Where the Streets Had a Name Read Online Free Page A

time I was voted the best dancer in my class. I dance the
dabka
, a traditional folk dance, and when I dance I feel as though my feet have little wings on them. One step forward, bend at the knee, kick with the right foot, one step again.
    I also remember when Mohammed was born and Mama bit Baba’s arm during a contraction and drew blood. Baba was not allowed to so much as grimace.
    I remember the time I saw my first – well, my first and only – movie at a cinema. It was in Ramallah and it was not so hard to travel there then. The movie was called
The Princess Diaries
and I ate all my popcorn and drank my can of Pepsi within the first fifteen minutes.
    I remember Maysaa with her upside-down braid and buck teeth. I remember us in the playground showing the other girls some new
dabka
moves we’d learned in class. We formed a line and danced in a large circle around the playground, attracting new dancers as we sang:

    O, you who passed by and waved with the hand
You marked the secrets of love in my heart
I heard your voice when you talked
Like a bird singing on top of an olive tree.
    Maysaa’s tongue always protruded slightly from her mouth as she concentrated on her dance moves. I remember Maysaa but her memory makes me sick because I also remember the day everything changed.
    From that day I’ve been the one who occasionally wets the bed. I’m the one who is subjected to a
tsk tsk
, a depressed sigh and an open prayer every time my aunts, uncles and family friends gaze at my face. The women cup my chin in their hands, manufacture moistened eyes and exhale loudly, killing me with their garlic or cigarette breath. ‘Your beauty snatched away. Wasted. Oh my darling.’
    On the last night of the curfew, I wake with a start from a familiar nightmare. Jihan and Tariq are snoring gently beside me. I frantically lower my hand to the mattress. Thank God it’s dry this time.
    Maysaa’s face had filled my dreams. She’s like a faulty tap that won’t stop dripping. You don’t notice it until the stillness of the night. And then each drip is like a nail being hammered into your head.
    I rub the beads of sweat from my face. Sitti Zeynab is farting and snoring in blissful ignorance of my pain.
    It’s about three in the morning and I need fresh air. This is understandable given that I sleep in a room filled with enough gas to light a stove.
    I tiptoe out of my room, past my parents’ bedroom. Mohammed is fast asleep in between Mama and Baba. I slowly open the front door and peek out.
    A jeep is on patrol. I quickly shut the door and wait for it to pass. I wait. And wait. And when I’m sure that it’s passed I wait a little longer. Finally, I open the door a fraction again. Three soldiers are now roaming the narrow street. They’re strapped with machine guns. They suddenly stop. Two of them look younger than Jihan; the third is as old as my father. They huddle together and one of them passes the other two a cigarette each. They light up and lean back against a broken stone fence in front of the dilapidated building of apartment blocks directly across from my home.
    There’s a deathly ghost town kind of silence to the night. There are no cars or footsteps. No bats or owls or rustling of leaves. Perhaps bats and owls have curfew restrictions too. The soldiers’ voices crash against the silent night, like a bird smashing into a glass window.
    One of the soldiers starts to tell a story. I can’t help but stare and watch the transformation from soldier to human. His face lights up, vibrant and excitable. His gun jiggles up and down as he becomes more animated. The others roar with laughter.
    I’m entranced. I lean my face against the door frame and stare at the trio standing a mere six metres from me. For days I’ve only seen the faces of my family. I study the soldiers’ faces: the shape of their noses, the colour of their eyes, the contours of their