Where the Streets Had a Name (9 page)

Several moments later a girl in a green hijab crouches down beside me. I turn to face her, curious as to why she's chosen to sit beside me when she has the entire mosque. Grinning at me, his teeth practically luminous under the lights in the mosque, is Samy, draped in a green hijab. He bats his eyelashes at me and forces back a hysterical laugh.

‘Are you mad?' I exclaim.

‘No,' he whispers. ‘I just want to see if anybody notices.'

‘You're the ugliest girl I've ever seen. Praise God for making you a boy. I never realised how big your nostrils were until now. And your eyebrows – there's only one.'

‘Was it always like that?'

‘It's warmed the top of your nose ever since I can remember. Come on, let's leave. I'm finished.'

I grab his arm and lead him out, away from the curious eyes of the men, who, judging from the steady hum of conversation coming from the direction of their circle, seem to be enjoying a gossip session rather than a religious lecture.

As we step out of the mosque I notice a small boy who looks our age talking to the old man. Upon seeing us, the old man whispers something into the boy's ear and the boy runs after us, cutting off our path. A plastic bag filled with packets of tissues dangles from his arm. His hair is dishevelled and dusty, the heels of his feet cracked, and his clothes are ragged and too big for him.

‘Tissues?' he asks. ‘May God give you a long life.'

‘Go away,' Samy says, although he says it without much energy. It's a standard response to street hagglers and the boy doesn't even flinch. ‘Do we look like tourists? Leave us alone; we've got important business.'

The boy's eyes light up. ‘My uncle thought you looked suspicious.'

‘That crazy man is your uncle?' Samy says.

‘Yeah. So what business do you have?' He licks his lips in anticipation of Samy's response.

‘We're on a private mission,' Samy replies importantly.

‘Tell me,' the boy pleads. Then he looks at me. I'm twirling the end of my plait in my finger, thinking about how dirty his skin is.

‘Where are you from?' I ask. We start to walk and the boy follows us.

‘My uncle and I are from Aida refugee camp. Are you from there too?'

‘Certainly not!' I cry with indignation. That Mama was born in a refugee camp and lived there until she was married isn't something I like to advertise. Anyway, Mama generally doesn't approve of me mixing with children from the camp. ‘God knows our life is hard, Hayaat. But in the camps it can be unbearable. I don't want you to mix with people with no hope, ya Hayaat. Some of them have nothing left to lose and sometimes they feel there is nothing to live for. People prey on that desperation. They play God with people's lives. Promising heaven and meetings with angels and twisting God's words to suit them.'

I didn't ask Mama if, since the settler roads took my father's land, we've become desperate too.

For some reason, looking at that scruffy, skinny boy makes me angry. ‘Why don't you wash?' I ask scornfully. ‘I'm sure there's soap in the camp. You smell! And your clothes are filthy.'

The boy shrugs. ‘Tell me about your
mission
. I'm bored.'

‘Go away,' I say, flicking my hand in the air as though I'm trying to get rid of a fly. ‘We don't have time for you.'

‘Why is your face like that? What happened to you? Does it hurt?'

I turn around swiftly and glare at him. ‘Shut up! Leave me alone, you filthy, stinking refugee!'

His eyes suddenly moisten. And what stabs me is that he tries to hide it. He makes as if to tie his shoelace. But his slippers don't have laces. The shame I feel in that moment is overpowering. It floods my body with such force I feel as though I might topple over. To think that somebody has to protect their self-respect and dignity from
me
. After all the teasing I've endured at school. After all the times I've looked in the mirror and felt embarrassed by my reflection. I have to redeem myself.

So I buy his entire bag of tissues.

‘What are we going to do with all those?' Samy asks as he watches me stuff the small packets into my backpack.

‘What we do with them isn't the point,' I mutter.

‘I saw an episode of
Spider-man
,' the boy says thoughtfully, ‘where he rescues someone who tries to climb up a building with bedsheets tied together.'

I give the boy a funny look. Samy is interested.

‘Imagine if you tied the tissues together and climbed the Wall.'

‘Imagine if the soldiers saw us doing that,' Samy says with a laugh. ‘I think they'd let us over to reward our pure genius.'

‘A tissue crumples with a bit of snot and you two think it's going to carry our body weight?'

‘Where's your imagination?' the boy asks, giving Samy a knowing look.

‘She's being Miss Practical today,' Samy says.

‘Come on, let's get moving,' I say. ‘If you both shut up I'll show you the kite I have stuffed in my bag. We'll get Spiderman here to hold it over the Wall while you and I dangle off the ribbons, Samy. Now
yallah
. We need to find out how to get to Jerusalem.'

 

 

The dirty boy from Aida refugee camp who has no tissues left to sell is named Wasim. We let him walk with us because he's been recruited by a United Nations–sponsored soccer team to play in international tournaments. Samy is instantly impressed. I don't know whether he wants to embrace Wasim or hit him.

‘Why you?' Samy asks, his voice drizzled with envy. ‘How did you get picked? I mean, you're a refugee.'

Wasim grins. ‘That's the point,
ya zalami
.' I can't help but snort in laughter.
Ya zalami
means ‘oh man' but only old people say such things. It sounds funny coming out of Wasim's mouth. ‘Because I'm a refugee they took pity. I'm going to be trained. Proper training! With proper soccer boots and T-shirts and knee pads!'

‘Knee pads?' Samy's eyes are as big as the saucers Mama uses to serve
mansaf
when we have guests over. ‘Huh! Liar.'

‘I swear to God,
ya zalami
. And the trainer is from England with a proper accent and everything!'

‘
Englizee?
'

‘
Ya zalami
, he drinks more tea than we do!'

‘Stop lying!'

‘I promise on my mother's grave. The foreigners came to Aida camp with an idea to help the kids and they saw we love to play soccer and decided to sponsor a team. It was just a tiny bit of their budget. And
wallah
, I swear by God, I would rather soccer than food. So do you want to play? Practise with me? We could do it every week. Every day, even!'

Wasim's been promoted to hero status. The two of them are boring me with their inane sports talk. I huff and puff, not caring in the least about soccer moves and famous players, but they're oblivious.

‘Where will you play?' I ask, eventually conceding defeat and deciding to join their conversation.

Wasim jumps up and punches the air. ‘In Italy!'

Samy is clearly distressed. He stops, shuffles along and then stops again, grabbing Wasim's arm. ‘Well, can't you . . . ask them to let me play, too? I'm excellent! Hayaat, tell him how excellent I am. Tell him. Go on. Tell him!'

‘He's terrible,' I say. In a split second I realise that if I don't correct myself Samy will die. He's losing his colouring and the oxygen doesn't seem to be reaching his lungs.

‘I'm only joking!' I holler. Samy goes from an off-shade of vanilla to pinky-white again.

‘I'll see what can be managed,' Wasim says in an important voice, straightening his back with pride. ‘Maybe you should practise with me for a while.'

‘What about the coach?'

‘We can play and then I'll approach him about you.'

‘What's he like?'

‘I'm his favourite. So I'm sure he'll take my opinion. I'm the goalkeeper and I'm
momtaz
! The coach says so himself.'

‘I thought you said he was
Englizee
?' Samy says. ‘How is he calling you
momtaz
when he is a tea-drinking
Englizee
?' Samy crosses his arms over his chest and frowns suspiciously at Wasim.

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.