Where the Streets Had a Name

  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

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  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 Nine

  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.’