Where the Streets Had a Name

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘East Jerusalem is minutes away, isn’t it?’ David asks.

  ‘Yes, it’s on the other side of the wall,’ one driver says matter-of-factly.

  ‘Well, how long will it take by car?’ Molly asks in a frustrated tone.

  Various time frames are hurled about and another argument erupts over which of the numerous contingencies is least time-consuming. Finally, there’s agreement on an estimate of forty-five minutes to an hour. Samy and I are sick of listening to the adults and squat on our haunches beside David and Molly. The drivers’ eyes all look down and focus on Samy and me.

  ‘So why are you travelling with these two kids?’ one man asks, rubbing his chin. ‘Are you trying to smuggle them in? To a hospital or something? I’ve heard of this happening. Maybe for the girl’s face?’

  I bury his comment inside and then block out the sound of Molly and David negotiating a route with the drivers. I turn my head to a section of the Wall that’s been obscured by the cars, when I notice a plump woman wearing a bottle-green shirt, black trousers and green hijab standing against the concrete in front of a number of rocks and boulders that have been placed one on top of each other as if to form a small staircase. The woman’s arms are casually folded. She’s laughing and joking with a woman dressed in a black abaya, burgundy hijab and brown open-toe summer shoes. The latter leans one palm against the Wall as she tries to manoeuvre her heavy body over the steps, the other arm stretched out in midair for balance. I walk towards them, Samy following close behind me.

  The woman in the black abaya laughs out loud, telling her friend what a tease she is, watching her fumble over the rocks like a child in a playground.

  ‘Show us your legs, yallah, show us!’ the woman in the green shirt says as her friend hitches her abaya up to her knees and tries to step up. But underneath she wears black leggings and laughs back at the woman, throwing a backwards glance at the men huddled around the service cabs.

  I watch in disbelief as the middle-aged woman struggles to climb over the Wall. When she has perched herself at the top, like Humpty Dumpty, she shrieks. ‘I’m scared! There’s nothing to step down onto.’

  ‘Call out for help!’

  The woman calls over to the other side, ‘Girls! Allah yirda alaikom, God be pleased with you. Help me over!’

  The woman holds her grip at the top and then moments later she flips over the wall, releasing a shriek as she does.

  Her friend reaches for her mobile telephone and dials. ‘Najwa!’ she shrieks into the phone. ‘Najwa! Have you broken your neck? No? It’s fine. Good. Alhamdulilah! Yes, I’ll see you at seven. Yallah, assalamu alaikom!’

  The woman turns around, hitches her bag onto one shoulder and begins to walk away.

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ I say, intercepting her. ‘Where did your friend go?’

  The woman’s green eyes seem to be drowning in the pudginess of her face. She studies my face and then smiles. ‘To Ras al-Amoud.’

  ‘Do you mean East Jerusalem?’ Samy asks.

  She nods and explains that her friend, Najwa, has an appointment and won’t make it in time if she catches a service. As the Wall is, in its temporary form, only two metres high, people are climbing it to avoid the long detour. Apparently the soldiers sometimes turn a blind eye. It’s a matter of chance. Samy and I decide that we prefer to test our luck and enter East Jerusalem in a couple of minutes rather than take the safer option of catching a cab but adding up to an hour or so to our trip.

  ‘Anyway,’ Samy reflects, ‘even if we went by the road we don’t have the blue pass to enter at the checkpoint. So from now on we have to move illegally.’

  We call David and Molly to our side. They plead with us to take a service but once they realise Samy and I can’t be persuaded otherwise, and that we have no choice but to move illegally anyway, they decide they’ll jump the Wall with us.

  We stand in front of the Wall and the situation hits me. If we cross now we’ll be illegally entering Jerusalem. I think of Sitti Zeynab, Mama and Baba, and I feel instant guilt, knowing how angry and afraid they’d be if they knew what I’m about to do. I push such thoughts out of my head.

  David insists on going first. ‘Just in case there are soldiers on the other side,’ he says.

  Some of the cab drivers gather together in a throng and watch us curiously as they smoke, yelling out conflicting instructions on how to mount the Wall and jump down.

  ‘A kid broke his back the other day,’ one calls out. ‘So be careful.’

  ‘Just what we needed to hear,’ Samy mutters.

  David offers to take my backpack. He hitches it onto his back and Shrek’s face grins at the drivers. With his lean legs, David has no problem jumping the Wall and is over in a matter of moments. Molly’s mobile telephone rings and she answers. It’s safe to jump.

  I go next, balancing myself on the rocks, grateful I’m wearing running shoes and jeans. The rocks are arranged in such a way that they function as steps, but I tread carefully, aware that the slightest awkwardness could result in a twisted ankle. I stretch my body and extend my arms up, grabbing the top of the Wall. Throwing my weight onto my arms I pull myself up and use all my energy to swing one leg over. I hesitate for a moment and then lean forward on the narrow surface, flattening my stomach against the top and straddling my legs. I look over at the side where Samy and Molly stand. Samy is gazing up at me, concern in his eyes. Beads of sweat drop from my forehead and my arms tremble.

  I can hear Molly and Samy yelling out words of encouragement. I focus on keeping my balance and peer over to the other side, where David is waiting for me.

  ‘I’ll catch you. Don’t be afraid,’ he says calmly. He stands with his legs apart, bracing himself.

  I bite down on my lip, slowly flip my leg over and grab onto the edge of the Wall as tightly as possible. I’m dangling now and look down, trying to ascertain David’s position. David calls out directions and I count to three and let go, my hands scraping against the coarse surface of the concrete. He catches me and we tumble onto the ground. Our eyes meet and we burst into laughter.

  I examine my stinging hands. They’re scratched and bloodied but I don’t care.

  Molly’s head peeks over the top of the Wall. I call out to her to trust in God and enjoy hearing her cackle as she negotiates the barrier.

  Samy follows moments later. He refuses David’s assistance, jumps, falls to the ground and then hops up, dusting the dirt off his clothes. He kisses his cross and then steps towards me. Our faces simultaneously erupt into wide grins.

  ‘We made it,’ I whisper, raising my trembling hands to wipe the grimy sweat off my face.

  ‘I always knew we would,’ he says with a lopsided grin and then grabs my hand. We dance the dabka in a small circle and Molly and David look on, laughing. Samy stops, seizes David’s hand and orders him to take Molly’s.

  ‘Come on!’ Samy cries with a cheeky grin. ‘Every Shabak agent knows how to dance the dabka!’

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  We’re in East Jerusalem. Ras al-Amoud is a mere two kilometres from the Old City, where we can catch a service from the bus stand in front of Damascus Gate to Sitti Zeynab’s village in West Jerusalem.

  It’s important that Samy and I avoid attracting the suspicion of any roaming border police. We decide that Samy and I will hide and David and Molly will head to the nearest service cab stop and enquire about transport to the Old City and whether there’s any additional security today.

  Samy and I crouch low in an alley adjoining a cluster of shops. We’ve positioned ourselves next to some boxes at the opening of the alley so that we still have a view of the street.

  ‘I’ll admit something to you, Hayaat.’

  ‘This is a first.’

  ‘Then enjoy it . . . I don’t suspect David and Molly any more. In fact, they’re two of the nicest people I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I think so too,’ I say as I cup my chin in my hand, lean my elbow on my thigh and examine the faces of P
alestinians walking along the street facing us. They clutch their children’s hands, hold bags of shopping, dangle a cigarette from their mouths or swing their arms briskly. The distinction between blue and green has never seemed so artificial.

  We’re bored and start a game of I Spy.

  ‘Something beginning with S,’ I say in English.

  ‘We do this in English?’

  ‘Yes. We have to practise.’

  ‘Okay. Easy! Soldier?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t see a soldier anyway.’

  ‘Sun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sea?’

  ‘Sea? Where is the sea, ya Samy?’

  Samy shrugs and reverts to Arabic. ‘I’ve run out of S words in English. That’s all I know.’

  I grin. ‘Ostaza Mariam would be proud.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Star,’ I say triumphantly.

  ‘But it’s daytime.’

  ‘The sun is a star.’

  ‘But I said “sun”!’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘You have to guess the exact word.’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  We survey the street. Positioned diagonally from our hiding spot is an imposing sandstone villa. The front courtyard is shaded by trees, some of the branches lazily leaning against the green wrought-iron front gate. The facade is long with a square flat-roofed tower jutting up in the centre, below which stands a grand white double-door. On each side of the door are sandstone arched windows with white decorative wrought-iron grates covering them.

  ‘Nice house, isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘When I’m a famous soccer player and you’re my personal assistant managing my ten bank accounts – I can see you rolling your eyes, you know – I’ll have a house five times the size of that with a television in each room and not one statue of Jesus on the walls. What do you think my aunt and uncle would say to that?’

  ‘I can think of plenty of things I could say to that.’

  At the front of the house I spot three children, two boys and one girl, huddled together. The boys wear black dress hats and suits. One has long ginger curls dangling down the sides of his head. The other has shorter, black curls. The girl wears a long skirt and long-sleeved shirt, buttoned to her neck. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. She’s holding on to the green front gate, leaning back and laughing at the boys.

  ‘They must be from the new settlement,’ I say in a low voice, anger rising within me as I think of the Jewish-only compound recently built – illegally – on Palestinian land in East Jerusalem.

  Samy stares out at them with curious eyes. ‘I wonder why the boys wear their hair long at the front.’

  We watch them, half fascinated, half afraid. I gaze upon these children and feel like a pot of simmering water over which Mama sprinkles a mixture of spices. A pinch of resentment. A dash of curiosity. A sprinkle of jealousy. Then anger, hatred, affinity, bemusement.

  We grow restless as we wait for David and Molly’s return. We argue about abandoning our hiding spot and venturing out on our own. I remain while Samy attempts to elicit information about our options from people in the nearby shops. He returns with a replacement hummus jar and some information. It’s all about luck. We might be stopped. We might not.

  A black four-wheel drive emerges across the road, parking in front of the children. They hop in and now I’ll never have the chance to talk to them, to tell them my name. If I had I might have asked them to remember me when they inspect my identity card in five years’ time. I might have written down my telephone number and invited them to lunch at my house so I could ask them about their long side curls and whether they have Jewish X Factor.

  David and Molly return, suddenly converts to conservatism.

  ‘It just feels so reckless,’ Molly says, nervously biting her nails and pacing the alley. ‘I can’t imagine your families would agree to this. And I wouldn’t blame them.’

  ‘What if you’re caught?’ David adds solemnly. ‘The closer you are to West Jerusalem the riskier it is. We really are so sorry but you have to face the fact that it’s just too dangerous.’

  I don’t bother to argue with them. I stare at them but withdraw within myself. I have no time for their guilty consciences or adult apprehensions. In fact, their reluctance invigorates my determination. I look up at their eyes, so kind and compassionate.

  ‘We’ll walk you back to the Wall and help you over,’ David says, his voice etched with disappointment and concern.

  ‘Thank you,’ I overhear myself say, ‘but we’ll be fine from here.’

  ‘We don’t want to leave you,’ Molly says. ‘We have a responsibility towards—’

  Samy suddenly bolts. ‘Run, Hayaat!’ he shouts.

  My eyes meet David’s, then Molly’s. Their gazes explode with realisation. They know I’ll follow him almost before I do. My feet seek out his footprints. I crash through the people on the sidewalk and keep my eyes focused on Samy’s mane of black hair as I sprint after him, my backpack compromising my speed. If David and Molly have cried out in response, I don’t hear them. I can only hear my footsteps and the furious beat of my heart. I catch up with Samy in a crowded market square. We dissolve into the crowd and are on our own once more.

  I’m crazy. It’s already so late in the day. We haven’t even reached Sitti Zeynab’s village let alone worked out how we’ll get back and how long it will take. I try to block out images of Mama and Baba. I see them now, sitting in our family room, Mama’s shrill voice bouncing off the walls as she takes her frustration out on Baba. He’s silent, infuriating Mama even further. Jihan is moaning about how I’ve ruined her wedding plans. I’m flooded with guilt. The last thing I want to do is worry my family, but if they could see how important this is, how Sitti Zeynab needs to touch the soil of her village one last time, they would understand.

  We decide that it’s too risky to continue on foot, so we step into a linen shop and speak to the owner.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I ask, ‘can you tell us how we can get to West Jerusalem?’

  ‘Have you got the hawiya, the pass?’

  We shake our heads.

  The woman looks up from the cash register, her thin eyebrows raised high. She gestures to the man behind the counter, who is folding a tablecloth.

  ‘Ya Bassam,’ she says, ‘these kids want to get to West Jerusalem. They don’t have the pass. Shall we check if the limousine is free to escort them?’ They both burst out laughing.

  We turn on our heels, Samy deliberately knocking over a pile of folded towels on his way.

  ‘Oh, how clumsy of me!’ he cries and we run out, the woman’s curses sounding in the air.

  ‘Donkeys,’ Samy mutters when we stop at a corner.

  ‘Let’s talk to a taxi driver,’ I suggest. ‘They would know.’

  We approach a rake-thin man who sports a neat moustache. His eyelashes are long, fanning themselves up to his eyelids so that they give him an oddly feminine appearance.

  ‘Leave it to me this time,’ Samy says, stepping in front of me.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest and looking on.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Samy says, ‘my sister and I are trying to find our way to a private hospital in West Jerusalem. Our aunt is there and we want to see her before she dies, that’s what the doctors are predicting, and if we don’t have a chance to say goodbye it will probably ruin our lives forever. Is it possible to sneak in without the pass? Can you tell us how?’

  ‘Must be a close aunt, yes?’ the taxi driver says, a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Oh yes, very,’ Samy says solemnly. ‘She raised us. We’re very, very close to her. Isn’t that right, Hayaat?’

  I nod. ‘Yes. Very close. Samy here is struggling to sleep at night because he’s so used to Aunt Fifi reading him a bedtime story.’

  Samy glares at me and I smile innocently.

  The taxi driver chuckles. ‘Come on, kids, I haven’t got time for this. I’m waiting around for a fare.
Shoot off.’

  ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘Okay so we lied . . . but we really need to get there . . . See my face? I don’t like to talk about it but I have to find a specialist.’ I look up at him, trying to appear as sad as possible.

  He coughs, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Oh okay. Salamtik, your health. Do you have money?’

  We take out our pooled funds and show him.

  ‘There’s an Israeli guy, Yossi. He helps us. Smuggles people into West Jerusalem in his car. He’ll look after you. Wait here. I’ll give him a call.’

  He steps to the side to make the call.

  ‘What luck!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Yeah well, I was doing fine until you mentioned bedtime stories.’

  The taxi driver returns in moments. ‘Yossi will be here in ten minutes.’

  When he arrives Samy leans close to me. ‘Can we trust this Yossi guy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly, because the alternative is too scary.

  Yossi is thin and short, his face angular. He wears a white shirt and tie and when he lifts his hand to scratch his head I notice yellow sweat stains under his arm.

  ‘Shalom,’ he says with a broad smile.

  ‘Salam,’ we reply.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ he reassures us in Arabic, his gentle tone inspiring my confidence. ‘My friends and I do this all the time.’

  ‘Have you ever been caught?’ Samy asks.

  ‘Not yet, God forbid,’ he says. ‘I’ve got yellow numberplates. It should be fine. You’re both small so I can easily conceal you.’

  He recommends we put our papers into our pockets. He places my backpack on the floor of the front passenger seat. He then opens the back door of his white car. A pile of grey blankets is shoved on one side of the back seat, a pile of dolls on the other.

  ‘My daughter’s,’ he says, noticing me looking at them. ‘She’s messy. Like her father.’

  He instructs us to fold ourselves into the foetal position on the floor and lie motionless if we’re stopped. There’s plenty of room as the front seats are pushed forward. I curl myself into a ball, my head facing the door. Samy does the same and Yossi covers our bodies with the blankets.