Where the Streets Had a Name

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘I mean, really,’ Karim says with a sigh, ‘with drivers hardly ever able to reach even fourth gear thanks to these checkpoints, they’re doing us a favour. Saving us on petrol, you know. Well, let us hope David and Molly are our saving grace.’

  ‘Karim, we’re Jews against the occupation,’ David says. ‘We don’t expect any sympathy from the soldiers.’

  ‘But we have our cameras,’ Molly says. Noticing our open mouths, she continues. ‘The internet is your most powerful weapon.’

  ‘Great,’ Nirvine says with a chuckle, ‘we’ll be famous all over the world. Should I apply more lipstick?’

  One of the soldiers approaches the service minibus and leans in the door, a stern expression on his face. ‘Get out of the bus,’ he says in broken Arabic. ‘Passes ready.’

  ‘Donkey,’ I hear somebody, perhaps Raghib, mutter. ‘At least learn how to get the plural imperative right.’

  I steal a questioning glance at Samy but he shrugs his shoulders. ‘Majnoon,’ he discreetly mouths to me. ‘Crazy.’

  We all climb out of the minibus and lean against it, watching the interaction of the soldiers with the line of people queued in front of us. Families, men and women in workers’ uniforms, old people in traditional dress, children our age and younger who look as restless as I’m already beginning to feel.

  Directly ahead of us is a woman who stands before one of the soldiers, her two children clutching onto her long grey skirt. She’s arguing, her voice rising with frustration. If she looked down she would see one of her children, a girl of about seven, tapping the boy, about six years old, on the arm. He quickly returns the tap. She taps again. He scowls, reaches out and pinches her. It’s a pinch with a twist, the ones Mama reserves for Tariq and me when we’ve broken something or embarrassed her in front of guests and she’s feeling particularly sadistic. The girl howls and the mother looks down at her children and yells at them to shut up, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she tries to regain her composure. The girl tries to explain that her brother has broken the rules and met a tap with a pinch, but the mother, like Mama, is not interested in the causes, just the effects. She yanks her children’s arms close to her side and gives them the silencing look that Jihan informs me all mothers are trained in during prenatal classes. The mother then looks back at the soldier, who, and I swear to God this is true, looks, for a second, like he’s trying to suppress a smile. Then he sneezes and I wonder if he was smiling or if I’ve misread a facial twitch caused by excess dust in the nose.

  Samy stands beside me, digging a hole in the ground with his heel.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ I whisper.

  ‘Soccer. Do you think Amo Joseph will let me go to Italy? If the coach accepts me into the team? The coach will, you know. Wasim is much smaller than me. I can’t see why he wouldn’t, with my defence skills. If I have the coach tell Amo Joseph I’m going to visit the Vatican, he has to let me play! I will never forgive him if he forbids me from joining the team. Damn him and Amto Christina’s obsession with hell! They’re so intent on rescuing me from God’s hell that they can’t see I want to be rescued from this place. I hate them!’

  ‘Samy!’

  His eyes squint in fury.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I continue. ‘They’ve looked after you since—’

  ‘Don’t give me your pity! And don’t ask me to shut my mouth because Baba sits in prison! It’s his fault I’m alone with these Jesus-this and Jesus-that bores.’

  ‘Samy! He was working against the occupation. He’s a hero!’

  ‘Working against the occupation is stupid. There’s no point. The reward is death or imprisonment. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t care about how it would affect me if I lost him. Stuff him and everybody.’

  I don’t know how to respond. I know Samy’s temper well. The constant fights at school, the talking back to adults, the tantrums during soccer games, the disappearing acts he pulls on us all after an argument with his uncle and aunt. ‘Your temper is too old for you!’ Ostaz Ihab scolded Samy once. ‘It sits on you like an adult’s clothes, baggy and oversized. But rather than remove the clothing, you keep growing into it. Change your attitude, ya Samy!’

  The soldier is shaking his head and the woman turns on her heel, her children exchanging angry words with each other as she pulls them to a taxi. She opens her purse and gives some money to the taxi driver standing outside the vehicle. She reaches into the open rear window and retrieves a couple of bags and a small pot plant. She takes a second look at the pot plant and then, a look of irritation on her face, tosses it onto the ground. The children look confused and the girl reaches down to grab it.

  ‘Leave it,’ the mother orders. ‘Yallah, we’re walking.’

  ‘But I don’t want to walk,’ the boy whines. The mother rolls her eyes and sighs and they start down the meandering road on foot.

  The queue is long. The soldiers search cars and bags and scan their eyes over identity cards. Some people are allowed to drive on. Some are ordered to walk. Some cars are turned away. Some bags are emptied completely. Others are given a cursory glance. There seems no system in place. No consistency. The rules are as unpredictable as the soldiers’ moods.

  There’s a cloud of humiliation looming over us as the soldiers scold women when they don’t empty their bags quickly enough and order some of the men to remove their shirts and raise their arms in the air.

  Samy nudges me in the side and says: ‘Look at that guy’s gut. How much mansaf do you think he eats in a week? He probably hasn’t seen his knees in years.’

  ‘I suppose the soldiers have a right to check him. He could easily hide some dynamite in his layers of fat.’

  He laughs and the man in front of us abruptly turns to face us.

  ‘This is not a joke,’ he says in a disappointed tone.

  I look down at my feet, shame-faced. Samy stares boldly back at him and, in as melodramatic a voice as he can muster, says: ‘We haven’t laughed in weeks.’

  The man’s frown smoothes out. ‘Well I haven’t laughed in years.’

  ‘House demolished? Family member imprisoned? Killed?’

  ‘Some of this. And some of that,’ he says, matter-of-factly. ‘But mainly, it’s because of my mother-in-law.’

  Samy and I trade blank looks. ‘She’s part of the IDF?’

  ‘No, she’s a terrorist organisation of her own making. I can’t even have a cup of coffee in peace.’

  When our turn eventually arrives my bladder has surprisingly decided to resort to gently throbbing rather than betraying me with a sudden burst. It’s finally learned the meaning of loyalty and is, thankfully, behaving itself.

  ‘What will we do?’ I ask Samy in a panic. ‘Where will we say we’re going?’

  ‘Abo Dees?’ Samy suggests in a low voice.

  ‘Yes, visiting family, if he asks.’

  ‘Passes?’ one of the soldiers demands in broken Arabic. His khaki uniform is crisp and green. A shiny big gun is hooked on his belt. His army fatigues are tight at the thighs and then bunch up around his calves, straightening down at his ankles. I can imagine him getting ready for work in the morning. Ironing his uniform, polishing his big black boots, cleaning the lenses of his glasses with a special cloth. I’m suddenly interested in him. What does he do after a hard day’s work in the occupied territories? I imagine him at home with his family in the evening, all of them gathered around the oblong dinner table. There would be a wife and her name would be Esther, and two, no three children: Sarah, Aaron and Ehud. They would be eating and watching an episode of Jewish X Factor, if there is such a thing, until their father demands they switch it off at dinnertime.

  I look at the solider as he studies Samy’s birth certificate. He’s portly with a receding hairline and his face is tough, like a leather handbag.

  As he turns to me and asks for my papers, fear replaces my curiosity. I can sense him staring at my scars. My instinct is to touch my face. My hands are shaking as they fumbl
e over my scar, and my birth certificate slips out of my sweaty palms and drops on the ground. The butt of his gun jiggles as he bounces impatiently on the spot.

  I’m in danger of falling back into the dark pool of my memories and the sound of bullets whistling past my ears is so real I feel I can touch them. Samy steps down hard onto my foot. I jump and the soldier studies me, a bewildered look on his face.

  ‘So nervous and jittery,’ he says somewhat half-heartedly in English. ‘Why are you acting like you have something to hide?’

  It’s all I can do to stop myself from wetting my pants. ‘Nothing . . . nothing to hide.’

  I crouch down and pick up my birth certificate. I hand it to him. He glances at it, returns it to me and then points his gun at me, using its butt to motion for me to step aside.

  David and Molly step forward. They speak in Hebrew, their voices rising and falling. The soldier frowns and then, after an excruciating moment of silence, he walks back to his comrades and busies himself on the phone. Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass until the soldier returns. I’ve bitten down into my nails, peeling at the cuticles with my teeth. Samy sits on the side of the road, his face grim and tense as he watches the soldiers’ every move. Karim, Grace, Nirvine, Marwan and Raghib stand patiently; their faces seem calm. The sun blazes over us and, not for the first time that day, I wish I was sitting in an icy cold bath.

  The soldier returns and says something to David and Molly. David yells something back and the soldier shakes his head. Molly gives the soldier a look of disgust. The soldier shrugs, turns and walks back to the queue to search through another car.

  ‘We have to walk,’ David says apologetically.

  ‘To where?’ Samy cries.

  ‘The Container checkpoint.’

  ‘That makes no sense!’ Grace says.

  ‘What does sense have to do with it?’ Raghib moans.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ Molly says. ‘We tried.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Grace says quietly.

  ‘No, it’s not your fault,’ Nirvine repeats.

  ‘Karim, I’m sorry, my friend,’ Molly says. ‘But you have to return to Bethlehem. You aren’t allowed through.’

  Karim mutters a curse under his breath and then shrugs, pops a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it with a match before he speaks. He flicks the match onto the ground.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Marwan asks.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ David says. ‘The soldier tried to get us through, but his commander says no. They must have run my name through the system. A refusenik is obviously not a welcome hero. Lucky for my American passport or there’d be some serious trouble.’

  ‘There’s that word again,’ I whisper to Samy. ‘What’s a refusenik?’ He shrugs as if to say, How would I know?

  ‘So why are some vehicles allowed through while others are being turned back?’ I ask.

  ‘Who knows?’ David says wearily. ‘Maybe they don’t like Karim’s face here.’ His joke is forced but Karim plays along.

  ‘My good looks are a security threat. I tell my wife that all the time but she doesn’t believe me.’

  ‘So we walk?’ Nirvine cries. ‘How much more can I take of this?’ She beats her chest with her hand and cries out to the sky, ‘God give me patience!’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Karim says gently. ‘Walk on and catch one of the services that are allowed to pass.’

  ‘And then what?’ she asks. ‘We still have the Container checkpoint to pass.’

  Karim points a finger to the sky. ‘Trust in God, my sister. There is no other way.’

  Nirvine shakes her head. ‘I don’t have the energy to walk in heels, try to flag down another service and then calm my nerves as I wait to see if they’ll let me pass through the Container. Will they have me wait obediently like a trained dog for their permission to leave one of my own towns and enter another? Not today. No, I’ll return with you. My sister will have to wait. She can send me photos of the baby on email.’

  And so Nirvine turns back with Karim, and the rest of us walk past the flying checkpoint, along the valley road. As we start, we pass a family standing at the open trunk of a taxi. A soldier stands over them as they remove boxes of wrapped gifts, three suitcases and an electric-blue tricycle from the trunk. The tricycle has yellow handlebars, red wheels and silver ribbon wrapped around the handlebars.

  The soldier is yelling at the driver to turn back.

  An old woman is with them, tears streaming down her face as her eyes fix on the soldier’s gun. The driver’s hands are squeezed tight over the steering wheel.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Marwan leans down and whispers in my ear.

  But I can’t help it. I watch as the man argues with his wife about throwing gifts away, about there being too many to carry. The woman insists and they distribute the gifts between themselves and their three children, who are clinging to the old woman. The man carries the two larger suitcases, balancing the tricycle on one of them. The children balance boxes of gifts against their chests. The woman holds on to the old woman with one arm, tucking a suitcase under the other. The soldier watches as the family starts walking. The man, women and children stop after several steps to collect their energy. Then, without speaking, they continue, pausing for breath after every few metres. Their faces are twisted with anger and exhaustion.

  I try to put them out of my mind as we overtake them. We kick our feet against the dust, pant our way through the sloppy heat, stop to remove stones that have crept into our shoes and, eventually, wave down a minibus that has been allowed to pass through. We squeeze ourselves in along the already crowded seats and aisle and then carry on with our journey to the Container checkpoint. As I sit squashed like a chickpea in a hummus jar, I can’t help wondering if that family will be able to flag down a minibus and, if so, whether there will be room enough for them on one. If not, I wonder how many hours it will take for them to battle the road with their suitcases, tarnished gifts and that sad little tricycle.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  The service slows down. We approach the end of another long queue of cars, taxis, mini-trucks and vans. I notice three Palestinian men crouched down on their knees on the side of the road, their eyes blindfolded, their hands tied behind their backs. Four soldiers stand some ten metres away, casually chatting among themselves.

  ‘Why is it called Container checkpoint?’ I ask Raghib. I’m squashed against a window, Raghib directly in front of me.

  ‘Because it’s shaped like a container.’

  A man sandwiched beside us interrupts. ‘No, ya zalami, you’re wrong. It’s because a man who owned a merchandise container set up shop in it to sell cigarettes, chewing gum, soft drinks, ya’ni, things like this to the travellers who passed through Wadi Al-Nar.’

  ‘No, no, you are both wrong,’ a woman calls out in a shrill voice. ‘It is because we’re all like sardines in a container!’ She cackles at her joke and a couple of others join her.

  I peer out the window. The area is studded with enormous free-standing watchtowers. Concrete blocks and boulders litter the ground and barbed wire circles the containment area. An iron gate marks the entrance. Then, a no-man’s land, where a couple of soldiers stand. The vehicles are queued ten to fifteen metres away. The iron gate opens automatically when activated by the soldier in charge. One car is allowed through at a time.

  ‘Can’t we get out?’ someone calls to the driver.

  The heat is stifling, inducing unwelcome body odour. We’re a spectrum of ages but all equally irritable. Samy’s face is turned up in disgust. I catch a whiff of a fart. Even under occupation people still claim the right to release gas in a crowd. Maybe it’s the anonymity of a packed service cab that encourages them. People cough and splutter as the offensive odour reaches their noses. A woman cries: ‘For God’s sake ask him if we can get out as I’m ready to faint in here!’

  ‘I’ll speak to them,’ David says. But the driver has already taken the lead and, poking his head ou
t of the window and motioning to a nearby soldier, calls out, ‘Can we stretch our legs?’

  The soldier looks back at the driver with a bored expression. Without bothering to answer, he turns his head away.

  ‘Was that a yes or a no?’ the driver asks, consulting us. ‘If it was a yes, he would have at least nodded, right? If it was a no and we get out, there’ll be trouble. It’s safer to just stay in.’

  ‘Yes, because he has the most comfortable seat in the bus,’ a woman behind me mutters.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ somebody responds. ‘You can’t expect him to share the driver’s seat.’

  ‘Who does that soldier think he is?’ Molly says indignantly. ‘Ignoring us like that!’

  It’s getting unbearably stuffy and claustrophobic. Somebody’s bag juts into my back. The summer sun is burning strongly, cooking us in the minibus like chickens in an oven. We’re all getting restless and a man soon cries out: ‘Cramps! I have cramps in my feet!’

  ‘Push your feet in the other direction,’ somebody flippantly suggests.

  ‘You are dreaming if you think there’s room!’ the man snaps back. ‘Move! Please! I must get out! It’s unbearable!’

  Suddenly I feel myself being squeezed against the window. The man tries to push his way through and over the passengers. The crush intensifies as people groan and cry out, yelling for the door to be opened as the man moans, ‘My feet! My feet!’

  The driver is forced to activate the handle to open the door as he helplessly cries a warning: ‘But he didn’t nod!’

  We spill out of the minibus, blindly grabbing onto each other as we struggle to get down the step and make contact with the ground. The man with the cramp falls onto the floor, throwing his shoes off and frantically pushing his feet upwards.

  The din of shouts and cries propels two of the soldiers towards our service. They run forward, holding up their weapons and yelling orders for us to get back in. One of them points his gun in our direction and I let out a small scream. Raghib grabs me and almost throws me back into the minibus. ‘Get back in!’ he shouts, and the passengers practically jump on top of each other as they try to squeeze back through the door. David and Molly cry out for everybody to calm down, yelling out to the soldiers in Hebrew.