The Kites Are Flying

by Michael Morpurgo

  A couple of hours later though, as I was sitting under the kite tree with the sheep browsing in amongst the rocks, I felt a sudden wind spring up. Said was on his feet at once. He ran out onto the open hillside, and stood there for a while, his head lifted into the wind. I was filming him surreptitiously from under the tree. I think he knew I was, but by now he was paying no attention at all to me, nor to the camera. Clearly he had something much more important on his mind. Then I saw him turn and wave at me, frantically. He came running back towards me, took my camera off me, hung it up over a branch, and hauled me to my feet.

  He thrust the spool into my hands, showed me what to do, and went racing out over the hill with the kite. I watched him holding it high, letting it go, saw the wind take it and fly it. I marvelled at the beauty of it, wondered at the exhilaration on his face. But it was only when he took the spool from me, handed me the string and let me fly it, that I felt that same joy for myself. The kite was wind-whipped and soaring above us, tugging to be free, longing to go higher, and Said was jumping up and down in wild delight as it swooped and hovered overhead. It was an old joy I had almost forgotten. I had done it like this with my father when I was a boy – I had tried it with Jamie a few times, but there was never enough wind, or maybe we just weren’t very good at it. This was supreme. The kite was alive at the end of the string, loving it as much as I was. But all too soon, Said was tugging at my arm. He wanted the string back. I was just getting the hang of it, and wasn’t at all happy about giving it up. But I had no choice.

  Said was a real expert. With a tweak of his wrist the kite turned and twirled. With a flick of his fingers he dived it and danced it. It was mesmerizing. But after a while I remembered what I was there for, and my professional instinct kicked in. I had to have boy and kite in the same shot, so I needed to put some distance between them and me. I picked up my camera and began to film. I did not want to miss such an idyllic image. I closed on the fluttering kite, tracked its flight until the wall was there in the background. I tightened on the wall and tracked it up over the hillside, then zoomed in on the settlement beyond, on the blue and white flag flying there.

  That was when I noticed there were some children in the street below, kicking a football about. When one of them scored, I could see there were the usual recriminations on one team, and all the over the top celebrations on the other. Same the world over, I was thinking. When I turned my camera on Said again, I saw there was a frown of intense concentration on his face. I don’t know how, but I think I knew what he was about to do, so when it happened it didn’t really surprise me. He just let the kite go. It was quite deliberate. He simply gave it to the wind, holding his arms up as if he was releasing a trapped bird and giving it its freedom. The kite soared up high, floating there on the thermals before the wind discovered it and took it away over the olive grove, over the wall and up towards the hilltop settlement beyond.

  I felt Said tugging insistently at my sleeve. He was trying to get the camera off me. He wasn’t just wanting to have another go at filming. There was an urgency in his eyes. So I gave him the camera. He was looking through the lens across at the settlement. I saw at once what he was focussing on. There was a girl in a wheelchair. She was gazing up at the kite as it came floating down. When it landed, she wheeled herself over and picked it up. She was wearing a blue headscarf. For a few moments she sat there looking across at us, the kite on her lap, shielding her eyes against the sun, as the footballers came racing over towards her. They stood there then, all of them gazing across the wall at us. Said handed me back the camera, and then he was waving both his hands in the air. Only the girl waved back, flourishing the kite above her head. The footballers were all drifting away by now. The two went on waving to one another for several minutes, long enough for me to film it. They didn’t seem to want to stop.

  On the way back home to the village that evening with the sheep we came across Uncle Yasser harvesting his broad beans. I stopped and asked if he’d mind if I filmed him at his work. He shrugged. “There is not much to film,” he told me. “It’s a poor crop, but it’s always a poor crop. There’s never enough water, that’s the trouble. They have taken most of it. And they have taken all our best land for themselves. They leave us only the dust to farm in. So what can you do?” He was watching Said as he walked on up into the village with his sheep. “I see he has sent his kite away. He let it go. The wind must have been just right. He never keeps his kites, not one of them. He just makes another one, waits for the next east wind, and then sends it off again. Did you see what he writes on his kites? ‘Salaam.’ This means Peace. And on every one of them he writes both their names, ‘Mahmoud and Said’.” I had not expected him to want to talk so willingly.

  “How many has he sent?” I asked him.

  “We are not sure. And he cannot tell us of course. Maybe about one a week since Mahmoud … and that was nearly two years ago now.”

  I felt I could ask, because I felt he wanted to tell me. “Who is this Mahmoud? What happened?” He gave me a long and hard look. I thought I had gone too far then, intruded too much. I stopped filming, because I thought that was what he wanted.

  “No,” he said gravely. “You must film this. I want the world to hear about Mahmoud, about how he lived and how he died. You are Said’s friend. I think he trusts you. I think he would want you to know. Only Said knows what happened. He was there. He saw it with his own eyes.” I was filming him again by the time he went on.

  “Mahmoud was Said’s older brother. He loved to make kites. He loved to fly kites, and always with Said. It happened two years ago next week, next Monday – before the occupiers built the wall. I knew there would be trouble that day, we all did. A settler’s car was ambushed that morning, further down the valley. We heard that a woman was killed, and her daughter was in hospital with bad injuries to her legs, that maybe she would die too. So we said to all the children in the village: this is a dangerous time, you must stay inside, everyone is safer inside if the soldiers come. But Mahmoud, like his father, was a strong-willed boy, and he became angry with me when I said he could not go out with the sheep and fly his kite. He told me the sheep had to go out, that he would fly his kite whenever and wherever he wanted, that they had put his father in prison, that he would not let them make a prisoner of him in his own home, that he would not hide away like a coward. These were the last words Mahmoud spoke to me.

  “And so they went off, the two of them together, with the sheep. Whenever Mahmoud went out, Said would always want to go with him. His mother tried to stop them too. They wouldn’t listen.

  “Maybe an hour later, we heard a helicopter come flying low over the village. There was some shooting. When it was over we all ran outside. We saw Mahmoud lying at the bottom of the hill, beside the road. Said was with him, Mahmoud’s head on his lap. When we got there, his eyes were open, but he was dead. We asked Said how it happened. But he cannot tell us. Since that moment, he has not spoken. God willing, one day he will. God willing.” His voice was breaking. He looked away from me, trying to compose himself. I was doing much the same thing. I couldn’t bring myself to ask him any more questions. But when he turned to me again, I could see he was ready to tell me more.

  “Said sent off his first kite the next day, the day we buried Mahmoud. Do you know why he sends his kites over there? He cannot tell us himself of course, but we think that for Said every kite that lands over there in the settlement is like a seed of friendship. This is why he writes ‘Salaam’ on each one. We think that he hopes and he believes that one day they’ll send the kites back, and everything will be right, that his father will come home from prison, that somehow friendships will grow, all the killing will stop, and peace will come. For Said, his kites are kites of peace. You know what I think? I think, let Said have his dreams. It’s all he has. He’ll find out soon enough what they’re like over there. Many people tell him this. Uncle Gasbag I may be, but I know when a thing must not be spoken. Let him dream, I say, let him dr
eam.”

  “But what about the girl?” I asked him. “The one with the blue headscarf, the one in the wheelchair. She picked up Said’s kite. She waved at him. I saw her. She was trying to be friendly. It’s a beginning, surely.”

  He wasn’t having any of it. “I have seen this girl. We all have,” he said. “She’s alive, isn’t she? It is Mahmoud who is dead, is it not? Tell me, what does it cost to wave? They cannot wave away what they did. She is an occupier, isn’t she? They are all occupiers. All occupiers are the same.”

  I spent the evening here in the family house, on my knees on the floor with Said, helping him make his new kite, everyone looking on. He caught my eye from time to time. I think there is so much he wants to tell me that he cannot tell me. I see in his eyes someone who believes completely in his dream, and I know he wants me to believe in it too. I want to, but I’m finding that very hard. I think he can sense my doubt. I hope he can’t.

  I should have phoned home today, and now it’s too late. Anyway, I’m too sad to talk, and it would all be too difficult to explain how things are here over the phone. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to them tomorrow. One thing I’ve decided I have to do. When I film the wall from the other side, that has to be the settlement I go to. I have to go to where Said’s sending his kites. I’m going to try to meet up with that girl in the wheelchair, to talk to those kids playing football. I have to see and hear the whole story, to know it as it’s lived on both sides. Everything’s as silent as the stars up here, and as beautiful as peace. Time to sleep. G’night Jamie. G’night Penny.

  Hey, Mahmoud? Are you there, Mahmoud? Are you listening? I waved to the girl, Mahmoud, and she waved back too. That’s 94 of our kites she’s got now. Mahmoud? Mahmoud? You will stay with me, won’t you? I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want the nightmare again. I want to stay awake and talk to you. Don’t leave me. You know how I hate the dark. I’ve got so much to tell you.

  I flew the kite with Mister Max today. He was hopeless. He was making a real mess of it, and I didn’t want him to crash it. So I took it off him in the end, and showed him how to do it. You should’ve seen me. It went so high. I mean, out of sight … well, almost. You won’t want to hear this, but I’m as good at flying kites as you … well, almost. Anyway I’m a whole lot better at it than Mister Max, that’s for sure. He’s alright on the spool. I just have to nod and he lets out a little bit more. He’s a bit slow. The last time I flew a kite with anyone else, it was with you, Mahmoud. It was that day, Mahmoud. Remember? Oh, Mahmoud, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to, but I can’t stop myself. It’s my nightmare again, like a black hole waiting for me and I’m falling. I’m falling into it. Mahmoud! Mahmoud! Help me!

  I’m flying the kite, and I’m loving it. You’re on the spool, and you’re going on and on about how Uncle Gasbag tried to keep us indoors, about how this was our hillside, and how no one could stop us flying our kites, not Uncle Yasser, not the soldiers, not the tanks, not anyone. I’m only half listening to you, because I’m trying to concentrate on the kite. I’m doing well too, diving it as fast as you, so fast I can hear the rush and the roar of it in the wind as it whizzes by over our heads. And I’m laughing, laughing to see it up there, looping and swooping. I’m still laughing when the roaring of the kite becomes a thunder and a throbbing in my ears. I’m so frightened because the ground underneath me is shaking, and I can’t understand why, until I see the helicopter coming up over the hilltop behind us, and close, so close, almost touching the top of the kite tree. The sheep are going crazy, Mahmoud.

  You’re angry, Mahmoud. You’re yelling at the helicopter, picking up a stone and throwing it, then another stone and another. The helicopter’s right over us, and we’re being blown away by it, and I’m losing all control of the kite. It’s spiralling crazily away down towards the road and it’s crashing into the rocks. You’re yelling at me to stay where I am, and then I see you racing down the hill after it. I’ve got my hands over my ears and I’m crying because I know already that something terrible is going to happen. I see the tank coming round the bend in the road before you do, and I’m screaming at you, Mahmoud, trying to warn you, but you can’t hear me.

  You’re crouching over the kite now, and then you look up and see the tank. I know what you’re going to do, and I know that there’s nothing I can do to stop you. You’re too angry. ‘Mahmoud! Mahmoud! Don’t do it!’ But you do it. You run at the tank, shouting and screaming at it, hurling stones at it. When they open fire you still don’t stop. You only stop when you fall, and when you fall you’re lying still, so still.

  The soldiers tell me it’s a mistake. They were firing warning shots, they say. They are sorry, they say. One of the soldiers is crying, but I’m not going to cry any more, not in front of them. There’s blood. There’s so much blood. You are trying to tell me something. ‘Mend the kite, Said. Can you hear me? Mend the kite.’

  Yes, I can hear you. I’ll mend the kite. Then I’ll make another and another. I promise. I promise.

  I’m still promising when the light goes out of your eyes, Mahmoud. You’re looking at me and you’re not seeing me.

  But you are not dead, Mahmoud. I won’t let you be dead. You will never be dead for me. I can hear your voice in my head. I know you’re there when I talk to you. And you’re in every one of the kites I make. When they fly, you fly. When you fly, you’re alive. You’re flying high, looking down at me, waiting for the right wind, for the right moment to make the dream happen. I wish it would happen soon. I know it will, but I want it to be soon. I want Mister Max to see it with his own eyes. He doesn’t believe it now, but he will then. He’ll have to, won’t he? The girl in the blue headscarf believes it, I know that. Don’t ask me how. I just know she does. She’s there every day, sitting outside in her wheelchair watching me fly the kites. She’s waiting for the moment. She’s the girl you used to wave to. She wasn’t in a wheelchair then, only afterwards. So it must be her, the girl who was injured in the ambush that day down on the road, the one whose mother was killed. She has binoculars. I can see the sunlight flashing on them sometimes. I’m sure she knows who I am too, that I’m your little brother. If I know who she is, then why shouldn’t she know who I am?

  I think it must be her father who wheels her out into the sun every day, checks the brakes on the wheelchair and leaves her there. Sometimes it must be her brother, who comes with them, and who goes off to play football with his friends. But she doesn’t watch the football. She watches me, and my kites, and I watch her. We wave to each other too whenever I send over a kite. In the last few months she’s been wheeling herself about more and more, so I think she’s getting stronger each day. We sit and look at one another over the wall; me from under the kite tree, her from the field below the settlement. There’s something strange happening between us, Mahmoud. The more we look across at one another, the more our thoughts seem to fly to each other over the wall. When I’m thinking of you, Mahmoud, I know she’s thinking of you too. It’s weird, I know, but I really can feel what she’s thinking sometimes. And weirder still, I know she knows what I’m thinking too. She knows my dream. Sometimes I think maybe it was her dream before it was ever my dream. Perhaps we made it together. All I know for sure is that we dream the same dream. Don’t ask me how.

  Hey, Mahmoud, I want to tell Mister Max all about my dream and the girl in the wheelchair. I so wish I could speak again. I want to tell him all about you, Mahmoud, and the soldier who cried when he saw what he’d done. He would tell it truthfully to the world on the television, and then everyone would know what happened that day to you. Maybe if people really understood what bullets do, then it would stop. He’ll be going soon, tomorrow he says, if his ankle’s better. I hope it’s not better. I want him to stay. I shall miss him when he’s gone, him and his camera. But I’m making myself a promise, Mahmoud. I am deciding right now that when I grow up I shall make films like he does. I’ve worked it out. If I can’t talk, then I’ll tell our story in pictures, the st
ory of you, Mahmoud, of our village, all about our kites, and the wall and the settlement, and the girl in the blue headscarf who waves to us. I shall tell everyone about our nightmare and our dream, and about how one day we’ll make it come true. It is my story, and the girl’s story. Together we will make it come true.

  Now I’m going to sleep. No more nightmares, only dreams. Goodnight, Mahmoud. Goodnight.

  4th May

  On a bus to visit the settlement. West Bank. 6.30 p.m.

  After all that happened today, I have never wanted to meet anyone so much as that girl in the blue headscarf. So that’s where I’m headed now, to talk to her, to find out her story. It’s a bumpy old ride, but I have to try to write this down now, whilst it’s still fresh in my head. Think about it any longer, and I might persuade myself that none of it happened, that it was just a dream.

  When I woke up this morning I could feel my ankle was a lot better, a lot stronger. There was still a weakness there, but most of the pain had gone. So I didn’t need the crutch any more, just a stick. I said my goodbyes to the family after breakfast. I shall come back and see them again when the film’s done and dusted. I want to show it to them. I want them to see I’ve been truthful, that I’ve told the story as it is, as it happened. The language has been a barrier, and I know my film will be the poorer for it. Without Uncle Yasser there to interpret, I felt awkward and inadequate sometimes. But I never once felt awkward with Said.

  The whole family was there to see me off when I left the village this morning with Said and the sheep. As we went down the hill, Said’s hand slipped into mine, and I knew it wasn’t just to help me over the rocks. There was the same unspoken thought between us. We were friends, good friends. I didn’t want to leave, and he didn’t want me to go. The sheep were in a clambering mood, their bleating and their bells noisy around us as we walked. We sat down together under the old olive tree. Said had brought the frame of his new kite with him, but he wasn’t in the mood for working on it. He seemed lost in sadness. He was looking out over the valley, over the wall to the settlement beyond. A donkey brayed balefully from somewhere nearby, winding itself up into a frenzy of misery. I decided it was better to get the parting over with quickly. I put my hand on his shoulder, and let it rest there for a few moments. We were both too upset to say any other kind of goodbye. I got up, gathered up my rucksack and my equipment, and left him sitting there.