landscape are rugged, rocky and sparse. The colours of the hills melt into each other, gold into brown into cream into beige, so that the hills seem to fold up and down, leaving me unable to tell where one ends and another one starts.

  We trek down a steep incline and I hold on to my seat tightly and take deep breaths, concentrating on my lungs, on pushing the air in and out, even as I feel the wheels of the minibus slide against the dusty road. A trail of sweat oozes down my legs, a couple of beads dripping into my thick white socks. I remember Maysaa and me at our first dabka practice, how we competed for the teacher’s attention. I resented her that first time, with her coordination and nimble feet. And then we became the best of friends . . . I touch my face, tracing the scars. I feel sick as the memories flood through me, and I rap my knuckles on my forehead to dislodge them. Then I lean my head against the back of the seat in front of me and close my eyes, trying to distract myself with happy memories. I think of Sitti Zeynab. The memory of her always warms me.

  It was only a couple of months ago that I sat beside her wearing a pastel pink dress lined with tulle and beaded around the collar with itchy sequins. I was sitting like a ruffled doll in our lounge room as Jihan’s future in-laws spoke with my parents about the wedding plans and ate syrupy knafa and smoked their Winston Blues. Sitti Zeynab sat quietly beside me, listening to the adults talk but not bothering to make a contribution. Ahmad sat like a starched shirt, static emitting from his seat as he respectfully averted his eyes from Jihan, who, with contrived demureness, raised her teacup to her lips but avoided actually sipping so as not to ruin her lipstick. The adults started to argue about the best wedding hall.

  ‘But Abo Sofyan’s hall has the smoke machine,’ Ahmad’s mother said.

  ‘What do you mean, a smoke machine?’ Baba asked. ‘Everybody can buy their cigarettes before the wedding.’

  ‘Not cigarettes,’ Mama said, ‘the machine they use when the couple slow dance.’

  ‘It has a ni
ce effect.’

  ‘I don’t like the smell.’

  ‘What about Joe’s Palace? They have chicken, meat and prawns.’

  ‘I don’t like the colour scheme. Too much pink.’

  Sitti Zeynab leaned close to me and whispered, ‘In the old days all you needed for a good wedding was music, food and a star-filled night. Let’s send the lot of them up to the rooftop and throw the wedding party there. Less headache.’

  I grinned. The pink tulle started to scratch at my legs. My hair, pulled up high, felt heavy and tight.

  ‘I want to let my hair down, it’s itchy,’ I told Sitti Zeynab.

  ‘Let it down, habibti. They won’t notice anyway; they’re too busy discussing whether the smoke machine is run on gas or electricity.’

  But nothing could escape Mama’s sharp ears and, through gritted teeth, she hissed: ‘What would Ahmad’s parents think?’

  And so I sat in that wretched lounge room and I scratched my legs and poked at my hair so that Ahmad’s parents would not think.

  ‘Pah!’ Sitti Zeynab muttered to me, rolling her eyes at Mama. ‘Think? I’ll give them some gas to think about in a minute.’ She winked at me and I giggled.

  ‘Goddamn!’ Karim’s voice shatters through my thoughts. The service slows down.

  ‘Sorry, my friends,’ he says, shaking his head in frustration. ‘They have put a flying checkpoint along the way today.’

  A military jeep is blocking the road. A massive Israeli flag raised on top of it flaps in the wind. Flanking both sides of the jeep are soldiers, strapped with Uzis and automatic rifles. They wear black sunglasses and hold walkie-talkies. A sudden urge to urinate hits me with a jolt and I squeeze one leg over the other.

  A large number of cars and service minibuses are parked in single file along the edge of the narrow valley road. Most of the vehicles are empty, the passengers and drivers standing outside, rummaging through their bags and wallets ready to produce their identity cards. I try to divert my eyes from the soldiers’ guns as my bladder swells impatiently, demanding my attention. Shut up, I scream in my head. I don’t have time for you now!