Tasting the Sky (12 page)
Authors: Ibtisam Barakat
As the Singer sewing machine chugged up and down creating stitches in my blue-and-white elementary school uniform, I wondered why my brothers did not wear uniforms to school. Mother said that I would wear this dress with a pair of black stretch pants every school day. “How does a girl differ from a boy, Yamma?” I asked.“The boys are like your father,” she explained, keeping her eyes on the needle going up and down. “And you are like me.”
I did not like this answer. I remembered Zuraiq. Mother was the one like my father. They had agreed to kill Zuraiq for the circumcision. My brothers and I were the ones who had tried to save him.
Foreseeing my stream of questions, Mother pulled out
the dress, cut the thread with her teeth, and placed a bundle of silver pins between her lips.
the dress, cut the thread with her teeth, and placed a bundle of silver pins between her lips.
“Turn around,” she instructed. She fitted the sleeves, attached them with the pins, then took the cloth back to the machine.
“Don't ask more questions,” she begged. “They'll distract me and ruin your first school dress.” She put another bundle of pins between her pursed lips. Each time I spoke, she pointed to them to show me that she could not reply.
I occupied myself by searching Mother's
Burda
fashion magazine for the faces of girls I liked. Would any of the Jalazone Camp schoolgirls I was going to meet in two days look like them? Would they become my friends?
Burda
fashion magazine for the faces of girls I liked. Would any of the Jalazone Camp schoolgirls I was going to meet in two days look like them? Would they become my friends?
In the final
Burda
pages, there were many pictures of stuffed animals. A giraffe, with its stretched-out neck, caught my fleeting glance. The neck curved like a slide. I wished Mother would make me one but dared not ask for it. She had said repeatedly that she did not have time to make stuffed toys. So I sculpted the chewing gum I had in my mouth into a miniature giraffe, fixing its long neck on a match, and handed it to her.
Burda
pages, there were many pictures of stuffed animals. A giraffe, with its stretched-out neck, caught my fleeting glance. The neck curved like a slide. I wished Mother would make me one but dared not ask for it. She had said repeatedly that she did not have time to make stuffed toys. So I sculpted the chewing gum I had in my mouth into a miniature giraffe, fixing its long neck on a match, and handed it to her.
“You never give up!” she exclaimed, laughing.
Later that afternoon, Mother finished my dress. I put it on and dug my hands into the deep side pockets I had made sure she sewed into it. She had wanted to make square front pockets. But I wanted pants-style pockets that hung inside my dress like goat udders. I could hide big handfuls of salted sour green almonds and roasted chickpeas in them. No one
would know. And on winter mornings, I could take two hot
rathef
stones from the oven after Mother had finished baking bread and put them in my pockets. They would warm my hands all the way to school.
would know. And on winter mornings, I could take two hot
rathef
stones from the oven after Mother had finished baking bread and put them in my pockets. They would warm my hands all the way to school.
With a proud grin, Mother looked on as I walked around the room. “You will be the best-dressed girl in the school,” she promised. She pulled out a box with new white socks, a white collar that would fit around the neck of my dress, a white handkerchief to keep in my pocket, and white ribbons for my braids.
The next day, she made me a schoolbag. When she was done, a long giraffe head peeked from it. “I love you,” she whispered. Her words startled me. That was the first time she had uttered such an expression of affection to me. “I want you to be first in your class,” she continued. I did not know what that meant. “Sit quietly, listen to your teachers, and study with all your heart,” she said, holding my hands tightly inside hers.
“Remember Alef and his family?” she asked. I nodded eagerly. “Your teacher will ask you about them.”
Much of the schoolwork that my brothers had brought home over the previous year had included Alef and his family. I had memorized everything. I felt close now to all twenty-eight letters of the Arabic alphabet; I had adopted them as my own extended family.
The night before going to school I sat up and stared into the darkness. The giraffe was warm in my arms, and I thought about the long necklaces I was going to make, the cone paper hats, and the safety pins I was going to turn into
earrings for her. And I thought about Mother's words. Would she still love me if I did not fulfill her wish? I tiptoed over to my school dress and stroked it for a long time. I thought of a classroom with an endless chalkboard where I would be firstâin school and in my mother's heart.
earrings for her. And I thought about Mother's words. Would she still love me if I did not fulfill her wish? I tiptoed over to my school dress and stroked it for a long time. I thought of a classroom with an endless chalkboard where I would be firstâin school and in my mother's heart.
The next morning my brothers, who had healed from their circumcisions, were happy that I was going to school with them. They told me over and over that if I needed anything they would be just a couple of minutes away.
Father gave each of us an allowance. And, like my brothers, I now carried my water bottle on one shoulder and my bag on the other. All our family took the bus toward the Jalazone Camp.
Only minutes from the bus junction, my brothers pointed to a long building, many times larger than our home and all of the Mahasreh houses put together. “That's the station where the soldiers who train around our house come from,” Basel declared.
“And where the searchlights originate,” Father pointed out.
Somehow, the big building reminded me of the hospital in Jordan I had gone to after the war, and I did not want to get close to it. In and out of the barbed-wire-fenced lot surrounding this army center, Land Rovers stopped and started, entered and departed, antennas shooting like metal sugarcanes from their rooftops. Soldiers walked here and there, all dressed in khaki. At the entrance to the center fluttered a large blue-and-white flag like the one the Israeli soldiers carried when they came to train by our home.
Shortly after passing the military area, we got off on the Nablus-Ramallah road that separated the UN girls' and boys' schools for refugee children. The boys' school stood to the right, hidden behind a huge wall. My father and my brothers disappeared inside.
Mother, Maha, and I went to the girls' school, on the left. From the street, I saw the many windows and the playground. The school's wall was low, “because, unlike boys, most girls don't climb over walls,” Mother explained. But I knew that I could climb over the wall if I wanted to.
The principal, whose name was Sitt Samira, seemed much older than Mother. She had hair combed to the sides of her head like two wings. She did not smile as she led us to her tiny room flooded by morning light. We sat down in three seats that were lined up in front of her desk. Sitt Samira and Mother spoke about me as I rocked myself on the chair. I wanted to get up and touch the things in the room, but I knew that if I upset the principal I might not be accepted as a new student.
Mother praised me, but the principal dismissed her comments and said that my behavior would be observed during the year. “Side by side with learning,” she said, as she took down the information needed to register me, “we emphasize cleanliness. If your daughter is not clean on any day, she will be punished or returned home.”
“I bathe her once a week,” Mother boasted.
“That's sufficient only if it keeps her head free of lice and fleas,” the principal replied. She commented that many camp families were unable to keep their children clean because
of poverty, lack of water, and shortage of space. “But we must require cleanliness,” she emphasized, “especially from the girls.”
of poverty, lack of water, and shortage of space. “But we must require cleanliness,” she emphasized, “especially from the girls.”
Mother held my hand as we walked behind the principal across a square playground to the room where the first grade met all day. The principal knocked at the door. Andâto my great surpriseâthe teacher who opened it had blond hair and blue eyes, just like a grownup
Burda
girl!
Burda
girl!
We entered, and everyone in the class was asked to stand up. “Lilian, this is your thirty-sixth student,” the principal said to the teacher while pointing at me.
“Remember what I told you,” Mother urgently reminded me for the last time, before she left with Maha.
Girls were lined up behind their desks from wall to wall. Lilian gave me a little smile and then said that I must sit in the back because I was taller than most girls. If tall girls sat in the front, shorter ones would not be able to see the board.
Everyone looked back for a moment to see where I would sit, then turned away to face Lilian. “Put up your hand if you want to speak or answer a question,” she said, smiling again.
The white ribbons on all the heads appeared like a field of cyclamens before me. They blocked a full view of Lilian, whom I instantly liked because she smiled as she uttered every word. When she said she would teach us the alphabet and then picked up a piece of chalk and wrote Alef on the board, I raised my hand and called out Alef's name. When she wrote Ba and Ta, I did the same.
Surprised, Lilian came to the back of the room and handed me the first-grade reading book. She opened the pages and asked me to read. I knew every letter and every word. She quickly pulled my chair from the back of the room and set it at the edge of the classroom, closest to hers.
Lilian wrote on the board and had us repeat the letters and words after her. When we were to write in our copybooks, she taught me first, then asked me to make sure the other girls wrote the letters and words correctly. And so, at the age of six, I moved from seat to seat to help teach my classmates.
At home, I played school and pretended that I was Lilian. I did not hit anyone in my classroom or scold them. I drew stars in their imaginary notebooks. I praised them and asked everyone to clap after anyone read a letter or a word correctly. The ones who made mistakes were given as many chances as they needed to get it right, and then everyone clapped. My sister did not want to sit in the pretend class, but she helped in the clapping. And I told her over and over how kind and pretty Lilian was.
In Lilian's class or at the thought of her, I felt strong, as though I had become a grownup. But outside her class, many things still frightened and confused me.
Every morning at Jalazone Elementary we lined up in the square playground and recited in unison “Surat Al-Fatihah,” the opening chapter of the Qur'an. I knew this short chapter by heart and looked forward to the group reading. Its words had a fresh taste when spoken out loud and made me feel that I belonged with the Jalazone girls the way a drop of water belongs in the rain.The river of our voices often reminded me of the soldiers near my house. They chanted, too. But unlike the schoolgirls who stood in the playground, the soldiers stomped and marched. I wondered if they were praying. Were they like usâdaily asking God to show them the right path?
My morning excitement about “Surat Al-Fatihah” was interrupted daily by having to drink UNRWA milk. When
ordered to do so by teachers, I untied the plastic cup I kept tied to my belt and waited for my turn. When it came, I watched the milk fill the cup as though it were liquid pain. It was nauseating. It tasted nothing like the milk our goat gave us. I tried to spill the milk somewhere when my teachers blinked, or give it to one of the girls from another class who did not mind the taste. She was much larger than me. And I knew that it was from all the morning milk other girls could not drink but she could.
ordered to do so by teachers, I untied the plastic cup I kept tied to my belt and waited for my turn. When it came, I watched the milk fill the cup as though it were liquid pain. It was nauseating. It tasted nothing like the milk our goat gave us. I tried to spill the milk somewhere when my teachers blinked, or give it to one of the girls from another class who did not mind the taste. She was much larger than me. And I knew that it was from all the morning milk other girls could not drink but she could.
Cod liver oil pills followed. “Don't chew the pills, and you won't taste the oil,” girls reminded one another. Teachers watched like hawks to make sure we neither spilled the milk nor threw away the pills that had been donated by the United Nations.
For the cleanliness check, like everyone else, I held out my hands to show my nails. If they were long, I tried to bite them off before the teacher reached me, for fingers with long nails were slapped. An older student who accompanied the teacher then parted the hair of every girl. She raised each braid and looked closely at the nape of the neck. A slap followed if the teacher saw lice or fleas. The sound of that slap made me cringe, and I wished I could become invisible and disappear from the line.
The girls whose hair had lice or fleas stayed outside. A man with a DDT pesticide pump sprayed their heads as though the girls were plants. Already pale with embarrassment, the girls sprayed with the white powder looked like sad, old women.
“We're doing this to teach you cleanliness,” the teacher
would say. “And in the higher classes you will be made to drop your pants and someone will sniff near you to make sure you have bathed,” the student who was busy parting our hair would warn.
would say. “And in the higher classes you will be made to drop your pants and someone will sniff near you to make sure you have bathed,” the student who was busy parting our hair would warn.
“But we have little water in the camp,” the girls would whisper amid tears. Most of our teachers were not living in the camp. They came from Ramallah and other towns or villages. So how would they know?
I made sure Mother washed my clothes often. On the days she ignored me, I hung my school dress and stretch pants on the clothesline for the wind to shake them a thousand times. I sniffed them before I put them on. If they smelled of anything but soap, I argued with my mother that I should skip school that day, rather than be sent home in humiliation.
In the late afternoon sun, Mother and I sat in the backyard. I snuggled into her lap, and she groomed my hair. She searched it for lice and fleas. If she found one, she ran her nails along the hair and pulled it. Then she crushed the flea or louse between her nails. I twitched and screamed under her hands.
I felt Mother's breath in my ears as she warned me against sitting close to Jalazone girls. “The fleas jump from their heads to yours,” she cautioned. “They might infect your hair.” Mother insisted that I must never go to the camp or to the girls' homes.
But my classmates mainly came from the camp, and I wanted to know what their after-school clothes, their mothers, and their homes looked like. Nawal, whose father was
the elder of the camp, said her family owned the only television in Jalazone. I had never seen a television and wanted to see theirs. Ilham, whose hair was longer than mine, also wanted me to visit her home. And I wanted to meet Nofaleyyah's mother, to see if she had six fingers like her daughter.
the elder of the camp, said her family owned the only television in Jalazone. I had never seen a television and wanted to see theirs. Ilham, whose hair was longer than mine, also wanted me to visit her home. And I wanted to meet Nofaleyyah's mother, to see if she had six fingers like her daughter.
Nofaleyyah usually hid her sixth finger. But I noticed it when she took her hand out of her pocket and gripped the pencil to write the words I was to help her with. She held her breath and hovered over the page, pushing her pencil like a cane that supported her walk between the letters. Too short to tuck in with the rest of her fingers, her sixth stuck out slightly alongside her little finger. Her hand shook in frustration. If I waited and said nothing, she returned to her writing task. One day I asked Nofaleyyah if she would let me touch her sixth finger. Reluctantly, she did. “But don't tell anyone I let you do it,” she begged. I promised. It was boneless, limp, and felt like dough.
Unlike me, Nofaleyyah was quiet and never joined in group play. But on some days at recess, she asked if I would walk around the school yard with her. I did. She got tired if she ran, she said. On these walks, she talked nonstop. I understood little of her stories because her voice was faint and she froze in fear if I asked her to repeat anything. Something in me worried about Nofaleyyah, because she was like an older person in the body of a little girl.
I liked the Jalazone school from the start. The girls taught me many games my brothers did not learn from
the boysâhopscotch, handstands and even walking on my hands, jump rope, and cross-clapping that went along with songs. I also learned to fold paper into boats, animals, masks, birds, lanterns, and many other shapes. All the girls made friendship bracelets from plastic strings and colorful yarn, so I learned many ways of creating my own jewelry. And after watching several girls blowing bubbles with chewing gum, I could make bubbles the size of grapefruit. Some girls turned their eyelids inside out, and I learned to do that, too.
the boysâhopscotch, handstands and even walking on my hands, jump rope, and cross-clapping that went along with songs. I also learned to fold paper into boats, animals, masks, birds, lanterns, and many other shapes. All the girls made friendship bracelets from plastic strings and colorful yarn, so I learned many ways of creating my own jewelry. And after watching several girls blowing bubbles with chewing gum, I could make bubbles the size of grapefruit. Some girls turned their eyelids inside out, and I learned to do that, too.
I liked the Jalazone school even more after Mother became pregnant. She walked slowly now and grew big like our goat. She spoke with agitation, demanding that I help with too many house chores. I wanted to study or go outside and play like my brothers. “They are boys!” she would shout. But I could never understand why a boy could play outside while a girl must stay in and work.
Mother no longer listened to me talk about school. She only asked quick questions. If she thought I lied in my answers, she opened my right hand, stuck her nose in it for a moment, and pretended that she could smell the truth. She also said that birds told her about me in my absence. I did not believe her. If they did, why hadn't they told her about Zuhair?
Big and tall, Zuhair lived at the end of the Mahasreh cluster of houses, closest to the Ramallah-Nablus Street. Everyone knew him as the teenage son of Abu Khalil. He had dropped out of school and often picked trouble with
people. Every day after school, as I walked home from the bus stop, he would stare at me. At times he made frightening gestures with his tongue, lips, hands, and body.
people. Every day after school, as I walked home from the bus stop, he would stare at me. At times he made frightening gestures with his tongue, lips, hands, and body.
One day he was leaning on the stone fence, arms crossed. His face had fresh fight cuts, and his eyes, round like wheels, followed every move I made. I was alone on the path with him. My brothers wouldn't be walking home for two more hours.
Thinking that I must run away from him, I flung myself across a row of thornbushes by the road. Zuhair leapt after me. He caught my arm, snatched away my schoolbag, and hung it from his shoulder. “If you pick cherries for me, I will return your bag and let you go,” he bargained. Without hearing my reply, he dropped the bag to the ground, picked me up, and raised me to a branch.
The cherries were smooth like marbles and round like gum balls. There were many birds in the trees, and they saw me. I hoped they would fly and tell Mother.
When I started to pick the cherries, Zuhair began to roll up my dress. I opened my hands. The cherries tumbled everywhere. I fought to free myself. But Zuhair shook me and grunted that I must pick new cherries for him. I said no. When I felt him touch my skin, I dug my fingers toward his eyes and scratched. His hands pulled away as though from fire. He swayed left and right, then raised me as high as he could and threw me down.
Dirt flew up in a cloud as I hit the ground. I felt a curtain of darkness close in my head. A giant ache rippled through my body. Zuhair emptied my bag on the dirt and
tossed it into the thornbushes. He threatened that if I told anyone he would kill me.
tossed it into the thornbushes. He threatened that if I told anyone he would kill me.
At home, I said that I had climbed a tree to pick cherries and had fallen from a branch. Mother said nothing. Then I knew for certain that the birds had not spoken to her.
The next day I announced that I no longer wanted to go to school unless I could wait and come home with my brothers. I did not want to walk home alone. Mother protested that I would be waiting for two hours until the boys' classes let out. But I persisted.
For many days I refused to go to school and refused to help at home. I hid under the bed from morning to evening until Mother changed her mind and said I could wait for my brothers.
Now Zuhair would not be able to touch me, and I had two extra hours a day that I could spend as I pleased. I was free again.
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