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Authors: Ibtisam Barakat
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our belongings.
Stuttering the name of God, Mother walked to the green iron door, its two sides sealed at the center with a large locked bolt. She pushed the key into it and pressed. But the key did not move, and when she tried to pull it out, she could not. The key was stuck. âThe lock needs to be oiled,â she muttered. Where would she find oil?
Our house stood on top of a hill. On three sides there was nothing. On the fourth lived the Mahasreh, a cluster of related families who had moved to Ramallah upon the takeover of their town, Beit Mahseer, in the war of 1948. They were aloof and kept to themselves.
The Mahasreh house closest to us was half a mile away. We could not see the rest of their dwellings from where we
stood because they lined the stretch of road that connected our house to the Ramallah-Nablus road. To reach the road, we always cut through the Mahasreh area going and coming, and that annoyed them. They accused us of picking cherries, grapes, or figs from the trees and vines in their yards. We dreaded asking the Mahasreh for anything. But tonight, our only hope was to knock at one of their doors.
And although they did not say they were happy to see us again, they gave us a bottle cap filled with olive oil. Mother was grateful.
She put the oil on the key and waited till it slowly spread inside the bolt. Then she tried to turn the keyâand this time it moved. She gave the two sides of the door a big push, and they flew wide open like welcoming arms.
Things in our house seemed to be exactly the way we had left them. To the right, the brown sewing machine was still nestled in one corner, the green bed in another. The red-and-yellow straw carpet covered the center of the room, and the honey-colored Formica cupboard divided the space into a living room and kitchen. But when Mother lifted the sky-blue thermos that sat on the tiny kitchen table, she gasped. She pointed to a hole that a bullet had torn in its base. The hole was large enough to stick my finger inside. âSomeone shot into our house through the window,â Mother announced. Suddenly, our home no longer felt safe.
And the thermos was dear to Mother. She had bought it with money she earned from months of sewing. It had helped her save on kerosene by keeping water hot so she did
not have to boil more water every time she needed to mix it with milk powder. The bullet had entered the base of the thermos, left it, and settled inside the kitchen wall.
Mother took the thermos and went outside. We leapt after her and watched as she dipped cupfuls of filthy water into the thermos. Had the glass lining been ruined? We held our breaths as we waited for water drops to fall. But the thermos did not leak. It held water the way a heart holds a secret. We cheered. And Mother smiled.
A few moments later, we found another bullet, which had dug a hole through the headboard of the only bed in the room. It was buried inside the headboardâs two metal layers. The slightest move made it rattle noisily. Every night before the war, my brothers and I had vied to sleep in that bed. We had settled on taking turns. Now we could not remember whose turn it had been on the day we left. From that night on, however, we pulled the mattress off the bed frame. No matter whose turn it was, we would sleep on the ground.
Searching the room for more bullets, we realized that we had no matches to light the kerosene lamp or the three-legged stove. Darkness quickly set in. How could we go to our neighbors again? So Mother asked us to sit quietly. Throughout the long night, I listened to the sound of her anxious steps on the tile as she moved back and forth between the door and the window.
When the sun rose the next day, my brothers and I set out to search for matchsticks in the yard, on the hillsides, and on the road. Mother raised her hands and asked Allah to guide our steps. We found handfuls of intact bullets and
filled our pockets with empty cartridges. We flipped
Stuttering the name of God, Mother walked to the green iron door, its two sides sealed at the center with a large locked bolt. She pushed the key into it and pressed. But the key did not move, and when she tried to pull it out, she could not. The key was stuck. âThe lock needs to be oiled,â she muttered. Where would she find oil?
Our house stood on top of a hill. On three sides there was nothing. On the fourth lived the Mahasreh, a cluster of related families who had moved to Ramallah upon the takeover of their town, Beit Mahseer, in the war of 1948. They were aloof and kept to themselves.
The Mahasreh house closest to us was half a mile away. We could not see the rest of their dwellings from where we
stood because they lined the stretch of road that connected our house to the Ramallah-Nablus road. To reach the road, we always cut through the Mahasreh area going and coming, and that annoyed them. They accused us of picking cherries, grapes, or figs from the trees and vines in their yards. We dreaded asking the Mahasreh for anything. But tonight, our only hope was to knock at one of their doors.
And although they did not say they were happy to see us again, they gave us a bottle cap filled with olive oil. Mother was grateful.
She put the oil on the key and waited till it slowly spread inside the bolt. Then she tried to turn the keyâand this time it moved. She gave the two sides of the door a big push, and they flew wide open like welcoming arms.
Things in our house seemed to be exactly the way we had left them. To the right, the brown sewing machine was still nestled in one corner, the green bed in another. The red-and-yellow straw carpet covered the center of the room, and the honey-colored Formica cupboard divided the space into a living room and kitchen. But when Mother lifted the sky-blue thermos that sat on the tiny kitchen table, she gasped. She pointed to a hole that a bullet had torn in its base. The hole was large enough to stick my finger inside. âSomeone shot into our house through the window,â Mother announced. Suddenly, our home no longer felt safe.
And the thermos was dear to Mother. She had bought it with money she earned from months of sewing. It had helped her save on kerosene by keeping water hot so she did
not have to boil more water every time she needed to mix it with milk powder. The bullet had entered the base of the thermos, left it, and settled inside the kitchen wall.
Mother took the thermos and went outside. We leapt after her and watched as she dipped cupfuls of filthy water into the thermos. Had the glass lining been ruined? We held our breaths as we waited for water drops to fall. But the thermos did not leak. It held water the way a heart holds a secret. We cheered. And Mother smiled.
A few moments later, we found another bullet, which had dug a hole through the headboard of the only bed in the room. It was buried inside the headboardâs two metal layers. The slightest move made it rattle noisily. Every night before the war, my brothers and I had vied to sleep in that bed. We had settled on taking turns. Now we could not remember whose turn it had been on the day we left. From that night on, however, we pulled the mattress off the bed frame. No matter whose turn it was, we would sleep on the ground.
Searching the room for more bullets, we realized that we had no matches to light the kerosene lamp or the three-legged stove. Darkness quickly set in. How could we go to our neighbors again? So Mother asked us to sit quietly. Throughout the long night, I listened to the sound of her anxious steps on the tile as she moved back and forth between the door and the window.
When the sun rose the next day, my brothers and I set out to search for matchsticks in the yard, on the hillsides, and on the road. Mother raised her hands and asked Allah to guide our steps. We found handfuls of intact bullets and
filled our pockets with empty cartridges. We flipped
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