by Jo Glanville
‘Look outside,’ she chided, as the children gathered around her longingly. ‘Don’t you see the security patrols all over the neighbourhood? Now go on; go play while you have the chance. The summer holiday will be over soon.’
Then, to herself, she added softly: ‘One way or another, we’ll end up going.’ And she sighed.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the trip, even though the number of security patrols making their rounds in the streets of old Hebron kept growing. Often the settlers clashed with residents, spitting on them, pelting them with stones, and beating them with sticks. But Umm Hasan had learned her lesson once and for all, the day she had heard gunshots outdoors for the first time in her life. Her body had begun to tremble involuntarily, until she was shaking all over. She had shouted herself hoarse, calling for her children to come in from the alleys.
That day her elderly mother-in-law had discovered her shaking with fear. The old woman, with her rotting teeth and smoky breath, had personally chosen Umm Hasan from among her relatives in Amman as a bride for her son. She had a wispy moustache, and white hairs sprouted from her chin. Her head bobbed in its flowery scarf as she exclaimed: ‘This isn’t right! Stop it, girl! Don’t be a coward, because cowardice is the most despicable thing in the world.’
It had happened that once, and never again. Since then Umm Hasan had learned to stop herself from shaking. In fact, now she even joined the neighbourhood women when things came down to the wire and the soldiers began dragging boys and youths into their military jeeps. Then the women would attack with all their might to save the boys from arrest, and often they succeeded. When bullets began to hail down on them, however, that was a different story! Then they would raise their anguished voices in appeal, imploring the Prophet Mohammed, and the Prophet Abraham, ‘friend of God’, to protect them from the evil oppressors.
She used to have panic attacks, but her dread of being the coward her mother-in-law called her was even stronger. She refused to allow that dishonour to taint the reputation of her father’s descendants. Because he had not been there during the census of 1967, her father had never received the ID papers distributed by the occupying forces. So when she married a relative from his old hometown, he was delighted, hoping that she would get the ID papers he had longed for all his life.
If only!
She had married her cousin Abu Hasan in the last days of the first intifada, was issued a temporary permit and relied on her husband to obtain the lam shaml, immigration papers, for his family. He never succeeded. After the Palestine Liberation Organisation’s comeback her husband left his uncle’s barbershop and took an office job at a security organisation, hoping to solve the problem of obtaining proper papers for his wife and children. But between waiting for Israeli approval and waiting for the Palestinian Interior Ministry to act the project lost steam, like a cooling teapot. Then the second intifada happened, closing the door on renewing permits altogether.
Although Abu Hasan feigned indifference to her situation, she knew how thankful he was that she was still here and hadn’t got stuck outside the country, like countless others who had been unable to return to their spouses and families. The important thing was that she was still here, with the children.
‘Papers or no papers – who cares?’
That was what he often said, with a burp, while sipping his tea after dinner. And whenever she complained to him about how frustrated she was, he tried to change the subject by telling her how pretty her blue eyes were, or how he loved her cheerful face.
Yet here she was, imprisoned in her own home by settlers’ attacks, held hostage in her neighbourhood by constant military patrols, and kept a captive in Hebron because she couldn’t go anywhere else without ID.
But Umm Hasan had a plan. And she was sure it was going to work.
The day before she had quarrelled with Abu Hasan for the thousandth time, and now she felt justified in giving free rein to her anger and putting her plan into action. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she felt she couldn’t bear to put it off any longer.
She staggered as she carried a heavy tray of aubergine and rice makloubeh to the straw seating mat, set out spoons and bread around it, and called the children.
Fourteen-year-old Manal was busy at the mirror that hung over the sink, trying to pin her scarf more securely around her face, for she was not yet used to covering her hair. Fadi, who was nicknamed al-shatir, the clever one, glanced at the tray of food and turned away in disgust. ‘It’s been weeks since we’ve eaten meat,’ he complained.
The other children attacked the meal, scooping up the hot food and swallowing it as fast as they could.
‘Don’t you want to go to Ramallah?’ Umm Hasan coaxed Fadi, who turned his back sulkily. ‘You know your father is a humble employee,’ she continued, laying the baby on the bed, ‘and we have to make do as best we can.’
The boy glared at her accusingly. ‘You won’t listen to us. You’ll never take us to Ramallah!’
Umm Hasan sighed. ‘God willing, we’ll go.’
Then, pointing both index fingers to heaven, she declared, ‘May I be divorced if we don’t go to Ramallah within the week.’
If any other woman in Khuzq al-Far, the ‘mouse hole’ neighbourhood of Hebron, had witnessed this sight, she would surely have deduced that Umm Hasan was insane. First of all, how could any woman swear by divorce – casually repeating the threat men made so freely?
Secondly, how could anyone at all travel from place to place, considering the roadblocks that criss-crossed the West Bank and the ever-present military forces cutting off roads large and small? For, although the trip to Ramallah had once been a forty-minute drive, it now required an entire day of meandering from village to village along rocky, hilly roads. In fact, sometimes increased security patrols rendered the trip nearly impossible, so that no one dared to attempt it unless it was absolutely necessary. So how could Umm Hasan think of risking a trip to Ramallah with an infant and five children in tow, just for the sake of an outing?
Abu Hasan considered these new-found dreams of travel typical of a woman’s folly. True, his wife was beautiful, with a glowing, milky-white complexion; she was still young, and had given him both sons and daughters; and in managing the household she was beyond compare. Mentally, however, she wasn’t all there. Sometimes her foolish thoughts made her smile or frown to herself, when she was quite alone.
After the frequent quarrels that turned the inside of their home into a war zone much like the one outside, he often felt sorry for her, making allowances for her meagre intelligence. She, on the other hand, kept blaming him because she had asked to go to Ramallah long ago, in the good old days when travel was possible, but he had been lazy about it and had kept making up excuses. And since the days of the first intifada, the excuses had multiplied like the neighbourhood children.
And now…
Now she knew just what to do. She didn’t care about Israel or the roadblocks or anyone else who might try to stop her.
She had thought this through over and over again, and decided that it was possible. She would go to Ramallah, just like Umm Omar Sa’eed, who didn’t have ID papers either.
Just yesterday she had quarrelled with Abu Hasan again. For the millionth time she had accused him of not even bothering to ask about her and the children, of forgetting they existed, until he was forced to come home at the end of the day. Every day the neighbours informed her of his presence at various wedding celebrations – when he was supposedly officially employed. Privately they commiserated with her about the way he traipsed around to every funeral reception or wedding banquet in town, in search of a feast of meat and rice. And she knew better than anyone else how his pretext of offering congratulations or condolences was simply an excuse to fill his belly with yet another meal.
When he reprimanded her, demanding silence and obedience, she wept and tore her hair out, wailing that he didn’t even bother to call her by name. ‘You don’t even know my name; you just call me ya
mara, “wife”.’ But he wouldn’t call her by her name even to placate her. Instead, he infuriated her even more by leaving the house.
As he left for the café, she followed him to the doorstep, determined to tell him about her travel plans before he could escape again. She said she wasn’t asking him to do anything except keep it a secret, so that Israeli agents wouldn’t discover her plan. If they were found out, his children would be deported, since none of them had identification papers.
As usual, Abu Hasan ignored her and continued on his way. Did she think he was crazy enough to believe her story?
All she could do was shout after him, ‘Wait and see!’
But he didn’t even make the effort to turn around and look at her, knowing that, after all, there was nothing she could do.
A few days later everything was ready. Umm Hasan had borrowed an ID card in a green plastic cover from her neighbour, Umm Othman al-Ashqarani. Umm Othman was very mindful of her husband’s opinions, so she had told him all about Umm Hasan’s determination to go to Ramallah, making up a story about some paperwork regarding rheumatism treatments for her husband. On this basis, he had allowed her to lend Umm Hasan her ID card, for no more than two days. Umm Hasan was just a harmless woman, after all, he thought. Who could mistake her for a terrorist? If one of her children were to start whining, and the rest of them joined in, they would be such a nuisance that anyone would let them through just to get rid of them!
In truth, he was more than ready to encourage Umm Hasan’s travel plans, hoping that in her absence the yard their families shared would be a little quieter, and he could manage a siesta after lunch.
Umm Hasan had chosen to borrow the ID card from Umm Othman in particular, because she had the same number of offspring, in the same age range as her own. In addition, she had managed to borrow another neighbour’s mobile phone, so she could get in touch with Abu Hasan if she needed to. She was careful not to mention these successes to the children until the following morning.
As soon as Abu Hasan left for work, the preparations began. Manal packed their many belongings into plastic bags. Umm Hasan made no attempt to cut back, since there was no knowing how long they would be there, or how many changes of clothes they would need. They might manage to stay for a whole week, or for a few days at least. At last, after all the stifling times they had endured in old Hebron, they would have the chance to get out and enjoy a change of scenery. Umm Hasan invoked the name of merciful God, and said a prayer, remembering her father, God rest his soul, who used to turn up the radio so everyone could hear the song ‘Wayn? ‘a-Ramallah’ (‘Where to? To Ramallah!’)
She packed a bundle of bread and a bottle of water with plastic cups, calling, ‘Hurry up! We’re going to Ramallah today!’
They all crowded into the yellow Ford. The driver asked, ‘Do you have an ID, missus?’
She swallowed. ‘An ID?’
She stalled, fussing with her white scarf, but he didn’t wait for her answer. He wasn’t stupid; he had noticed that his passenger was Abu Hasan’s wife, and all of Hebron knew about her ID problem. He sniffed, sighed, spat into a tissue and muttered: ‘God will provide!’
As the car lurched forward, Umm Hasan leaned over her children, checking, in a whisper, whether they had learned their assigned names, as shown on the ID card. The car swayed left and right as the road curved more sharply along Tariq Wadi al-Nar, the road of the ‘Valley of Fire’, which loomed like a deep well they could fall into at any moment.
As the car swerved around bends and the view tilted before her eyes, Umm Hasan felt more and more dizzy and nauseous. The driver kept invoking the name of God, blowing his nose, sighing and complaining to the two passengers in the front seat about all the trials and tribulations he faced daily. The passengers responded with encouraging comments and stories of their own.
The cotton fringe around the rear view mirror jiggled constantly, making a muffled rasping sound that jarred her nerves and made her heart quiver like a frightened moth. Now she was beginning to have second thoughts. What would happen if one of the kids slipped up during a security check and let out the secret – that the ID card was not her own?
Her stomach kept turning over, but she wasn’t afraid of throwing up, since she had purposely avoided eating that morning, knowing how anxiety always went to her stomach. She kept reciting the Quranic verses of Surat al-Kursi, relying on Manal to take care of her younger siblings, who leaned against her with pale faces. As she watched the military patrols pass by, Umm Hasan stroked her baby’s forehead. Every time a military vehicle came into view, the driver would fall silent, and tension would mount among the passengers, while Umm Hasan’s heart thrashed about against her ribs like a chicken with its head cut off.
Every time they glimpsed the threatening khaki colour from a distance the passengers began to make predictions about looming military patrols and settlers who set up mobile checkpoints, stopped cars and searched passengers at the side of the road. Umm Hasan listened with a pounding heart, moving her lips silently, nervously repeating an incantation she had learned from the neighbourhood women:
May Moses whisper in your ear
Abraham tie your tongue with fear
The Prophet turn your heart until
You speak to us of good, not ill.
As they passed Abu Dis, within sight of Jerusalem, a patrol car passed them, and Umm Hasan held her breath until it had gone. One of the passengers, an old man with a worn leather briefcase in his lap, commented: ‘On Thursday I saw a settler coming down the hill carrying a sheep. A shepherd was chasing after him, calling for help, yelling about his stolen sheep, but it was no use. The cars just kept whizzing by, of course, because the settler was armed, as usual.’
Another passenger replied: ‘Good thing he just stole the sheep, and didn’t kill the shepherd too.’
Lord help us! Umm Hasan was just beginning to realise the foolishness of this adventure she’d embarked on.
She was overcome by a nightmarish dread that her children would be snatched from her like lambs. She saw herself being led off to prison in chains, her children left alone at the side of the road, tears streaming from her eyes as she pleaded with the soldiers who dragged her into the patrol car against her will. She saw Manal clutching Fadi and Malak as an extremist settler drove up, slowed his car next to them, and then ran over her two little daughters Firdaus and Hafitha, crushing them – just as had happened during the first year of the intifada to a child, barely ten years old, in the village of Husan.
Umm Hasan and her husband had gone to offer their condolences to the child’s family. She still remembered the crowded room, full of veiled women seated on straw mats. There were only two pictures on the wall, a large, faded copy of the familiar ‘crying child’ painting and a smaller picture showing the dead child when he was still an infant on his mother’s lap. He never had the chance to grow up, to have a real picture taken. Inside the room children wailed in their mothers’ and grandmothers’ arms. And what was that smell? Was it the smell of kerosene? Or of the pungent sadness seeping from people’s pores? Or the sweat of so many human bodies crowded together? She was assailed now by a terror more intense than she had ever known. It was as if preparing for the trip had temporarily insulated her from worry. Now a strange panic was descending upon her, like a demon that could be exorcised only by incessant prayer. They were still next to her, in the back seat. Some of them were looking out of the windows. Fadi had fallen asleep, and his head dangled sideways, jolting left and right in time with his dreams.
The road was now slicing like a knife through a succession of rolling hills. Thousands of empty apartments in brand-new Israeli settlement buildings passed before her eyes. She guessed that they must have modern, hygienic bathrooms and central heating. Not like the crowded, ramshackle homes in Hebron, where residents were not allowed to make improvements. Even when their owners had money to make repairs the army denied them permission, put them under curfew and punished them for standin
g up to settlers who provoked them.
Why do they fight to control every crumbling old building of ours, she wondered, if they have so many thousands of new buildings of their own? And why are they building here, on our land, if they truly want peace? She had heard Abu Hasan pose that question to his neighbour the baker over and over again. For the first time she felt she understood her husband’s interest in politics. It was suddenly beginning to make sense.
And she! To Ramallah!
What had got her into this mess except her own stupidity, and her frustration at the closures that clamped down on everyone, all the time? What had got her into this predicament? And with an infant and five children, no less, all dreaming of going to Ramallah.
Near the village of Jab’a the road was empty, and the roadblock that the driver had gloomily foretold did not materialise. As they approached the Qalandia checkpoint, the end of his route, he breathed a sigh of relief and looked at her meaningfully.
‘Mabrouk!’ he congratulated her. ‘You should thank your lucky stars. I haven’t seen the road like this, without roadblocks, in over two years.’
He had forgotten that she still had to get past the guards at the Ramallah checkpoint.
‘Alf mabrouk,’ she replied politely, congratulating herself on her arrival, in spite of the panic attacks that had plagued her every inch of the way. The children, though they looked pale and tired, jumped out of the car eagerly, for at last they were near Ramallah.
As they approached the checkpoint her children were practically walking on air with happiness. In the crush of people moving forward they passed the soldiers without being asked about ID papers. They were overwhelmed at first by the dozens of pedlars selling food, kitchen containers from Turkey, children’s clothes from Taiwan, flashlights, batteries, blenders and teacups from China. They wandered for a few minutes among the displays of bananas and toys, and came to the drivers offering cars for hire. After some haggling, Umm Hasan agreed to pay a fairly reasonable price to a driver who at once set off for Ramallah.
