Where the Streets Had a Name (19 page)

‘We'll walk you back to the Wall and help you over,' David says, his voice etched with disappointment and concern.

‘Thank you,' I overhear myself say, ‘but we'll be fine from here.'

‘We don't want to leave you,' Molly says. ‘We have a responsibility towards—'

Samy suddenly bolts. ‘Run, Hayaat!' he shouts.

My eyes meet David's, then Molly's. Their gazes explode with realisation. They know I'll follow him almost before I do. My feet seek out his footprints. I crash through the people on the sidewalk and keep my eyes focused on Samy's mane of black hair as I sprint after him, my backpack compromising my speed. If David and Molly have cried out in response, I don't hear them. I can only hear my footsteps and the furious beat of my heart. I catch up with Samy in a crowded market square. We dissolve into the crowd and are on our own once more.

I'm crazy. It's already so late in the day. We haven't even reached Sitti Zeynab's village let alone worked out how we'll get back and how long it will take. I try to block out images of Mama and Baba. I see them now, sitting in our family room, Mama's shrill voice bouncing off the walls as she takes her frustration out on Baba. He's silent, infuriating Mama even further. Jihan is moaning about how I've ruined her wedding plans. I'm flooded with guilt. The last thing I want to do is worry my family, but if they could see how important this is, how Sitti Zeynab needs to touch the soil of her village one last time, they would understand.

We decide that it's too risky to continue on foot, so we step into a linen shop and speak to the owner.

‘Excuse me,' I ask, ‘can you tell us how we can get to West Jerusalem?'

‘Have you got the
hawiya
, the pass?'

We shake our heads.

The woman looks up from the cash register, her thin eyebrows raised high. She gestures to the man behind the counter, who is folding a tablecloth.

‘Ya Bassam,' she says, ‘these kids want to get to West Jerusalem. They don't have the pass. Shall we check if the limousine is free to escort them?' They both burst out laughing.

We turn on our heels, Samy deliberately knocking over a pile of folded towels on his way.

‘Oh, how clumsy of me!' he cries and we run out, the woman's curses sounding in the air.

‘Donkeys,' Samy mutters when we stop at a corner.

‘Let's talk to a taxi driver,' I suggest. ‘They would know.'

We approach a rake-thin man who sports a neat moustache. His eyelashes are long, fanning themselves up to his eyelids so that they give him an oddly feminine appearance.

‘Leave it to me this time,' Samy says, stepping in front of me.

‘Fine,' I say, folding my arms across my chest and looking on.

‘Excuse me,' Samy says, ‘my sister and I are trying to find our way to a private hospital in West Jerusalem. Our aunt is there and we want to see her before she dies, that's what the doctors are predicting, and if we don't have a chance to say goodbye it will probably ruin our lives forever. Is it possible to sneak in without the pass? Can you tell us how?'

‘Must be a close aunt, yes?' the taxi driver says, a twinkle in his eye.

‘Oh yes, very,' Samy says solemnly. ‘She raised us. We're very, very close to her. Isn't that right, Hayaat?'

I nod. ‘Yes. Very close. Samy here is struggling to sleep at night because he's so used to Aunt Fifi reading him a bedtime story.'

Samy glares at me and I smile innocently.

The taxi driver chuckles. ‘Come on, kids, I haven't got time for this. I'm waiting around for a fare. Shoot off.'

‘Please,' I beg. ‘Okay so we lied . . . but we really need to get there . . . See my face? I don't like to talk about it but I have to find a specialist.' I look up at him, trying to appear as sad as possible.

He coughs, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Oh okay.
Salamtik
, your health. Do you have money?'

We take out our pooled funds and show him.

‘There's an Israeli guy, Yossi. He helps us. Smuggles people into West Jerusalem in his car. He'll look after you. Wait here. I'll give him a call.'

He steps to the side to make the call.

‘What luck!' I exclaim.

‘Yeah well, I was doing fine until you mentioned bedtime stories.'

The taxi driver returns in moments. ‘Yossi will be here in ten minutes.'

When he arrives Samy leans close to me. ‘Can we trust this Yossi guy?'

‘Yes,' I say firmly, because the alternative is too scary.

Yossi is thin and short, his face angular. He wears a white shirt and tie and when he lifts his hand to scratch his head I notice yellow sweat stains under his arm.

‘Shalom,' he says with a broad smile.

‘Salam,' we reply.

‘You have nothing to worry about,' he reassures us in Arabic, his gentle tone inspiring my confidence. ‘My friends and I do this all the time.'

‘Have you ever been caught?' Samy asks.

‘Not yet, God forbid,' he says. ‘I've got yellow numberplates. It should be fine. You're both small so I can easily conceal you.'

He recommends we put our papers into our pockets. He places my backpack on the floor of the front passenger seat. He then opens the back door of his white car. A pile of grey blankets is shoved on one side of the back seat, a pile of dolls on the other.

‘My daughter's,' he says, noticing me looking at them. ‘She's messy. Like her father.'

He instructs us to fold ourselves into the foetal position on the floor and lie motionless if we're stopped. There's plenty of room as the front seats are pushed forward. I curl myself into a ball, my head facing the door. Samy does the same and Yossi covers our bodies with the blankets.

‘Are you both okay?' he asks.

We reply with a muffled ‘Yes.'

‘I'm just going to throw some dolls, clothes and shoes and things on top of you to make the car look messy.' He pauses. ‘Well,
messier
.'

I don't know what's strewn over me but it's weightless and doesn't add to my discomfort.

‘We'll have dusk on our side,' Yossi says as we drive off. He then advises us that in congested traffic he has to refrain from talking so as not to arouse suspicion. ‘Or I'll look like a madman.'

Samy and I are left with our thoughts. My stomach stitches itself into knots. I finally allow myself to imagine Mama and Baba sick with worry as they wonder where I am. Curled up like this, feeling every pothole and ditch in the road, guilt and regret prick me, and my earlier confidence seems pathetic and childish. Until this point, I've chosen to suppress the stories of people being beaten, arrested and imprisoned for sneaking into Jerusalem without a permit. Samy lies curled beside me, silent. Perhaps he, too, understands the enormity of what we're risking. I wonder if our understanding has come too late.

We drive on in silence for ten minutes. My body feels numb and my limbs scream out to me to stretch them.

‘We just passed Damascus Gate,' Yossi says.

I'm desperate to peek out of the window and see the medieval wall of the Old City that Sitti Zeynab has so often spoken to me about. But then I hear the wailing sirens of police cars. Our car comes to a sudden halt as Yossi slams down on the brakes.

‘Oh no!' he cries. ‘What bad luck you have!'

‘What's happening?'

‘Have we been caught?'

Samy and I cry out from under our blankets and Yossi swears, hitting his hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

‘There's a protest,' he says. ‘Of all days. A big group is blocking the roads. I can't drive through or back. The jeeps have blocked me. It looks like there are clashes. Your only hope is to rush into the crowd and then lose yourself. Quick! Go now before you're stuck here! Quick! God be with you!'

I fling the blankets off my back. Samy has hurled his off too. He looks at me, his eyes wild with fear, and says: ‘Don't lose me! Stay close.'

On the count of three we throw the doors open. We're in a crowd of protestors, surrounded by military jeeps, police cars and soldiers. The large crowd chants through megaphones and carries placards and Palestinian flags. We hurl our bodies towards the protestors, running through two soldiers and in between a jeep and a police car. I look up and catch a glimpse of the wall of the Old City behind me, the sunset collapsing over it. It's breathtaking.

The noise of the protestors is deafening. Samy and I link hands and try to squeeze through the press of people. But the crowd has transformed into a mob, people trampling each other as they work themselves into a frenzy. With each step forward we're pushed two steps back by a wave of men and women, incensed, enraged, trying to dismantle the occupation with their anger. Suddenly, a sound grenade explodes and my ears feel as though they've been ripped from the sides of my head. Then there's a hissing sound from above and a cloud of gas obscures my vision. My eyes immediately begin stinging and I drop Samy's hand, rubbing furiously at my eyelids. I hear women and men screaming and I'm bumped and jostled as I try to see my way forward. The air is thick with tear gas; my eyes can't open without burning and I stumble forward, crying out Samy's name, with only panicked screams offered in reply.

I drop to the ground on my knees. I want to stop breathing. It's too painful to inhale. My entire face is burning now. I try to open my eyes. I see a man collapse beside me. I close my eyes again and lie down on the ground. I hear people crying out warnings. ‘Run! They're coming!' I can't stop coughing. I try to feel my way forward, touching the cobblestone streets of Jerusalem.

‘Samy!' I scream and fall on my back.

And that's when she visits me. Maysaa, who has swooped out of the shadows of my bedroom at night to haunt me. Maysaa. Who previously averaged ten out of ten in all her mathematics tests and had the fortune to be named the
second
-best
dabka
dancer in our class. Maysaa. Who always made me laugh with her impersonations of our teachers and parents. She was shot in the forehead and died soaked in a pool of spreading blood mixed with my vomit.

She visits me as I lie on the streets of Jerusalem and I feel as though the sun has set from the west and Judgment Day has arrived.

We're on our way home from school. We hear that the soldiers are demolishing the home of the family of a man as punishment for his links to a suicide bomber. The man's been shot and now his family's home is to be demolished as a warning to all.

‘Shall we go and watch? Join the protest?' Maysaa asks. She tells me that we need to join the protesting crowd. That we need the soldiers to know we won't be silent. The more voices the better, she says, and I agree.

‘Okay. Why not?'

I saw a demolition once but Baba made me leave halfway through it. He said it reminded him of what happened to our home. But I wasn't there to see the bulldozers on our land. I'm curious.

The protestors range in age from about twelve to twenty-five and stand with the dead man's extended family about fifty metres from the bulldozer, singing loudly in protest.

The bulldozer attacks. The dust from the rubble is so thick it rises from the earth like the mist on a cold winter's morning. The sound is terrible. Glass shattering, concrete smacking the earth, people screaming out in despair, soldiers yelling out orders for us to stand back. Maysaa grabs onto my arm and then buries her face in my shoulder.

‘I can't bear to look,' she says with a sob.

But my eyes are glued to the scene before me as I hold her. All I see is my house and I suddenly realise how deep Baba and Mama's pain must be.

The women in the family wail and one of them collapses onto the road and sobs. An old man sits on the street kerb. His
keffiyeh
flaps in the breeze over his crooked back. He leans his wrinkled hands on his knees as he tries to take in the scene before him. Even from across the road I can sense his desolation and despair.

Wooden frames, walls, steel pipes, kitchen cupboards, bathroom vanities, pieces of furniture and blocks of cement lie strewn around the collapsing house. The bulldozer keeps going and we all cry out because there's nothing we can do. There's nothing we can do and we hate our helplessness more than we hate that bulldozer.

‘Is it over?' Maysaa asks.

‘No,' I whisper.

‘Let's just leave.'

I nod and we slowly start to walk away. Two army jeeps are parked at the edge of the street, the soldiers standing in front of them, guarding the demolition operation. Behind us, the crowd's chants rise higher, attracting more protestors. Some of the youths start to throw stones at the soldiers.

‘We need to get out of here,' I tell Maysaa.

‘Quick!' she cries.