Where the Streets Had a Name

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘He can clean up after you.’

  ‘Ha! Yeah right he would!’ She muffles her laughter into the pillow. Then she looks at me with wide eyes. ‘Oh God. What if I need to, you know, go to the bathroom or fart?’ She giggles. ‘How embarrassing, Hayaat. Oh, I couldn’t. I’ll never go to the bathroom again.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Mama and Baba fart in front of each other all the time and they’re still married.’

  ‘I love him, Hayaat. Here, read this text he sent me this evening.’ She reaches under her pillow for her phone and shows me the message. You dance barefoot at the entrance to my heart.

  ‘Did he make that up?’

  ‘No. It’s a song. But it shows how romantic he is in choosing it!’

  ‘Oh. Nice.’

  We lie there in silence for a few moments.

  ‘. . . Yes, I love him. But . . .’ A tear rolls down her face and she wipes it away. ‘How stupid I am, crying like a child . . . I’m going to miss you all.’

  ‘We won’t miss you. We’ll have more room in the bed now. And longer shower time. And—’

  ‘You brat,’ she says, hitting me on the arm.

  ‘Do you think anybody will ever love me?’ I ask after a long pause.

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Shh. You’ll wake Sitti Zeynab.’

  ‘Of course,’ she repeats in a hushed tone. ‘Why on earth . . .’

  I raise my hand to my face, tracing the scars. ‘I’m like a shattered glass pane,’ I murmur. ‘Even when you put the glass back together, the cracks still show.’

  She grabs my chin in her hand and forces me to look her in the eye. ‘You’re beautiful, you silly thing. I couldn’t have survived a second . . .’ Her voice falters and I look away, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. ‘I look up to you, Hayaat. I’m an ungrateful wretch of a girl and sometimes I wonder what Ahmad sees in me.’ A moment of silence passes between us, then she casually adds: ‘The poor guy, he doesn’t know what he’s in for.’

  We giggle and, when we catch our breath, I snuggle into her chest and close my eyes. I’m tired of words. At that moment it’s enough for me to sleep dreamlessly in my sister’s arms.

  Chapter TWENTY

  Mama asks me to keep her company while she rolls the vine leaves for the next day’s evening meal. I watch her spoon the raw rice, tomato and parsley into the vine leaves spread out on the small table. The kitchen is tiny compared to the cavernous space we had in our home in Beit Jala. Our kitchen there had a double-door that opened onto a balcony overlooking an orchard filled with orange and lemon trees. In the middle of the room was an oval beechwood table that sat eight people. On one wall was a long buffet for Mama’s dinner sets and crockery. The kitchen in the apartment reminds me of a closet. Small and stuffy, it can’t even fit the freezer, which has to be kept at the end of the hallway.

  ‘I was angry with you for going to Jerusalem,’ Mama says, her voice uncharacteristically low. ‘How I worried when you didn’t come home from school that day. You must promise never to do such a thing again.’

  ‘Yes Mama,’ I mutter automatically.

  ‘It was very brave, Hayaat . . .’

  Surprised by her compliment, I look up into her eyes and she smiles.

  ‘But it was still foolish.’

  ‘Yes Mama.’

  ‘Here, take a spoon and help me. You’ll have your own house one day but you will only ever have one kitchen to learn from. But for the sake of my heart I pray you choose a boy from here. Or from Beit Jala, our real home town. Although it would be better he lived here, now that we’re here. Don’t overstuff the leaves, habibti, or they will be hard to roll. The smaller they are the better the compliments. So tell me, Hayaat. Did you see the Old City? Was it as beautiful as they say?’

  ‘Yes. But Mama . . . it isn’t Beit Jala.’

  ‘Ahh, Beit Jala,’ she says and smiles. ‘You were only nine when we came here. Were you too young to remember how good the hills smelled? The open landscape? I enjoyed breathing there . . .’

  She glances at me. ‘You know, Hayaat, sometimes the past is so tangible I feel as though I can grab the memories with my hands, bring them up to my face and taste them.’ She leans towards me. ‘Do you remember the day they came for our land?’

  I nod and she continues. Her words, which usually run out of her mouth, decide to stroll this time, and I’m glad for the unusual calmness in her voice.

  ‘We were given a confiscation order. They were going to build a road to connect the settlements to each other . . . Your father came home from the field. I handed him the order . . . He tore it up and we sat down to eat. He refused to speak about it that night.

  ‘We lived in fear for two years, Hayaat, wondering when the bulldozers would arrive.’ Her voice falters and her heavily kohled eyes fix on the vine leaf she’s been rolling.

  ‘Mama . . . ?’

  I’m not accustomed to seeing Mama like this. She’s always had a no-nonsense approach to emotions. Unlike Baba, who I’ve regularly seen locked in his own reverie, Mama seems too busy to reflect on anything except managing the house and looking after us.

  She contrives a smile and lets out a weary sigh. ‘I’m okay, Hayaat. I’m just surprised at how vivid my memories of those days are.’

  ‘I remember one day you told us we had to empty the house of everything and Jihan and I were arguing about who owned which toys.’

  ‘That was when we got the demolition notice – put more rice in that one, Hayaat — we had a week to move out. Some of our neighbours also had demolition notices. We were all in a state of panic, Hayaat, vying for first access to the few removalist vans in town . . .’ She chuckles and shakes her head. ‘I had a big fight with Um Tamer about it. She had one lounge room and two bedrooms. We had one lounge, one family, verandah furniture, two dining table sets and four bedrooms. And she wanted the bigger van . . . I never liked that woman. She moved in with her daughter and son-in-law. Still, I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t get along with her son-in-law. Although, I don’t blame him . . .’

  ‘Mama, the day they came . . . why did you send Sitti Zeynab, Jihan and me away to town with Khalto Aneesa? Khalto Aneesa bought us lunch. I remember that. I also remember Jihan was in a foul mood. She said you were treating her like a child.’

  ‘She wouldn’t forgive me when you returned and there was nothing left. But I didn’t want you all to see.

  ‘First they destroyed the water tanks, the ones we used to irrigate the farmland. Then a building your father used to store agricultural equipment. Your father . . . well, you have never seen him in such a state and it’s unlikely you ever will . . .

  ‘The worst part was how noisy the demolition was, and how slow. When they came for our house I lost control of myself, Hayaat. I ran towards it but a line of soldiers was barricading the front gate, protecting the bulldozers. I wanted to hit them. I wanted to crush them. I’ve never felt such rage. The walls fell and I broke.’

  ‘And Baba?’

  ‘The neighbours had to hold him back. They pinned him down onto the ground as he screamed . . . They started on the trees,’ her voice became a whisper, ‘and it was the most terrible thing of all.’

  ‘I miss our land. Mama, it’s all under concrete now. The orchard. The house. I think of the cars that drive on the road and . . . I wonder if they don’t know or don’t care.’

  She leans back in her chair and gazes wistfully at me. Then she smiles, her eyes crinkly and sweet. ‘We have two choices in this world,’ she says in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘We either try to survive or we give up.’

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  We slip out of school an hour early.

  ‘I’ll race you to the camp!’

  I shoot after Samy, happy to pound my feet against the ground and make my heart and lungs dance inside of me. When we arrive at Aida my eyes take in the sharp difference between the camp and the town. Since moving from Beit Jala to Bethlehem I have become accustomed to the belfries, towers,
domes and church steeples. But in Aida the dwellings are a tight grid of concrete block homes with heavy steel doors separated by very narrow alleys. Bullet holes decorate some of the graffiti-covered walls. There are people everywhere, packed on top of each other like a jar of coloured lentils. There are malnourished children our age and younger, with dark circles under their eyes, torn clothes sitting baggily on their thin frames, playing in the trash-strewn streets and alleys. But there are also children dressed in neat school uniforms, juggling piles of books and heavy backpacks. We walk through the camp, and I find it hard to picture it when it was a collection of tents and Sitti Zeynab and Sidi Yusuf sat within four poles with my uncles, aunts and mother at their feet. There is an enduring quality to the camp. The buildings are all so solid and seem permanent, not at all what you would expect in a place that was supposed to shelter people temporarily. Posters of people killed by the occupation are on poles and in shop windows. Posters of men, women, children and babies stare at me, frozen in time. They are part of the camp’s permanence and yet, it suddenly seems to me, it’s the struggle against such permanence that killed them.

  We approach a man standing outside a mixed goods store. Samy, who has memorised Wasim’s address, asks for directions.

  ‘Do you think he would have forgotten to speak to the coach?’ Samy asks me as we follow the man’s instructions.

  ‘I pity him if he did!’ I joke, but Samy’s face creases with worry lines. We pass a butcher and my stomach turns at the sight of the sheep and cows stripped of their skin swinging in the shopfront. How funny that I forget such repulsion as soon as I sit down to a steaming plate of Mama’s maklobe.

  Samy’s creased face suddenly smoothes out and, in a buoyant tone, he says: ‘I’m sure he remembered! How could he forget with me pestering him like I did? I told the guys at school, you know. They’re so envious.’

  ‘Huh!’ I grunt. ‘Why do boys all like to compete with each other?’

  Samy gives me a strange look and I roll my eyes at him.

  We soon find the street in which Wasim lives. His uncle sits in the front of their apartment block, an argeela pipe resting in his mouth. However, I notice there’s no coal on the foil covering the tobacco, indicating that the argeela is not working. He studies us as we approach him and then bursts into strange, hysterical laughter. Frightened, I take a step backwards but Samy stays put. Suddenly the door bursts open and a woman rushes out. ‘Mo’ayad!’ she cries, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to calm him.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asks us.

  Speechless, I can only stare at her.

  ‘We’re looking for Wasim,’ Samy says.

  ‘He’s playing ball with his friends.’

  Samy flashes me a conspiratorial grin and asks her for directions.

  ‘I wonder what’s wrong with him,’ I say, as we walk to a nearby alleyway where Wasim is apparently playing.

  ‘He seems harmless . . .’

  Wasim is alone. A soccer ball lies on the ground beside him. He’s bending down, pulling his socks up; when he hears the shuffle of our feet, he looks up and sees us.

  ‘You came!’ he exclaims, grinning with delight and quickly rising. ‘I waited for you at the pharmacy every day this week, ya zalami! We were going to play soccer. Remember?’

  Samy marches up to him. ‘Did you speak to the coach?’ he asks anxiously.

  Wasim’s eyes instantly give him away. Flustered, he wrings his hands together, looking down at the ground and then back up.

  ‘I . . . of course it wasn’t true, ya zalami. I mean, they were thinking of a team, the people who came here from overseas to help us, but, well, I was joking. It was just a bit of fun. I thought you would work it out. It’s all about the soccer, though, isn’t it? I mean, I’m an excellent player, I assure you. There was an Englizee coach once. He was here as a volunteer. He did tell me I was momtaz. I promise. Look, we could have a really brilliant match. And you could bring some of your other friends. Yes?’

  ‘You swore you were telling the truth!’ I say. ‘On your mother’s grave, you said.’

  ‘My mother’s not dead,’ Wasim says matter-of-factly.

  I stamp a foot on the ground in frustration. ‘We believed you. Crooked buildings and . . . and . . . knee pads!’

  Wasim flashes a lopsided guilty grin.

  ‘Why did you lie?’ I press.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he mutters.

  It occurs to me then that Samy is silent. A nauseating tension seeps through the alley. Wasim’s words and mine are like lightning flashes inviting the crack of thunder.

  ‘I was . . . bored . . .’ Wasim offers. Our eyes lock and I realise his eyes are incapable of masking his loneliness.

  ‘Talk, talk, talk!’ Samy cries and lunges at Wasim, pushing him to the ground and pinning him down as he straddles him.

  Wasim starts to cry. ‘I’m sorry!’ he manages through his tears.

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Samy yells hysterically. ‘You made me believe I could get out of this hole! You liar!’

  I’ve never seen Samy lose control like this and suddenly I’m afraid.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Wasim cries out again. Snot is dribbling down onto his mouth and I want to gag.

  ‘Get off him, Samy,’ I say, trying to sound composed.

  Samy raises his fist, ready to punch Wasim. ‘I’m going to beat the hell out of him!’ he yells.

  ‘Samy! No!’

  ‘Stay out of this, Hayaat!’

  ‘Get off me!’ Wasim screams.

  I grab onto Samy’s arm and pull him away. ‘Samy, stop! Have you gone mad?’

  Our eyes lock. For a second I hardly recognise him. Then his face collapses and he falls to the side of Wasim, who’s sobbing loudly.

  ‘Shut up!’ Samy yells at Wasim.

  ‘Don’t hurt me!’ Wasim cries, raising his hands to his face.

  Samy gives us both a disgusted look and then takes off, sprinting out of the alley.

  ‘Wait!’ I cry and chase after him.

  The camp is full of alleyways and passages, and my heart pounds hard as I try to match Samy’s cracking pace and keep him in my vision.

  ‘Stop!’ I cry out through panted breath, but he doesn’t. I follow him through the crowded streets, dodging pedestrians and traffic. My lungs are burning now and I want to cry from the pain. Finally, Samy turns into a dingy alley between two crumbling apartment blocks. It’s a dead end. Parked at the end is a wrecked car. The alley reeks: overflowing rubbish bags lie in stinking piles here and there.

  I stop and rest my hands on my knees, leaning forward and trying to catch my breath. I’m too shattered to look at Samy. I concentrate on relaxing my lungs. I wonder where Wasim is but then I decide I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except breathing.

  Finally my lungs calm and that’s when I hear the sound of glass smashing onto the ground. I look up and see Samy standing next to the car. Shards of glass dangle precariously from the rear window. The trunk of the car is covered in shattered glass. Samy bobs down to the ground and picks up a big rock.

  ‘Stop!’ I yell. I run up to him. I’m angry now. Angry that he’s lost control. Angry that things have turned out this way. Angry at Wasim, at this stinking alley, at stupid soccer dreams. But most of all I’m angry at Samy for giving up so easily.

  I place myself between him and the car and give him a menacing look. ‘Put that down,’ I say in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Get a grip. You’re acting like someone who’s escaped from an asylum.’

  ‘Mind your own business. You’re always in my face.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s a good thing. Somebody with a bit of sense has to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest. ‘You’ve already damaged this car and nearly bashed Wasim. And I bet you still feel like crap.’

  ‘Yeah I do. But I’d feel better if you shut up and let me smash this other
window.’

  He moves to the front of the car and raises the rock, aiming it at the windscreen. ‘Get out of the way or you’ll get hurt.’

  ‘You moron, look at my face. There’s glass lodged in there that the doctors couldn’t even remove. You think I’m scared of a bit of windscreen? Go ahead.’ I’m scared but I stand my ground, trying to sound as fearless as I can.

  Samy seems determined. He raises the rock higher and I resist taking a step back. He takes aim again and then screams, throwing the rock against the wall, away from us. He falls to the ground and starts to cry noiselessly. I’m shocked. It’s too terrible to imagine Samy crying, let alone witness it.

  I don’t approach him until he regains control. It seems the decent thing to do.

  He crunches his knees up under his chin and stares down at the ground. I take a tentative step towards him, slowly lower myself down to his level and then sit.

  ‘If you tell anyone I cried—’

  ‘Cried?’ I scoff, cutting him off. ‘I didn’t see you cry.’

  He nods once and I know we have an understanding.

  We sit in silence for a while. I stare at the broken glass on the ground, admiring the way the last rays of the afternoon sun bounce off the little pieces and create small rainbows on the wall.

  It’s Samy who breaks the silence. ‘I told you there was no point in dreaming,’ he says quietly.

  ‘That’s not true . . . It’s all we have. Sitti Zeynab says—’

  He looks up, his face twisted with disappointment and anger. ‘You have a grandmother to talk to, but my mother is dead and my father is locked up. I can’t speak to Amto Christina and Amo Joseph. I’ve got nobody . . . I’m nobody. I thought this would be my chance . . . Well, there’s no point, is there?’

  ‘There is a point . . . Look at me. My face is wrecked. And Maysaa is dead. Samy, she’s dead! And Baba mopes around all day and Mama nags and Sitti Zeynab remembers and always there’s the mirror or reflection in a shop window, reminding me of that day. But Mama says we have two choices in this world. We either try to survive or we give up.’