Where the Streets Had a Name (13 page)

‘The grown-ups have gone mad,' Samy mutters.

‘Shall we solve the Middle East peace process here?' Raghib says with a gentle smile.

Grace looks down at her hands and then sighs. ‘I'm sorry, David and Molly. I didn't mean anything against you both personally.'

Molly raises her hand, motioning for Grace to stop apologising. ‘We understand how you feel.'

‘They're decent,' I whisper to Samy.

‘They train them to lie, silly.'

I roll my eyes at him.

‘Well,' Raghib interrupts, ‘I can tell you now that the Middle East conflict will erupt if that driver does not hurry up. What's happening,
ya zalami
?' Raghib leans out of the window. ‘It has been fifteen minutes now!'

The bus driver stands up, dusts his pants and jumps into his seat, slamming the door behind him. ‘If I could only get my hands on that stupid mechanic in Beit Sahur! I am sorry, my friends. Oof!
Yallah! La ilaha ilalah!
' He squirms in his seat, trying to get into a comfortable position. He lights a cigarette and then turns to face us, the smoke curling its way out of his mouth to hang thick in the stale, hot air. ‘We have guests with us today. I am Karim and I extend a warm welcome to our friends, Molly and David. Ignore these people who are interrogating you like they are at Oslo instead of Deir Salah. I don't care if you pray in a synagogue or shave your hair for Buddha. Anybody who wants peace and pays their fare is welcome on my service. Sorry there is no airconditioning. It broke down sometime in the seventies. Huh! God knows why you wish to travel through Wadi Al-Nar. Maybe my bus is so very charming that you can't resist the ripped seats, yes?'

The driver's good humour is infectious and Molly and David smile.

‘You are both crazy, huh? Good! We need more crazy people in this land. It is just the thing we are lacking! Huh! If the bus crashes over the side of the mountain, the authorities will scratch their heads. Jewish, Muslim, Christian bodies! Huh! What fun it would be to see their faces!'

 

 

The minibus jerks its way along the road that leads us past the village of al-Obadiah on our way to the Valley of Hell. For a moment I'm sure we're going to die as Karim uses his knees to manoeuvre the steering wheel as he pours tea from a battered-looking red thermos into a plastic cup. ‘Would anybody like some?' he says, raising the thermos in the air.

‘Put your hands on that steering wheel!' Nirvine shrieks.

‘Yes, yes, ya madam,' he says. ‘Do not fear. These roads are my home. I can drive this bus blindfolded. In fact, I have. Let me tell you a story . . .'

I shut out his voice and lean my head against the heated aluminum window frame, desperate for a gust of cool wind to blast over my face. A metallic taste sets in my mouth and the pit of my stomach churns as the service winds its way through the massive valley, its wheels negotiating the narrow unpaved lanes that I'm sure were intended for donkey carts, not cars and minibuses. In some sections of the road there's no fencing or railing between the road and the edges of the mountains. Nothing to protect us from dropping to our deaths, particularly with a driver who seems to think there's nothing wrong with drinking chai, smoking a cigarette and handling a steering wheel all at the same time. With every skid and bump I watch Grace frantically cross her heart and mutter a prayer. David and Molly are bent over clipboards writing notes. Marwan clutches onto his
oud
case as he leans his head against the windowsill. Nirvine sits in the front seat listening to Karim's story, interjecting with a ‘Watch out!' and ‘Slow down!' every now and then. Raghib's head is snapped back against the chair, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he gently snores.

Instead of a cool breeze, harsh specks of dust fly into my eyes as we drive over the snaking dirt track. I rub my eyes, suddenly uneasy. It's noon and I'm expected home from school by four. I wonder whether Mama and Baba are at Sitti Zeynab's bedside. I picture the night nurses mistaking Sitti Zeynab's flatulence for bombs and smile to myself.

I stare out the window. Parts of the landscape are rugged, rocky and sparse. The colours of the hills melt into each other, gold into brown into cream into beige, so that the hills seem to fold up and down, leaving me unable to tell where one ends and another one starts.

We trek down a steep incline and I hold on to my seat tightly and take deep breaths, concentrating on my lungs, on pushing the air in and out, even as I feel the wheels of the minibus slide against the dusty road. A trail of sweat oozes down my legs, a couple of beads dripping into my thick white socks. I remember Maysaa and me at our first
dabka
practice, how we competed for the teacher's attention. I resented her that first time, with her coordination and nimble feet. And then we became the best of friends . . . I touch my face, tracing the scars. I feel sick as the memories flood through me, and I rap my knuckles on my forehead to dislodge them. Then I lean my head against the back of the seat in front of me and close my eyes, trying to distract myself with happy memories. I think of Sitti Zeynab. The memory of her always warms me.

It was only a couple of months ago that I sat beside her wearing a pastel pink dress lined with tulle and beaded around the collar with itchy sequins. I was sitting like a ruffled doll in our lounge room as Jihan's future in-laws spoke with my parents about the wedding plans and ate syrupy
knafa
and smoked their Winston Blues. Sitti Zeynab sat quietly beside me, listening to the adults talk but not bothering to make a contribution. Ahmad sat like a starched shirt, static emitting from his seat as he respectfully averted his eyes from Jihan, who, with contrived demureness, raised her teacup to her lips but avoided actually sipping so as not to ruin her lipstick. The adults started to argue about the best wedding hall.

‘But Abo Sofyan's hall has the smoke machine,' Ahmad's mother said.

‘What do you mean, a smoke machine?' Baba asked. ‘Everybody can buy their cigarettes before the wedding.'

‘Not cigarettes,' Mama said, ‘the machine they use when the couple slow dance.'

‘It has a nice effect.'

‘I don't like the smell.'

‘What about Joe's Palace? They have chicken, meat
and
prawns.'

‘I don't like the colour scheme. Too much pink.'

Sitti Zeynab leaned close to me and whispered, ‘In the old days all you needed for a good wedding was music, food and a star-filled night. Let's send the lot of them up to the rooftop and throw the wedding party there. Less headache.'

I grinned. The pink tulle started to scratch at my legs. My hair, pulled up high, felt heavy and tight.

‘I want to let my hair down, it's itchy,' I told Sitti Zeynab.

‘Let it down,
habibti
. They won't notice anyway; they're too busy discussing whether the smoke machine is run on gas or electricity.'

But nothing could escape Mama's sharp ears and, through gritted teeth, she hissed: ‘What would Ahmad's parents think?'

And so I sat in that wretched lounge room and I scratched my legs and poked at my hair so that Ahmad's parents would not think.

‘Pah!' Sitti Zeynab muttered to me, rolling her eyes at Mama. ‘Think? I'll give them some gas to think about in a minute.' She winked at me and I giggled.

‘Goddamn!' Karim's voice shatters through my thoughts. The service slows down.

‘Sorry, my friends,' he says, shaking his head in frustration. ‘They have put a flying checkpoint along the way today.'

A military jeep is blocking the road. A massive Israeli flag raised on top of it flaps in the wind. Flanking both sides of the jeep are soldiers, strapped with Uzis and automatic rifles. They wear black sunglasses and hold walkie-talkies. A sudden urge to urinate hits me with a jolt and I squeeze one leg over the other.

A large number of cars and service minibuses are parked in single file along the edge of the narrow valley road. Most of the vehicles are empty, the passengers and drivers standing outside, rummaging through their bags and wallets ready to produce their identity cards. I try to divert my eyes from the soldiers' guns as my bladder swells impatiently, demanding my attention.
Shut up
, I scream in my head.
I don't have time for you now!

‘I mean, really,' Karim says with a sigh, ‘with drivers hardly ever able to reach even fourth gear thanks to these checkpoints, they're doing us a favour. Saving us on petrol, you know. Well, let us hope David and Molly are our saving grace.'

‘Karim, we're Jews
against
the occupation,' David says. ‘We don't expect any sympathy from the soldiers.'

‘But we have our cameras,' Molly says. Noticing our open mouths, she continues. ‘The internet is your most powerful weapon.'

‘Great,' Nirvine says with a chuckle, ‘we'll be famous all over the world. Should I apply more lipstick?'

One of the soldiers approaches the service minibus and leans in the door, a stern expression on his face. ‘Get out of the bus,' he says in broken Arabic. ‘Passes ready.'

‘Donkey,' I hear somebody, perhaps Raghib, mutter. ‘At least learn how to get the plural imperative right.'

I steal a questioning glance at Samy but he shrugs his shoulders. ‘
Majnoon
,' he discreetly mouths to me. ‘Crazy.'

We all climb out of the minibus and lean against it, watching the interaction of the soldiers with the line of people queued in front of us. Families, men and women in workers' uniforms, old people in traditional dress, children our age and younger who look as restless as I'm already beginning to feel.

Directly ahead of us is a woman who stands before one of the soldiers, her two children clutching onto her long grey skirt. She's arguing, her voice rising with frustration. If she looked down she would see one of her children, a girl of about seven, tapping the boy, about six years old, on the arm. He quickly returns the tap. She taps again. He scowls, reaches out and pinches her. It's a pinch with a twist, the ones Mama reserves for Tariq and me when we've broken something or embarrassed her in front of guests and she's feeling particularly sadistic. The girl howls and the mother looks down at her children and yells at them to shut up, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she tries to regain her composure. The girl tries to explain that her brother has broken the rules and met a tap with a pinch, but the mother, like Mama, is not interested in the causes, just the effects. She yanks her children's arms close to her side and gives them the silencing look that Jihan informs me all mothers are trained in during prenatal classes. The mother then looks back at the soldier, who, and I swear to God this is true, looks, for a second, like he's trying to suppress a smile. Then he sneezes and I wonder if he was smiling or if I've misread a facial twitch caused by excess dust in the nose.

Samy stands beside me, digging a hole in the ground with his heel.

‘What are you thinking about?' I whisper.

‘Soccer. Do you think Amo Joseph will let me go to Italy? If the coach accepts me into the team? The coach will, you know. Wasim is much smaller than me. I can't see why he wouldn't, with my defence skills. If I have the coach tell Amo Joseph I'm going to visit the Vatican, he has to let me play! I will never forgive him if he forbids me from joining the team. Damn him and Amto Christina's obsession with hell! They're so intent on rescuing me from God's hell that they can't see I want to be rescued from this place. I hate them!'

‘Samy!'

His eyes squint in fury.

‘Don't say that,' I continue. ‘They've looked after you since—'

‘Don't give me your pity! And don't ask me to shut my mouth because Baba sits in prison! It's his fault I'm alone with these Jesus-this and Jesus-that bores.'

‘Samy! He was working against the occupation. He's a hero!'

‘Working against the occupation is stupid. There's no point. The reward is death or imprisonment. He didn't care about me. He didn't care about how it would affect me if I lost him. Stuff him and everybody.'

I don't know how to respond. I know Samy's temper well. The constant fights at school, the talking back to adults, the tantrums during soccer games, the disappearing acts he pulls on us all after an argument with his uncle and aunt. ‘Your temper is too old for you!' Ostaz Ihab scolded Samy once. ‘It sits on you like an adult's clothes, baggy and oversized. But rather than remove the clothing, you keep growing into it. Change your attitude, ya Samy!'

The soldier is shaking his head and the woman turns on her heel, her children exchanging angry words with each other as she pulls them to a taxi. She opens her purse and gives some money to the taxi driver standing outside the vehicle. She reaches into the open rear window and retrieves a couple of bags and a small pot plant. She takes a second look at the pot plant and then, a look of irritation on her face, tosses it onto the ground. The children look confused and the girl reaches down to grab it.

‘Leave it,' the mother orders. ‘
Yallah
, we're walking.'

‘But I don't want to walk,' the boy whines. The mother rolls her eyes and sighs and they start down the meandering road on foot.

The queue is long. The soldiers search cars and bags and scan their eyes over identity cards. Some people are allowed to drive on. Some are ordered to walk. Some cars are turned away. Some bags are emptied completely. Others are given a cursory glance. There seems no system in place. No consistency. The rules are as unpredictable as the soldiers' moods.

There's a cloud of humiliation looming over us as the soldiers scold women when they don't empty their bags quickly enough and order some of the men to remove their shirts and raise their arms in the air.