The Kites Are Flying

by Michael Morpurgo

  When I offered to let him hold it, his whole face lit up. But I could tell pretty soon that just holding it wasn’t going to be enough. So I showed him all the functions, how to work everything. He never spoke a word, but I knew he was taking everything in. Soon he was making it quite clear that he wanted to have a go with it. Having gone this far, I could hardly refuse. We walked out from under the tree, looking for something to film. Almost at once he was pointing up into the sky. There was a hawk hovering there, so I let him film it. Afterwards he wanted to film the sheep, then me in my hat. He liked my hat a lot, I could tell that. But he did not even try to speak to me, and I thought that was strange. We sat down under the tree again, and watched the replay of his film. He insisted on seeing it over and over again.

  I wanted to get him to talk, so I tried to explain to him as best I could, that this was what I did, that I was a cameraman, and that I had come to make a film about the wall. It was obvious he didn’t understand a word I was saying. I kept on trying. But whether I spoke in English or in the few words of Arabic I know made no difference. His smile was the only response I got. He just didn’t seem to want to talk, yet I had the distinct impression that he wanted me to go on talking. And I certainly got the feeling that he was quite happy for me to stay. Or maybe it was just that he wanted my camera to stay. He still could hardly keep his eyes off it.

  I could see talking wasn’t getting me anywhere. So I decided I would get on and do what I had come here for. I got to my feet, picked up the camera, and indicated that I wanted to film him – him and his sheep. “Do you mind?” I asked him. “Is it alright?” Still he wouldn’t speak. He just smiled and shrugged, and I wasn’t sure whether this meant yes or no. I didn’t want to risk upsetting him. So I sat down again, and we lapsed into silence, the sheep gathering all around us again under the shade of the olive tree, their smell pungent and heavy in the warm air. When the shepherd boy began to work on his kite again, I thought maybe I had outstayed my welcome. But then, quite suddenly, he reached across, picked up my camera and handed it to me. Permission granted! I knew then, that this boy must understand a whole lot more than his silence lets on.

  I began with a wide-angle shot of the shepherd boy under the tree, with the kite on his lap, his sheep all around him, and the wall in the distance. None of it was any use though, because he would keep looking up at the camera and smiling, and holding up his half-made kite to show me. He put my hat on his head, and began to mimick me filming him. He was good, too. I recognized my body language instantly. But it was pointless to go on filming. We shared what food we had. He took a great fancy to my chocolate digestive biscuits – Jamie’s going-away present to me – and he gave me some pinenuts out of his pocket. We shared our silence too. It was the best we could manage, and maybe after all, I thought, as good a way as any to get to know one another. I showed him the photo I keep in my wallet of Penny and Jamie and me in the garden at home in London. He liked that. He looked at it intently for a very long time before he gave it back. Then, with evening coming on, he stood up and began to whistle his sheep home. I thought it was time for me to set off on my way too.

  I followed him, the sheep clambering around me, bleating at me. It was a steep climb, and very soon I was finding it hard to keep up. Ahead of me the boy was springing from rock to rock, as agile as his sheep. I thought I could do the same. Vanity, vanity. Where he could leap, I could leap. No problem. Wrong. I landed awkwardly, felt my ankle twist under me, and found myself sitting there in amongst the rocks, clutching my ankle, moaning and cursing all at the same time. The shepherd boy came running back. He got me to my feet, and put his arm around me to support me. I hobbled with him all the way up into the village. His arm was strong around me, stronger than I’d have thought possible for a boy of his size.

  Half an hour or so later I found myself sitting in the boy’s home, my ankle throbbing less now in a bowl of cold water, and surrounded by his large extended family, all talking to each other – about me I was sure – and watching me, if not with open hostility, then certainly with some suspicion. They were polite, but wary. The boy, I noticed, still did not speak, even amongst his own family. He was proudly showing them the progress he’d made on his kite that day. I could see he was a much treasured child.

  We ate lamb, and the most succulent broad beans I’ve ever tasted, and sweetly spiced cake, dripping with honey. Luckily, there were still enough of my chocolate digestive biscuits to share around, so I could make some contribution, at least, to the feast. When the boy came and sat himself down beside me, I sensed he was doing so because he wanted to make it very clear to everyone, including me, that I was his special guest. I felt honoured by that, and moved by his affection. But soon enough it dawned on me that he had another reason for sitting himself down next to me. He began tapping my arm and pointing at my camera. He wanted to hold it again, to demonstrate to his family that he knew precisely how it worked. He still didn’t speak, not a word. He just showed them. He put on my hat, and made believe he was me. He was the cameraman, turning the camera on each of them, and last of all on me too. Then he was going into a whole performance, acting out how I’d fallen over in the rocks. There I was clutching my ankle and rolling about in agony, rocking back and forth, then hobbling back home, leaning on him. He had everyone in fits by now, me too. Later he came fishing in my pocket for my wallet. He found the photo and passed it all around, so that everyone in the family could have a good look. It was this, as much as all his showing off and playacting, that broke down some of their reserve towards me. I think the boy knew they would look at me differently once they’d seen the photo. That’s why he did it, I’m sure.

  The boy used almost exactly the same method of postponing bedtime as Jamie. His delaying tactics are only different in one respect: he goes about it entirely silently. Jamie’s protests are infinitely noisier. But they share the same absolute determination not to go to bed. The boy was appealing directly to his mother, yet at the same time pleading his case to everyone, that he needed more time to finish his kite. He did this skilfully, wordlessly, making it quite clear to all of us what it was that still needed to be done, and that it was really unfair to expect him to go to bed until it was finished. All he needed was just a little more time to finish it. The mistake he made was that in the end he did finish it. He was still protesting as his mother hustled him off to bed, leaving me alone with his family.

  Once he’d gone there followed a long and awkward silence. After a time I decided it was up to me to try to end it. I thought the best way of doing this might be to venture a word or two in Arabic.

  “A fine boy,” I said – that’s what I thought I’d said anyway, that’s what I hoped I’d said. There were smiles all around. I must have said the right thing, in more or less the right way. But the silver-bearded man on my left was still suspicious of me. I took him to be the head of the family. He certainly looked the oldest, and he seemed to be the one to whom everyone else deferred. When he spoke to me it was in quite good English, and with very little hesitation.

  “I am Yasser Hussein. I am Said’s uncle. I wish to say that you are welcome in our home. You have been kind to Said, and for this we are grateful. As you say, he is a fine boy, but he is a troubled boy.”

  “He is very quiet,” I said. “He does not say very much. My son Jamie, back at home, he’s the noisy kind.” The old man translated what I’d said for the others. The whole room seemed suddenly filled with sadness. He turned back to me, looking me full in the eye now. It was a searching gaze, and very disconcerting, but I returned it as best I could. It was an uncomfortably long while before he spoke again.

  “You are a television reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose side are you on? Theirs or ours?”

  “I’m on no one’s side.” Still that same penetrating look.

  “But you are Said’s true friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe there is something you should know. Said
cannot tell you this himself, because he cannot speak. Not any more. There was a time, not so long ago, when he was, as you say your son is, noisy, very noisy. And like Mahmoud, Said speaks good English too, better than me. They learn it at school, but more from films on the television, I think. I tell you, you could not stop Said from talking.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “None of us understand,” he told me. “None of us will ever understand. All we know is that it was God’s will. And it must be God’s will also that you come here to our house. It is good you come here, because you make Said smile and laugh. Your camera makes him smile. Your hat makes him laugh. We like to see this. It is good for him to be happy again. We hope always for the best for Said, we pray for it. We are all very proud of him. Maybe he does not speak, but he is the best shepherd boy in all of Palestine. He knows all of the sheep by name, every one of them, just like Mahmoud. And like Mahmoud he makes the best kites in all of Palestine too. But Said’s kites are not ordinary kites, you know, not like anyone else’s kites.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  “Maybe he will show you that himself,” he told me. “Maybe he will fly his kite for you tomorrow. This one is almost ready to fly, I think. But for Said the wind must be perfect. The wind must be always from the east, and not too strong, or Said will not fly his kites.”

  He got up then, and when he did, everyone did. He was still unsmiling as he said goodnight. I felt I had passed a kind of test, but an important one. The evening was over.

  My ankle still feels a bit tender. It’s swollen too, but I don’t think it’s as bad as I thought it was. I can wriggle my toes. Hurt like hell when it happened, but nothing is broken. Just a sprain. I can’t put much weight on it. They’ve given me a stick. I can manage, just about. I have to. There’s no way I’m going to miss going out with Said and his sheep tomorrow. I just hope the wind is right, and that he does fly his kite. That’s something I have to be there to film. I know now that it isn’t just me that Said doesn’t speak to. He can’t speak at all. Or he won’t. I want to know why. Why can’t he speak? And who is this Mahmoud that Said’s Uncle Yasser was on about? There are so many things I’ve got to find out about. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

  Hey, Mahmoud. Are you listening? Are you there? It’s dark. I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk to you.

  This man, Mahmoud, he’s not like any of the other television reporters who’ve been to the village before. I will tell you about this man, Mahmoud. Alright, so he’s a bit clumsy on his feet, but his chocolate biscuits must be the best in the whole world. And he’s kind too. He let us have all of them, enough for everyone in the family, and he didn’t even have one himself. That’s not all. I mean, you have to check out his video camera! Smartest camera you’ve ever seen. Sony, digital, and he let me use it! I got to hold it myself, and he showed me how to work it. And, and, and … he let me make a real film, all on my own. Sort of on my own, anyway. The hawk came flying over the kite tree, hovering there just like he does every evening, and Mister Max taught me how to hold the camera tight and steady, how to zoom in on him close and hold the shot. You know something, Mahmoud? When I was looking through the lens I was so close to that hawk that I could see every one of his wing feathers trembling in the wind. I’m not kidding. It was like he was near enough for me just to reach out and touch him. And Mister Max has got a son back home. He looks a bit like you, Mahmoud. Got a big nose, and lots of teeth when he smiles. I’ve seen a photo.

  Anyway, Mister Max went and tripped over, which was very funny, but he’s done in his ankle, which is why he’s been sitting down there with his foot in that bowl of water. Like I told you, he’s a bit clumsy. I brought him home. I had to. Couldn’t leave him there, could I? You should’ve seen Uncle Gasbag’s face when he saw us. You know what he’s like, hates all reporters, says he doesn’t trust them. What am I doing bringing one of his kind into our home? Don’t I know they’re all liars, all on the side of the occupiers? But Mother likes Mister Max because he likes her honey cake, and the others all like him too on account of the film he let me make … and because of the chocolate biscuits. Even Uncle Yasser liked the camera. You know what I think? I think that sometimes Uncle Gasbag just pretends to be a grumpy old goat. He’s fixing up a crutch for Mister Max, for tomorrow, so I think he liked him really.

  Hey, Mahmoud. You should have seen Mister Max eating his honey cake. He licked his fingers afterwards, just like you. Only without the loud slurping noise that always makes me laugh. So I laughed at Mister Max too, and then everyone laughed, even Uncle Yasser. Mahmoud, I think this has been the happiest day for a long time, since you … since it happened. Mahmoud? Are you still there, Mahmoud?

  I want to tell you about something else. It’s the kite I’m making. I’m having trouble with it. It’s the glue again. The paper keeps coming away from the frame. I’ve mixed the glue properly, just like you taught me. Alright, I might have hurried it a bit. I can hear you telling me, ‘Don’t hurry it, Said. You always hurry things. Take your time. A kite will fly when it’s ready to fly, in its own good time. It’s like a living thing. It’s not just paper and wood and string.’ I want to fly it tomorrow, Mahmoud. It’s important. I want to show Mister Max how beautiful it is. I want the wind to be right. I want the girl in the blue headscarf to be there too. I won’t fly it unless she’s there. I never do. And I won’t forget to wave to her for you, I promise.

  I won’t sleep. I know I won’t. I’ve got too many thoughts whirling round and round in my head. I don’t mind. I don’t want to sleep anyway. I don’t want to live through the nightmare. If I stay awake I won’t have the nightmare. I’ll stay awake. I’ll talk to myself. That’ll do it.

  Everyone in the family thinks that flying the kites is a waste of time, except you of course. But it isn’t. And in the village they all know what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it too. They shake their heads at me; they feel sorry for me. At school, they just think I’m mad. They don’t say so, not out loud. But that’s because of you, Mahmoud, because they don’t want to be unkind to your little brother. I see it in their eyes though. Sometimes it really gets me down. I know, you’ve told me before, you’re always telling me, I’ve got to keep going, because it’s the right dream to have, the right thing to do, the only way to work things out.

  But there are some things you won’t tell me, however much I ask. I want you to tell me why it had to happen like it did, why it had to be you, why the kite had to crash-land down in the valley that morning. Uncle Gasbag always says it was God’s will. Oh, and that’s supposed to make it alright, is it, Uncle? It wasn’t God who was flying the kite, was it? It was me. I was the one who crashed it. I was the one who was moaning on and on about how it wasn’t fair that you flew the kites more than I did, how I only got to hold the spool and let out the string. If you hadn’t given in to me like you did, if you hadn’t let me fly the kite, none of it would have happened. If you’d been flying the kite yourself, you’d have controlled it better, kept it flying, I know you would. You wouldn’t have panicked like I did, and the kite wouldn’t have crashed down by the road. It probably wouldn’t have crashed at all. You know how to fly kites better than anyone else in the whole village, in the whole world, Mahmoud, everyone knows that. You should have been flying it, not me. Then it wouldn’t have happened, and you wouldn’t have had to go running down the hill to pick it up. And if you hadn’t gone there…

  3rd May

  10.30 p.m. Addulah Village. Same rooftop. Another starry, starry night.

  Ankle’s a lot better, thanks to the crutch. Wouldn’t have been able to manage at all today without that. Still don’t know which of them arranged it for me. It appeared from nowhere. I just found it beside me when I woke up. They’re kind, these people, wonderfully kind. Long day. Good day. Important day. But it’s been a sad day too. I’m tired. Hobbling about like Long John Silver all day has been exhausting, but I think maybe I might be making the most extraordinary film
I’ve ever made. Difficult to remember everything that’s happened, but I’ll try. It’s been a day I never want to forget.

  I was up before dawn and went, alone, down into the valley. I needed to film the sun coming up over the wall. I wanted to capture a whole day in this place, sunrise to sunset. After I’d filmed the dawn, I climbed back up the hill, so that I could get a long shot of the wall from just below the village – I had to have the villagers’ constant view of it. I tracked it up through the olive groves and over the hillside to the settlement beyond where the flag flies. The more I look at it, the more I want to see the wall from their side too. Do they feel just as imprisoned over there by the wall as these people do? I have to find out. Dogs barked at one another from both sides, cocks crowed, donkeys brayed.

  After breakfast I went off with Said and his sheep, Said carrying some of my equipment as well as his kite, now with string and spool attached. That was when I first saw there was some writing in Arabic on one side of the kite, but I didn’t know what it meant, and I couldn’t ask him. I doubted he’d be flying his kite that day anyway, because there wasn’t a breath of wind.