Where the Streets Had a Name (6 page)

‘But it wasn't his fault! Sidi was helping him.'

‘Yes, I know,' she says, her eyes twinkling. ‘So I chased him too and gave him a taste of a thrashing. But he could only laugh and declare that he was making a scientist out of Saleem!'

‘Khalo Saleem
became
a scientist!'

A shadow falls over her face. ‘He died . . .' she whispers. ‘I miss Jerusalem, Hayaat.' Her voice is now barely a whisper. ‘I try not to complain. I am in my daughter and son-in-law's home and your father has also lost his land. So I keep it inside, like he does.' She clenches her fist and raises it to her heart.

‘The nostalgia suffocates me. I see my limestone house in the village. I see the radio your grandfather bought when we went to the souk in the Old City. We kept the radio in the kitchen. I see the arched windows overlooking the hills, each window like a stone frame. I can smell my jasmine and almond trees and remember the olive trees I harvested. Those memories stow themselves in my windpipe until I dare not conjure another or I will scarcely be able to breathe.'

I hold her hand. I have no words to comfort her. I understand that feeling of suffocation. But it's the loss of my beauty, not of my homeland, that causes the aching within me.

‘I'm less than ten kilometres from Jerusalem but I'm not allowed to enter it. Never again will I see the place where I was born, nor the home I entered as a bride. My olive trees, Hayaat. Oh how I miss them! We had eleven, dotting the grounds around our house. You would have loved my home.'

‘What did it look like?'

‘It was a two-storey villa, made of beige limestone. Your grandfather and his father and his father's father were rich. The land had been in the family for generations. It was truly majestic. At the front was a small courtyard paved with a mosaic of black, green and white tiles. On summer nights we brought our chairs and tables under the trees and sat with our friends, eating oranges and cooking
knafa
on a coal fire. I can still remember the scent of those trees.

‘The front door was a brilliant burgundy, and it had a white wrought-iron screen shielding it. The top of the door was arched, like a crescent moon. There were two windows on either side of the door and they were arched too, with colourful stained glass.'

Although I've heard her stories many times I never tire of them.

‘In that house I gave birth to Saleem, God rest his soul; and to Hany, God protect him and God protect his Syrian wife with the big mouth and my three grandchildren. And I gave birth to Shams, God rest her soul. She died when she was just three, when we were living in the camp. And I gave birth to Ibtisam, God protect her and God protect her husband and their children, who left our country to live in America, God grant them success. In the refugee camp I gave birth to Sharif, God protect him and his two children living in Australia at the end of the earth! Oh, why could they not have had four or five children? And God rest his wife's soul and forgive me for any negative words I may have said about her in the past for taking him to the end of the earth. And finally, I gave birth to your mother, God protect—'

‘Sitti?'

‘Yes, Hayaat?'

‘Can I make a suggestion? Why don't you name all your children and then say a general prayer? It would speed things up for you.'

‘Eh? Do not be silly.'

I sigh impatiently and wait for her prayer ramblings to finish. The problem with Sitti Zeynab is that when she mentions one person she remembers another and then says a prayer for them and their families.

‘How did you lose your home?' I quickly ask. I've heard the story countless times but it's worth hearing it again if only to distract her before she prays for half of the West Bank.

She throws her veil over her face and starts to moan. I gently lower her veil and she raises her eyes to the ceiling.

‘It was 1948. We had heard of the acts committed by the Irgun and the Haganah, Zionist organisations that terrorised villages and towns to frighten Palestinians into fleeing their homes. Every day we heard of more victims. We heard of the massacre at the nearby village of Deir Yassin. Can you imagine our fear? The armed forces came and drove us out. We took what we could carry on our backs. It never occurred to us that we would not return. We locked the doors. Imagine that . . .'

I'm hooked and beg her to continue.

‘The State of Israel was declared soon after. I didn't see my home again until after 1967.' She sighs dramatically, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘In 1950 they passed a new law. Anybody who was not in Israel on 1 September 1948 was declared a
present absentee
owner. Huh! Have your teachers taught you about that law?'

‘No.'

‘What they teach you, I don't understand! Well, the law is rotten.' She mutters a prayer under her breath and asks me to place a pillow behind her back. Despite the heat, she requests I drape a blanket over her shoulders. Snug and warm, she peers at Jihan and Tariq, lying comatose on the bed, and then sighs. ‘The law said that all our property could now be leased or sold.'

‘I hate them!'

Sitti Zeynab knits her eyebrows. ‘We Arabs say that the wound that bleeds inwardly is the most dangerous. So I do not hate, ya Hayaat. It will not return my land to me.'

I frown. ‘But it's not fair.'

She takes my chin in her hand and looks me in the eye. ‘I say this to you because you are the daughter of my daughter. Feel as you wish; that is your right. But you will soon find that even hatred will not give you comfort. It will only make
you
miserable.

‘It is a funny world, ya Hayaat. Oh, I know I am as old as a mountain, but I have learned some strange things along the way.' She pauses and then excitedly rummages through her box. ‘Here, look!'

‘What is it?'

‘The deeds to my land,' she whispers, as though letting me in on a special secret.

She scrunches up her wrinkled nose and her face suddenly erupts into anger. ‘My home was occupied! Stolen! So many times, ya Hayaat, did I wonder, after we fled, what happened to our belongings. Were our furniture and our clothes and my pots and pans being used? Or had it all been thrown out? I could never decide which was worse.

‘We lost our friends and family. There was no time for goodbye. We fled, thinking we would return days or weeks later. I remember the nights in the camp when we would all gather to listen to the radio, to the messages from people in other camps. Ooh! Our ears would perk up like rabbits', waiting for a message from somebody we knew.

‘We only ever heard a message from one person we knew: your grandfather's cousin. Your Khalto Ibtisam was a baby then. She had terrible wind but I was busy feeding Shams. Shams was sickly since the day she was born and always wanted to be on my breast. So your grandfather sat with me in our tent as I instructed him to put warm olive oil in Ibtisam's bellybutton.'

‘
What?
'

‘It is soothing.' Ignoring my dropped jaw, she continues: ‘As he slowly poured drops of the oil over Ibtisam's belly we heard the radio presenter say: “Abo Nasser Mahmoud Abdel-Razak says that he is safe with his family in Shatila camp in northern Lebanon.” Your grandfather was so shocked he forgot what he was doing and nearly poured the entire jar over Ibtisam!' Her heavy shoulders vibrate as she chuckles quietly. ‘Then he started to sob. I tell you, Hayaat, men have never, and will never, know how to do two things at once. I was crying too, but I still managed to breastfeed Shams. But your grandfather could not handle sobbing for Abo Nasser
and
attending to a wailing Ibtisam, who, by the way, was now as greasy as a marinated chicken. So he slipped Ibtisam into my arms and I tried to soothe her, feed Shams and cry for Abo Nasser all at the same time.'

‘When did you see your home again, Sitti?'

‘After the Six-Day War. Sometime in 1967 we returned. What was once my village was now classified as
West
Jerusalem. Many of the homes were occupied by Jewish families. Some parts had changed, so much so that they were unrecognisable to us. Your grandfather and I, along with Hany, Ibtisam, God protect—'

‘Yes, yes!' I interrupt impatiently. ‘God rest their souls and open the heavens to them and everyone they have ever encountered in their lives. So, about your return? What happened?'

‘I am old and forget where I put my slippers and when your mother's birthday is, but know this, ya Hayaat: that day is burned into my memory. I can remember every detail.

‘Saleem didn't come with us, for he was working in Kuwait then, so Hany and Ibtisam, who were now grown up, did. Hany was working for an Israeli family near Netanya so he spoke Hebrew and could translate. Your mother was seven and Sharif was nine but they were very naughty and so I left them in the care of a friend. We walked through the village and I
heard
the silence of my people, Hayaat. They were like ghosts, hovering around us. As we walked the wide village streets and narrow alleys that had not been destroyed, I felt like an orphan who, after many years, is reunited with her parents.

‘We walked past the site of the village mosque, which had also been used as a club. Houses for the new Jewish population had been built over it. I remembered how we congregated at the mosque's entrance during Eid-ul-Adha, parading ourselves in our new Eid clothes, the children comparing how much money they had been given from their families. Sheep would be slaughtered to commemorate Prophet Abraham's sacrifice and the feast would last through the evening.

‘Your grandfather wanted to pray two
raka'a
on the street but I would not let him. I was afraid it would cause trouble.

‘We ascended a small incline and saw our house. Time had stood still; the exterior had not changed. We arrived at the gate that led into the courtyard of our home. It was ajar so your grandfather pushed it open and we walked in. “Stay here,” your grandfather said, his voice shaky. But I refused. I had to see my home again. Hany and Ibtisam, each on one arm, steadied me. We walked over the tiles and approached the three steps to the front door. We were suddenly excited, exchanging memories, competing for Ibtisam's attention as we sought to bring to life the house she had been born in.

‘Then the front door flew open and standing there, on my doorstep, under
my
roof, was a short man with a heavy beard and curled sideburns. He wore a long black coat but his feet were bare. I think back about that now and it brings a smile to my face. The man must have dressed in such a hurry that he had forgotten to put shoes on. His bare feet peeked out from under his coat.'

As Sitti Zeynab speaks I feel myself there, perched in an almond tree in the courtyard, watching the scene unfold.

‘“Get off my property!” he ordered us, shooing us away. It was almost comical, Hayaat. We could not even converse with each other. Hany translated for us but it was clear from his tone that we were being ordered away.

‘Your grandfather gasped. I will never forget that sound, like the man's words were hands choking your grandfather's neck. And then the man's wife appeared next to him. Her hair was covered, like mine, with a white veil tied at the nape of her long white neck. Her eyes were sky blue. She was petite and was wearing a green apron that was stained with flour and oil. I am not a violent person,
ya habibti
, but I swear to God that at that moment I wanted to gouge her eyes out as I imagined her cooking in my kitchen, looking out of
my
window, using my stove and my shelves.

‘Hany rushed to your grandfather's side and Ibtisam gripped me tight. And then the woman spoke. “This is our land,” Hany translated. Her voice was shaky and nervous, like a hesitant child clutching onto a toy she knows does not belong to her. Later that night, when I lay waiting for sleep to come over me, I thought about words, theirs and ours, and how useless they can be.

‘“It is our land!” your grandfather declared in Arabic, taking the title deeds out of the pocket of his brown
galabiya
. These deeds I hold now. The man and woman looked at us, puzzled, and Hany translated your grandfather's words, as your grandfather adjusted the red and white
keffiyeh
over his head, something he did when he was nervous. I took the key out of my pocket and held it up for them to see. The man puffed his chest up and, turning to Hany, said that our title deeds meant nothing now. He said we had abandoned our home and the State of Israel had seized it. He said it was now their property and we were trespassing. I wanted to weep but could not allow them the satisfaction.

‘I tried to reason with them. “Hany, tell them this is our home,” I said. “Tell them we were forced out, but we were coming back. Ask them what right they have to our home!” The woman tried to explain. She said that she had lost her family in the Nazi concentration camps. Her mother, her father and her twin sister. They were gassed, Hayaat.

‘I was confused. I took a step forward, pleading with the woman to understand. Through Hany I responded: “I'm sorry for what happened to your family and your people, but why must we be punished?”

‘“The State of Israel has been declared,” the woman's husband said, “and the past is the past. So forget your home for it is now ours. Go to Egypt or Jordan or Syria. You have many countries from which to choose.” He actually looked pleased with himself when he made this suggestion. As though he was making a conciliatory gesture. “But this is our homeland!” Hany cried. “Would you ask an Englishman to move to America or Australia because they speak English in those countries too? Palestine is our home, not Egypt or Syria.” We kept arguing, Hany standing in the middle, until the man turned and went inside. He came back out with a gun. “Get off our land,” he ordered. I was pathetic, Hayaat. In my terror I screamed like a child and felt instant shame. Ibtisam pulled me towards the street, yelling out at your grandfather and Hany to move away.