Where the Streets Had a Name

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

Wasim is unperturbed. ‘They learn these words quickly, ya zalami. Ali, he is another member of the team, has taught the coach the word homar.’

  ‘Why would you have a donkey on a team that is going to Italy?’ I ask, crossing my arms over my chest too.

  Wasim hits his forehead impatiently. ‘Oof! You’re both sending me to an early grave with your questions. We can’t all be momtaz all the time. Naturally there will be donkey moves now and then. The point is, I will have some influence with the coach to persuade him to let Samy join.’

  Samy uncrosses his arms and jumps in the air. ‘I’m going to Italy!’

  ‘Influence because I am momtaz,’ Wasim adds as an afterthought.

  ‘But you’re so short,’ I say.

  ‘I may look small but I’m fast. That’s right, ya zalami, I’m fast.’

  ‘I’m not a zalami.’

  ‘Ya sitti.’

  ‘I’m not a grandmother.’

  ‘Ya oghti.’

  ‘I’m not your sister.’

  ‘You’re my sister in spirit and I will develop a kidney stone if you don’t let me finish!’

  ‘Finish then, ya zalami.’

  He pauses and looks me in the eye, trying to decide what to make of my comment. Then he grins. ‘These legs are light and can run circles around the goal! I hear you. You think I’m too tiny to stop the ball. You think I’m exaggerating,’ I nod and he waves me silent, ‘but trust me, I’m one of our team’s best players. The coach is fascinated by my skill. He asked me whether soccer runs in the family. I told him that I’m the first and he thinks I’m gifted. So I’ll have a word with him and tell him all about you, Samy. But we must play regularly.’

  Samy beams.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I say as we pass a row of shops and our noses are overcome with the mixed aromas of spicy meat, chicken and falafels. It’s now about nine in the morning and we’ve only been out of the house for an hour but I already feel as though I’ve walked to Jordan, never mind the centre of Bethlehem.

  ‘Me too,’ Samy says.

  ‘I’m very hungry,’ Wasim says. ‘I played this morning before I went out to work.’

  ‘Enough with the soccer!’ I yell, throwing my hands in the air.

  Samy places an arm around Wasim’s shoulders and grins. ‘She’s just jealous.’

  ‘So quick to betray your only friend!’ I snap and pinch Samy on the arm, making him yelp.

  I open my Shrek backpack and take out some fruit and sandwiches of rolled-up Arabic bread with labne. ‘I made extra food in case we have to take the back roads. But we mustn’t eat it all or we will have nothing left for later in the day.’

  ‘Save your sandwiches,’ Wasim says. ‘Let me buy some chips from that shop over there.’

  ‘With what?’ I instantly feel ashamed and slap my hand over my mouth.

  ‘The money you gave me for the tissues.’

  ‘No, keep that. It’s yours.’

  Wasim shakes his head in protest. ‘This is just for pocket money,’ he says proudly. ‘I don’t need this money.’

  He must see the sceptical look in our eyes because he’s anxious to reassure us that he’s only selling tissues so he can save up for spending money in Italy.

  ‘I want to come back with presents for my family. Do you know they have a building that tips over and it’s a famous monument?’

  ‘It tips over?’ I find that hard to believe. ‘In Europe?’

  ‘Yes! Leans over and people take photos of it and think it’s special! Why don’t they come to Aida? All our buildings are crooked.’

  He runs off to the shop to get us packets of chips. We share three flavours and I suddenly feel excited about our journey because the chips taste good, Wasim has been kind enough to buy them and Samy is probably going to Italy.

  Wasim knows how to get to Jerusalem because his father is an illegal worker there and tries to enter every day without being caught without a permit. So Wasim is able to map out the way for us. By the time he’s finished, I feel the first rush of doubt flood through me. Maybe I’m being naive to think we could do this. It’s not a straight-forward trip. It could take a couple of hours or the entire day. We have to take on the checkpoints. We have to enter Jerusalem without a permit – people get thrown into jail for doing that. And if for some reason we’re caught but don’t go to jail, there’s always the huge fine, which Mama and Baba would find difficult to pay. Not to mention that Sitti Zeynab’s village is in West Jerusalem, the ‘Israeli’ side. How will we find her village? Will it still be there? Can we move freely without getting caught? I feel sick in the stomach.

  ‘You see,’ Wasim explains, ‘the ordinary way to go from Bethlehem to Jerusalem is to first go to Beit Jala then direct to Jerusalem. This way should only take about fifteen to twenty minutes, depending on what sort of identity card you’re registered under. If your parents have a blue identity card you’re a Jerusalemite and can go this way. If they have a green identity card you’re a West Banker. I’m willing to bet my position on the soccer team that you’re both green like me!’

  We nod solemnly.

  ‘Well, you’re majaneen. Crazy people.’ Wasim shrugs. ‘But that’s no obstacle. So it’s forbidden for you to go the Beit Jala way. You’ll have to go another way. But it’s full of risk and danger and, of course, much longer. First of all, you have to go from Bethlehem to Beit Sahur then to Deir Salah and then to al-Obadiah.

  ‘Oof!’ I exclaim. ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Bethlehem to Beit Sahur is twenty minutes on foot and five, hmm, maybe six minutes by car. Beit Sahur to Deir Salah is a forty-minute journey on foot and about ten minutes by car. It will take about ten minutes by foot or two minutes by car from Deir Salah to al-Obadiah – one of you should add these figures together – and then after that, you have to pass the Valley—’

  ‘Wadi Al-Nar,’ Samy interrupts, pleased to be able to contribute.

  Valley of Fire.

  ‘Wadi Al-Nar?’ I repeat in a horrified tone.

  They both nod.

  ‘I hate it,’ I say. We drove along the winding and crooked road, full of rocks and sand, on our way to Ramallah some months ago.

  ‘So what?’ Samy says with a shrug. ‘Everybody does.’

  ‘It’s the only way so there’s no point in complaining,’ Wasim says. ‘If you want to avoid it because of the checkpoints then you’ll have to cross the hills and mountains by foot. My father crosses over Sheikh Saed but it’s very hard to do so. The hills are steep and rocky and dangerous.

  ‘My father sleeps in the caves there sometimes with other workers who also can’t get the permit to work in Jerusalem. They stay overnight in the mountains so that they can try to enter Jerusalem at dawn without being caught. My father’s friend Amo Jamal got shot in the thigh once. The soldiers have special radar. They can spot anything with their technology. Anything!’

  ‘Anything?’ Samy is, as usual, sceptical.

  Wasim looks offended. ‘My father and his friends were saying that the radar can tell the difference between a mouse and a human. So yes, anything.’

  ‘Can they distinguish a human sitting completely still from a big rock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pair of jeans folded and hidden under a tree from a sleeping lizard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could they spot a person in the middle of the night, wearing black—’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Wait, I haven’t finished! Wearing black, curled into a ball completely still . . . except for the fact that they’re wriggling their toes?’

  Wasim pauses for a moment. I lean forward, watching him closely. ‘It depends how big the person’s toes are, I suppose,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘If the person was small and had tiny toes, then maybe they could stand a chance. But if they were big like my father’s then, yes, their toes could easily be detected!’

  ‘Especially if they were hairy,’ I add, thinking about Baba’s toes.

  ‘There are wild an
imals too, by the way,’ Wasim says.

  ‘Of course their toes are hairy,’ Samy says.

  ‘No, I mean there are wild animals in the mountains and hills. My father and his friends come across them all the time.’

  ‘What kind of animals?’ I’m horrified.

  ‘Snakes, hyenas, wild dogs and iguanas.’

  I don’t give Samy a choice. We’re taking Wadi Al-Nar.

  ‘Anyway, after you pass this valley,’ Wasim continues, ‘you go through the villages: Al-Sawahreh then Abo Dees and finally El-Eizarya. You’ll find a checkpoint before you enter the Old City and a soldier will inspect your papers; because you’re from the West Bank you’ll never be allowed through. But those are just the details.’

  ‘Even if you want to turn back I’m still going ahead,’ Samy says to me, jutting his chin out boldly. ‘Can you imagine what everybody at school will say when we tell them we snuck into Jerusalem? That will teach Khader to think he’s too good for us.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I mumble as I think of Sitti Zeynab’s face, with all those wrinkles and those bright eyes. I look out at the hills and a memory suddenly pops into my head. It’s of the time Sitti Zeynab told me about how she met my grandfather and about her wedding in the hills of Jerusalem.

  ‘I lived with my parents and sister in a village on the top of a hill in Jerusalem,’ she explained one night after I’d woken from another nightmare. ‘To reach our house you had to climb a steep stone staircase. There were ninety-six stairs. I know because my sister and I counted them many times. My sister was much older than me but still unmarried. Your grandfather had seen a photograph of her and liked what he saw. But the photo was taken when she was eighteen. And the focus was not very sharp, God bless the cameraman. For my sister was not beautiful. Not like I was. This is not immodesty. Just fact. Every time a suitor came for her my parents told me to stay in my room because when the suitor saw me he forgot my sister. She had an unfortunate large mole on her cheek that sprouted hair so thick you could have used it as rope. Her nose was bulbous, her lips thin and she had gained weight. But her heart was kind and she made me laugh.

  ‘Your grandfather climbed those stairs with his grandmother on his back, the photograph in his pocket.’

  ‘His grandmother was on his back?’

  ‘Yes. She was a small, old woman with a sharp tongue and crooked legs who wanted to approve of the bride. So he hitched her onto his back and ascended the stone stairs. When he arrived and knocked on the door he was barely breathing.’

  ‘He nearly died?’

  ‘No, I mean he was exhausted. Out of breath. And he said that his grandmother had not stopped complaining the entire way up.

  ‘When they arrived my father opened the door.’ At this point Sitti Zeynab started to chuckle. ‘Your grandfather and my father exchanged the usual pleasantries and then your grandfather produced the photograph. My father was excited: a suitor for his eldest daughter! He called her into the lounge room. When she emerged your grandfather was confused. “But where is the girl in the photograph?” he asked. “Here I am!” my sister said. Your grandfather was embarrassed. “There is no naseeb, fate, between us,” he mumbled. My sister shrugged and turned away. Nobody can argue with the naseeb excuse. As your grandfather stood up to leave, his grandmother turned to my father and said: “Well, do you have any others? We might as well have a look seeing as we’ve come all this way.”

  ‘My father did not wish to hurt my sister’s feelings by calling me into the room. But I had heard all the commotion and entered anyway, curious as to who our visitors were. When I saw your grandfather I was dumb-struck. He was very handsome and shy. Our eyes locked and he turned away, embarrassed, but I knew he was pleased. I was a beauty, Hayaat. My back was straight then, not curved like it is now. I had skin as soft as tissue-paper. We were married within six months.’

  ‘But what about your sister?’

  ‘She married a man who liked her roundness and enjoyed laughing. He also wore thick glasses so I don’t think he really noticed the size of the mole. Naseeb, fate. It all works out in the end. The hills of Jerusalem sang for us on our wedding days.’

  I peer out at the landscape. The hills are green and lush, in places rising up to meet the clouds. I want to climb those stone stairs, touch the hills where Sitti Zeynab and her sister danced on their wedding days. I want to tear our papers and identity cards into a million tiny pieces and throw them to the wind so that each piece of me can touch my homeland freely, the wind lifting me over checkpoints, bypass roads, settlements and the Wall.

  I ignore the questions in my head, the feeling of dread that sits in the pit of my stomach. I’m going to do this.

  Chapter NINE

  We wait at a taxi and bus stand with a crowd of people near an ice-cream shop. The only people inside are a group of tourists, with their funny accents and cameras. They’re crowded around the counter, and the shopkeeper’s sallow complexion brightens as he bustles about taking their orders.

  ‘Hey Samy,’ I say. ‘Look at that tourist’s T-shirt. It says, I’ve been to Jerusalem.’ I snort. ‘He lives closer to Jerusalem than we do.’

  ‘What I would give for one of those T-shirts! We could walk into school with it on when we return! Khader would have a fit.’

  ‘Khader this and Khader that. Just forget about him.’

  ‘Do you know what he said the other day? He said that my father probably turned himself in to the police because he didn’t want to look after me!’

  ‘He did not. What? Just out of the blue?’

  Samy gives me a sheepish smile. ‘Well, I had teased him about his new haircut. He looked like a sissy. Oh, and he flunked the history test. So I teased him about that too.’

  ‘Samy!’ I say in a scolding tone. ‘And anyway, I thought you flunked that test too?’

  Samy shrugs. ‘So what? The difference is, I don’t care. He does.’

  I throw my hands in the air and roll my eyes.

  We wait to board a service, the shared passenger vans that taxi between the cities, towns and villages. The road is full of these service taxis queued at the kerb. Samy nudges me in the side and then points to two men who are standing in front of a taxi, yelling at each other, their hands and arms waving around as they negotiate for air space. They’re arguing about a fare and I marvel at the intensity of their anger. The whole of the driver’s body seems to be engaged in the argument; the other man is gesticulating wildly. Unlike the driver he looks as though he’s stepped out of a magazine. He wears a crisp charcoal suit, black sunglasses with gold frames, polished black shoes and a grey tie.

  ‘Ya zalami!’ he is shouting. ‘I always pay fourteen shekels to get to Ramallah! And now you tell me you want double? What has become of us? Now we are cursed by greed!’

  ‘Are you calling me greedy?’ The taxi driver is outraged. ‘I told you that there are rumours of extra checkpoints today. So there is trouble mixed into the equation now. We add a little bit of danger here, a dash of risk there, and a man becomes entitled to a little more for his efforts, don’t you think?’

  The man in the suit shakes his head violently and raises his eyes to the sky. ‘Ya Adra! Oh Virgin Mary! Take the money, oof!’ He thrusts the money into the driver’s hands and climbs into the back seat of the cab.

  The cab driver rolls his eyes and sighs, turning to open the front door. Samy runs up to him and cries out, ‘Wait!’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Wasim and I run up behind Samy.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ Samy asks.

  The driver looks at him blankly.

  ‘Trouble,’ Samy repeats. ‘You mentioned that there is trouble.’

  ‘Can we get to El-Eizarya?’ I ask.

  The cab driver’s eyes scan our faces. ‘What happened to your face?’

  I raise my hand to touch it and then look down self-consciously.

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ Samy mutters.

  ‘Eh? You rude boy! Where are your manners?’


  I step in front of Samy, shadowing his temper behind me. ‘Please, Amo,’ I say, looking sorrowful, ‘I’ve been through so much already. Can we get to El-Eizarya?’

  ‘Abo Azam will be here with his service in ten minutes or so. He can take you. Now leave me; I have to take this man-in-a-pressed-suit before I lose my fare.’ He looks over at Samy and angrily wags his finger. ‘Ya ibn al lisaan, son of a tongue. If you were my son . . .’ Samy stares back in defiance until the man throws his hands in the air and gets into his taxi.

  We wait among produce venders, bakery and coffee stands, unloading merchant trucks, commuters and shoppers. Arabic pop music blasts from passing traffic and collides with tolling church bells and the sound of the Koran being recited over shopfront stereo systems. Whenever a service arrives we ask the name of the driver. Abo Azam arrives twenty minutes later.

  He’s a fat man. His belt is hitched low below an exploding belly and he has a cigarette tucked behind each ear and one dangling from his mouth. It looks impressive and I make a mental note to advise Mama to keep one behind her ear at home too. ‘Al Quds! Al Quds! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’ he cries, like a greengrocer in the market calling out the specials for the day.

  Samy and I make a mad rush to the service. ‘Take us!’ we cry, pulling out our pooled funds. ‘You can get us to El-Eizarya, yes? You’re blue!’

  ‘Yes! Hop in.’

  We turn to Wasim, who’s standing with us in front of the service door. ‘If I come with you my father will kill me,’ he says. ‘So I can’t.’

  I offer him the consolation that he’s a momtaz soccer player. Although I’ve taken a liking to this Wasim with the packets of tissue paper, I’m not inclined to convince him to accompany us. The idea of listening to him and Samy talk about soccer for hours makes me shudder.

  ‘And Italy!’ Samy adds with excitement. ‘You’re going to be a star and we’re going to say we knew you! Don’t forget the paper I gave you. It has all my details on it so please tell your Englizee coach about me. Then we can play together on the team and be friends.’

  Wasim beams.