Read Online Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah - Free Book Online

the journey. My birth certificate is folded in an envelope, secured in the front pocket of my bag.
    I go to bed early. I dream of tanks chasing me down the streets of Jerusalem. I dream I’ve been buried alive. Maysaa scoops dirt over me but I can’t scream because my mouth is full of rocks and compost. I wake up in a cold sweat. I look over at Sitti Zeynab’s empty bed and realise just how much I need her. I force myself to close my eyes and replay the words of a pop song in my head until I fall asleep.

Chapter SEVEN

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    I leave the house early the next morning. I write Jihan a note telling her I’ve gone to school. It’s still early and she lies snoring beside Tariq on the bed. None of us even contemplated sleeping in Sitti Zeynab’s empty bed.
    Samy and I have no idea how to get to Jerusalem and so we agree to head to the main service taxi rank at Manger Square.
    Bethlehem hasn’t fully woken yet. Most of the tourists with their astonished and wonder-filled eyes who walk the stone streets of the holy town are probably still snuggled fast asleep in their hotel beds. They come in their jeans, walking shoes, T-shirts and baseball caps. Sports bags perched on their backs, cameras dangling off straps around their necks, they’re eager to experience the place where Jesus was born. Samy and I watch them sometimes as they listen eagerly to their Palestinian tour guides who happily explain the history behind the Church of the Nativity and lead them to souvenir shops where they can purchase mugs, T-shirts, paintings or mouse pads with prints of the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus (all at a special commission to the tour guides, Baba says).
    Samy and I enjoy talking to the tourists. They’re either overwhelmed (in which case we feel sorry for them and will shoo the beggars and child merchants away) or excited (in which case we pose in photos with them and practise our English skills on them).
    As we’re walking we overhear two men in loud conversation. Samy grins at me and cries out to them: ‘We speak London too!’
    Laughing, I grab Samy’s arm and pull him away.
    â€˜People don’t speak London, silly!’ I say.
    â€˜Well what was that then?’
    â€˜It’s an
English
accent. They were speaking
English
.’
    â€˜London, English, it’s the same thing.’
    â€˜You need to stop sleeping in Ostaza Mariam’s classes.’
    â€˜Okay, teacher’s pet.’
    We start to kick a smooth grey pebble, taking turns in passing it to each other as we walk along the street. Then we get into another argument, which we often do. It all starts when I tell Samy that I want to be a vet and zoo operator when I grow up. He snorts and then asks me what kind of zoo.
    â€˜A zoo where people can walk around with the animals.’
    This seems to amuse him very much. ‘You can’t have a zoo without cages. People would get eaten by the animals.’
    â€˜No they wouldn’t. I would train the animals to be gentle.’
    â€˜You can’t tame a lion to take a stroll with a human. Don’t be ridiculous.’
    â€˜You can so!’ I shout, infuriated by his cynicism. ‘There are places in the world where people observe animals close up! They’re called
safaris
.’
    â€˜Safaris? It’s
sarafis
, silly.’
    â€˜It is not.’
    â€˜Yes it is.’
    â€˜Is not.’
    â€˜Is too.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Yes.
Sarafi! Sarafi! Sarafi!
’
    â€˜Oh, shut up.’
    â€˜Anyway, what are you talking about? And stop talking as though you have any idea what’s out in the world. You’ve never even seen a lion. Or a monkey. Not even a camel. And we’re in the Middle East, for God’s sake!’
    I kick the pebble hard and far, sending him running to kick it further. The rule is that the first person to miss the next kick loses. And neither one of us likes to lose.
    â€˜I’ve seen them