Read Online Tasting the Sky by Ibtisam Barakat - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ibtisam Barakat
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rocks and found scorpions underneath them, tails standing up braided with poison. We plowed the earth with our fingers and eyes and searched sites of old fires, but we found no matches.
Then we remembered that our father once said he could start a fire by rubbing two flint stones against each other. Flint stones were everywhere, round and smooth like balls of dough. Basel broke one into two pieces. Its inside was purple and glittered as though it were a tiny piece of starry sky. He struck its two sides, but no sparks appeared.
None of us wanted to go back to Mother without a match or some fire. We trusted that God was going to help because Mother had asked Him to do so, and we needed His help. So we remained outside until the sun finally went to sleep, tucking itself under the thin sheet of the horizon.
The possibility of finding a match now seemed as distant as the sky above us. We walked back silently, shuffling our feet and wondering if God was unhappy with us. But suddenly, our prayer seemed to have been answered with more than the sparks we had asked for. We heard footsteps in the distance. A shadowy figure was walking on the gravel road. It was Father.
He brought us food, a large bottle of water, pockets full of melon seeds as a treatâand matches. We competed to show him the bullets in the thermos and the bed. âSoldiers must have combed the city house by house,â he said, shaking his head. After a long-awaited meal in the safety of our fatherâs presence, and a few rides on his back around the
room, we all lay on the mattresses like matchsticks, our laughter spreading like fire among us.
Â
With borrowed money, Father bought us more food, including a giant can of Nido Nestle powdered milk, which Mother struggled to keep away from our hungry hands. My brothers and I kept trying to reach into the can to eat the sweet powder, which tasted like candy.
In a short time, my parents cleaned the water-storage room. An elephant-size tanker then wobbled down the narrow gravel road and parked by our home. A man planted a giant pipe into the room and replenished the supply of water. Now we had enough to last us until December, when the rains would arrive.
Father found a job driving a truck for the Public Works Department. He said he was going to help repair roads destroyed by the war and to build new ones. Mother let us play outside as long as we remained within the reach of her voice. Once again, I could wait for my father at the end of the day. After dinner, I would wring my hands in delight and fear as he told us his favorite stories of buried treasures, taking us on endless thrilling journeys as he spoke. Our family seemed to be quickly returning to life as weâd known it. And now that Basel and Muhammad had decided I was old enough to play with them, I was happier than ever.
To celebrate their regained freedom, my brothers wanted to build a kite. The November wind would not stop them. Basel and Muhammad had learned how to make kites
from the Mahasreh boys before they stopped talking to us. Now, my brothers asked our father for reed stalks for the kiteâs skeleton. Alarmed, he said the kite might get us in trouble with the Mahasreh if it got tangled in their trees. But my brothers begged and pleaded, promising we would cause no trouble, until finally Father brought some common reeds and cut them into thin spokes for us.
Basel and Muhammad then begged Mother for dough. They needed glue and knew that sticky dough would work as a substitute. She gave them the dough and also some torn-up pieces of cloth that would become the kiteâs tail.
They measured the spokes, making certain they were of identical lengths, then wrapped a thread that turned the spokes into an eight-angled star with a perfect center. Using the dough, they glued the star to brown paper, attached streamers that gave the kite its whiskers, and added the tail. They would launch it in the morning.
The next day Basel held the
Then we remembered that our father once said he could start a fire by rubbing two flint stones against each other. Flint stones were everywhere, round and smooth like balls of dough. Basel broke one into two pieces. Its inside was purple and glittered as though it were a tiny piece of starry sky. He struck its two sides, but no sparks appeared.
None of us wanted to go back to Mother without a match or some fire. We trusted that God was going to help because Mother had asked Him to do so, and we needed His help. So we remained outside until the sun finally went to sleep, tucking itself under the thin sheet of the horizon.
The possibility of finding a match now seemed as distant as the sky above us. We walked back silently, shuffling our feet and wondering if God was unhappy with us. But suddenly, our prayer seemed to have been answered with more than the sparks we had asked for. We heard footsteps in the distance. A shadowy figure was walking on the gravel road. It was Father.
He brought us food, a large bottle of water, pockets full of melon seeds as a treatâand matches. We competed to show him the bullets in the thermos and the bed. âSoldiers must have combed the city house by house,â he said, shaking his head. After a long-awaited meal in the safety of our fatherâs presence, and a few rides on his back around the
room, we all lay on the mattresses like matchsticks, our laughter spreading like fire among us.
Â
With borrowed money, Father bought us more food, including a giant can of Nido Nestle powdered milk, which Mother struggled to keep away from our hungry hands. My brothers and I kept trying to reach into the can to eat the sweet powder, which tasted like candy.
In a short time, my parents cleaned the water-storage room. An elephant-size tanker then wobbled down the narrow gravel road and parked by our home. A man planted a giant pipe into the room and replenished the supply of water. Now we had enough to last us until December, when the rains would arrive.
Father found a job driving a truck for the Public Works Department. He said he was going to help repair roads destroyed by the war and to build new ones. Mother let us play outside as long as we remained within the reach of her voice. Once again, I could wait for my father at the end of the day. After dinner, I would wring my hands in delight and fear as he told us his favorite stories of buried treasures, taking us on endless thrilling journeys as he spoke. Our family seemed to be quickly returning to life as weâd known it. And now that Basel and Muhammad had decided I was old enough to play with them, I was happier than ever.
To celebrate their regained freedom, my brothers wanted to build a kite. The November wind would not stop them. Basel and Muhammad had learned how to make kites
from the Mahasreh boys before they stopped talking to us. Now, my brothers asked our father for reed stalks for the kiteâs skeleton. Alarmed, he said the kite might get us in trouble with the Mahasreh if it got tangled in their trees. But my brothers begged and pleaded, promising we would cause no trouble, until finally Father brought some common reeds and cut them into thin spokes for us.
Basel and Muhammad then begged Mother for dough. They needed glue and knew that sticky dough would work as a substitute. She gave them the dough and also some torn-up pieces of cloth that would become the kiteâs tail.
They measured the spokes, making certain they were of identical lengths, then wrapped a thread that turned the spokes into an eight-angled star with a perfect center. Using the dough, they glued the star to brown paper, attached streamers that gave the kite its whiskers, and added the tail. They would launch it in the morning.
The next day Basel held the
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