Randa Abdel-Fattah is the award-winning author of young adult novels Does My Head Look Big in This? and Ten Things I Hate About Me. She is twenty-nine and has her own identity hyphens to contend with (Australian-born-Muslim-Palestinian-Egyptian-choc-a-holic). Randa is active in the interfaith community and is a member of the Coalition for Peace and Justice in Palestine.
Randa also works as a lawyer and lives in Sydney with her husband, Ibrahim, and their two children. Her writing has received acclaim around the world – most recently Randa was awarded the Kathleen Mitchell Award, a biennial literary award that acknowledges excellence in writers under thirty.
Also by Randa Abdel-Fattah
Does My Head Look Big In This?
Ten Things I Hate About Me
First published 2008 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Randa Abdel-Fattah 2008
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Abdel-Fattah, Randa.
Where the streets had a name / Randa Abdel-Fattah.
978 0 330 42420 2 (pbk.)
Children, Palestinian Arab–Jerusalem–Social conditions–Fiction.
Jerusalem–Social life and customs–Fiction.
A823.4
Cover model: Jennine Abdul Khalik
Quotes on pages 26 and 217 reproduced courtesy of Bashar Barghouti,
barghouti.com
Translation of lyrics on page 269 by Adnan Abdel-Fattah
Internal design by Melanie Feddersen, i2i design
Maps by Map Illustrations
Typeset in 12/17pt Minion by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Where the Streets Had a Name
Randa Abdel-Fattah
Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74198-259-6
Online format: 978-1-74198-436-1
EPUB format: 978-1-74198-318-0
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Contents
Cover
About Randa Abdel-Fattah
Also by Randa Abdel-Fattah
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Glossary
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Acknowledgements
To my grandmother Sitti Jamilah, who passed away on 24 April 2008, aged 98. I had hoped you could live to see this book and that you would be allowed to touch the soil of your homeland again. It is my consolation that you died surrounded by my father and family and friends who cherished you. May you rest in peace.
And to my father – may you see a free Palestine in your lifetime.
GLOSSARY
abeet
stupid
Abo
Father of
Adra
Virgin, referring to Virgin Mary
al Quds
Jerusalem
ameen
amen
Amo
paternal uncle; also used by children to address adult males as a sign of respect
Amto
paternal aunt; also used by children to address adult females as a sign of respect
argeela
hookah/water pipe/hubbly bubbly
assalamu alaikom
peace be upon you (an Arabic greeting)
dabka
a traditional Arabic folk dance
daraboka
drum-like musical instrument from the Middle East
Deir
village
Eid
Muslim religious festival
Fatiha
opening chapter of the Koran
galabiya
long traditional gown worn in the Middle East
ghada
main meal/dinner
habibi
my darling (to a male)
habibti
my darling (to a female)
katb al kitaab
Islamic marriage
keffiyeh
head-dress worn by Arab men
Khalo
maternal uncle
Khalto
maternal aunt
knafa
traditional Arabic dessert
labne
thickened yoghurt
La ilaha ilalah
There is only one God
majaneen
crazy people
majnoon
crazy
maklobe
traditional Arabic dish made from rice, chicken or meat, and fried eggplant
mansaf
traditional Palestinian dish made from lamb cooked in a yoghurt sauce and served with rice
Masha Allah
God be praised
momtaz
excellent
naseeb
fate
Ostaz
Sir
Ostaza
Miss
oud
Middle Eastern lute
raka’a
the bowing position in the Muslim prayer
Rab
God
salamtik
your health/safety
shabab
young men
Sidi
My grandfather
Sito
Grandmother
Sitti
My grandmother
souk
market
Um
Mother of
Wallah
I swear by God
ya
oh
Yaama
Oh mother (respectful form of addressing one’s own mother, often used in vi
llages)
yallah
come on
zaatar
a mixture of thyme, sumac and sesame seeds
zaghareet
ululations
zaffeh
wedding party
zalami
man
Chapter ONE
Bethlehem, West Bank, 2004
It’s six-thirty in the morning. I stumble out of bed and splash cold water on my flushed face. The portable fan has been switched off during the night, probably by Sitti Zeynab, who sleeps with a thick blanket even in the sweltering summer nights. I grab my sister’s toothbrush. For the past weeks we’ve been sharing, but Mama was disorganised during last night’s lifting of the curfew and I still don’t have a new one.
We were permitted to leave our houses for two hours. We raced to Abo Yusuf’s grocery store. By Baba’s calculations we had one hour and fifteen minutes to stock up, load the shopping into our car and return home. Sitti Zeynab wanted to come. But it takes her an entire broadcast of Al-Jazeerah to raise her eighty-six-year-old body from her armchair and walk to the toilet. Two hours don’t cater for the Sitti Zeynabs of this world.
With three-month-old Mohammed nestled close to her chest in a makeshift sling, Mama delegated. She sent me to the bread section. Baba, holding the hand of my seven-year-old brother, Tariq, was sent to toiletries. Jihan, my older sister, was sent to household cleaning products.
Mama dealt with the rest.
Baba bought five tubes of 2 in 1 shampoo, a dozen packets of soap, disposable shavers, sanitary pads, nappies, toothpaste and toilet paper. In his panicked rush (Tariq wanted to play), he forgot a new toothbrush for me. I didn’t complain. After all, the nappies were one size too small. Mohammed had it worse.
Abo Yusuf stood behind the cash register with his wife and son, trying to cope with the mass of people falling over the counter with their goods, pushing and shoving to be served first. Jihan and I giggled at Abo Yusuf, whose face was flushed bright red as he jabbed at the keys of the cash register while yelling out orders to his son and answering people’s questions about where to find lemon-scented detergent and three-ply toilet paper. Two women started yelling at each other, claiming first right to be served.
‘Order!’ Um Yusuf cried out wearily. ‘When will we ever learn to stand in a queue?’
‘When hell freezes over,’ Baba muttered, rolling his eyes at me.
Mama approached us, her arms overflowing with goods. ‘Why aren’t you at the cash register?’ she shrieked. ‘We don’t have much time left!’
Baba shrugged with such lack of concern that Mama looked as though she might clobber him with the jar of pickles she held.
‘Look at them,’ he said, gesturing at the mob of shoppers. ‘We will be trampled and I’m wearing my best suit. I picked it out especially. You never know who you will meet when a curfew is lifted.’
Mama snorted. ‘Trampled? Better flattened here than be out on the streets when the curfew is back on.’
Jihan’s eyes met mine. I could tell that she found it as difficult as I did to believe that anybody, even a crowd, could flatten Mama. Sure enough, Mama pushed and heaved her body through until she reached the counter.
‘Hell is as hot as ever,’ Baba whispered in my ear.
As I brush my teeth with Jihan’s worn, bristly toothbrush I look in the mirror and I’m startled by my reflection. It always seems as though a stranger is looking back at me. I stare at the twisted, contorted skin around my right cheek, the scarring that zigzags across my forehead. I raise a hand and cover the right side of my face. The left is mostly smooth. Normal. Slowly, I lower my hand and I am a stranger to myself again.
I spit the toothpaste into the basin. Then I gargle three times, clean my nose, wash my face, pass water over the crown of my head, rub water on my arms, up to my elbows. Over the scab with the texture of tree bark that decorates my right elbow. A scab earned when I fell from the windowsill in my eagerness to meet my friend Samy’s dare. Samy had thought I’d be too afraid to sneak into the staffroom and pinch some sweets from the platter the teachers had left out on the table. But I wasn’t scared – although when I tumbled off the sill on my way out, I did drop the baklava. Samy still ate it though. He just dusted off the dirt.
I look down at my socks, sticking out from under the red nightgown which used to be Jihan’s. I’m too lazy to wash my feet, the last action required to complete the ablution before prayer.
God is forgiving of children, I say to myself.
Sitti Zeynab isn’t so forgiving. But then again, she need never know.
Sitti Zeynab farts. A lot.
She shares a room with Jihan, Tariq and me. My sister, brother and I share a double bed. I wet the bed the other night, after another nightmare. Jihan was, understandably, furious. She helped me change the sheets, though, and swore under her breath, rather than at me. The next morning she argued with my parents that she wanted her own bed. But according to Mama and Baba, a new bed is ‘not a priority’. When the Israelis confiscated our land in Beit Jala we moved to a small apartment in a poor neighbourhood in Bethlehem. We went from a four-bedroom house to a two-bedroom apartment, and we’re living off Baba and Mama’s savings. Baba walked away from the argument with Jihan, and Mama warned her to hold her tongue. ‘Baba does not need to hear you whine,’ Mama scolded. In Jihan’s defence, I pointed out to Mama that she had only the night before complained to Baba that the hallway carpet needed replacing. She sent me to the bedroom with a basket of washing to fold. I’m sent to my room quite regularly.
Sitti Zeynab sleeps on the single bed. It has a pine headboard decorated with glossy magazine stickers of Amr Diab, Nancy Ajram, Leonardo DiCaprio and Michael Jackson. Sitti Zeynab complains that the pouted lips, plastic bodies and gyrating hips will repel the angels. She once woke up with a yelp having opened her eyes to find Amr Diab’s permanently frozen twinkling eyes and dimpled grin staring down at her.
Sitti Zeynab goes to bed at ten o’clock every night. After she has performed the last prayer and read some pages of the Koran, she attempts to lift her large body up onto the bed. It’s difficult for her to raise her legs. Of course, that’s because she’s old and inflexible, but Jihan and I think it’s also because her boobs are so heavy that they get in the way. When Sitti Zeynab finally manages to lie down, her head sinks into the pillow and she bellows, ‘Ya Rab! Oh God!’ Her chest heaves and wheezes with the effort of movement; a fart is often a welcome relief for her.
They are almost always loud. Not necessarily smelly. Jihan and I have perfected our defences. Heads under the blanket; laughs stifled. The occasional spray of cheap deodorant over our pillows. Tariq never holds back, though. ‘I’ll ask the Israelis for a gas mask, Sitti Zeynab!’
Sitti Zeynab is sitting on the edge of the bed as I walk back into the bedroom to put on my school uniform. Jihan is still asleep, the blanket drawn over her face, a few strands of her hair spilling over the top. The corner of a picture of her fiancé, Ahmad, protrudes from under her pillow. Jihan’s feet are squashed in Tariq’s face. His mouth is wide open, his hands tucked close to his chest.
Sitti Zeynab smiles at me and says: ‘Your hair is long and beautiful, Masha Allah. God be praised. You have hair other girls can only dream about.’
‘Too thick. I want fair hair.’
‘Ahh, but the one-eyed is always a beauty in the land of the blind.’
I think for a moment and then shrug. ‘I need a toothbrush.’
‘And I need a hip replacement. That is life.’ She stares back at me, lifts herself an inch off the bed and farts.
‘Yaa! That mansaf. Oof! It always makes me windy.’
I help my grandmother to the lounge room. She carefully edges her behind onto a chair.
‘Oh God!’ she cries. ‘Ease these bones of mine.’
‘Do you want to eat some breakfast, Sitti Zeynab?’
She pats her stomach with both hands. ‘Too early,’ she says, her face scrunching up
at the thought. ‘Maybe later . . . yes, maybe later . . . Oh! But you eat!’ She’s suddenly agitated. ‘Strength, my darling, you must eat. You’re so thin.’
‘Yes, Sitti Zeynab,’ I mutter.
‘You must fill your stomach with food before school. Otherwise your brain will stay asleep. You need to wake it out of bed with some cheese and bread! How else will you become a doctor? Or was it a university lecturer? I can never remember . . .’
As my ambitions don’t extend to either profession, I refrain from responding.
‘Why are you still standing there? Yallah! Go eat!’
I hurry into the kitchen and hear her praise God as the refrigerator door creaks open. I make myself a cup of sweet mint tea and eat a slice of fetta cheese and some pitted black olives wedged in a chunky piece of bread.
While I’m eating, Mama walks into the kitchen and kisses me on the forehead. She’s a heavy woman, with shelves of soft fat around her stomach and hips. She’s also a chain-smoker. When she’s not eating, she’s smoking. Sometimes she does both simultaneously. Mama is always breathless. She shares her mother, Sitti Zeynab’s, misfortune and has a chest like a tank. It presses up against her, so she always sounds breathless when she talks. This morning she speaks as though time is chasing after her and she can’t waste a single word.
‘Good morning, ya Hayaat. Did you sleep well? Make Sitti Zeynab a cup of tea. Mohammed’s poo is a funny colour today. Did you hear him crying last night? Oh, school is closed; there is a curfew. We will need to rearrange our supplies. Go easy on the toilet paper. Your father didn’t buy enough. Thank God I have my cigarettes. Wipe the crumbs off the bench.’