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

on television!’
    â€˜And that’s how you’ll become the first Palestinian lion tamer?’ He doubles over with an exaggerated laugh and then kicks the pebble, forcing me to retrieve it from a tricky angle in the gutter.
    â€˜I’ll obviously study for the position,’ I say, managing to kick the pebble a short distance.
    â€˜Study where? There are no courses.’
    I stop in front of him, placing my hands furiously on my hips. ‘You donkey, that’s what universities are for!’
    â€˜Well the animals won’t be able to get through the checkpoints. Can you imagine an elephant begging a soldier to let him pass? Your idea is stupid. And you’re not such an animal-loving person after all. You just called me a donkey!’
    â€˜Oh, shut up. Anyway, my idea’s not stupid! I’ll write to people around the world and they’ll send the animals and the Israelis will say yes.’
    â€˜Why?’ he asks, a sneer on his face. ‘Because they like animals more than they like us?’
    I shrug my shoulders. ‘They’ll say yes. And I’ll open the first zoo without cages. And it’ll be open for everybody! Except you!’
    He gives me an angry look. ‘Stop dreaming stupid dreams.’
    â€˜It’s not a stupid dream!’
    â€˜Yes it is!’
    We’ve suddenly forgotten all about the pebble.
    â€˜Well what do you want to be then? Huh?’
    He frowns. ‘What’s the point of wanting to be anything?’
    I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. ‘Are you saying you wouldn’t want to be a doctor? A shop owner? A truck driver? A teacher?’
    â€˜A teacher? Hayaat, you must be crazy! Imagine if I had to teach somebody like me. I would have a nervous breakdown the way Ostaz Shady nearly did after I superglued his briefcase closed. And a doctor? Too much blood. A shop owner? People are poor, so what’s the point? A truck driver? Why? So it can get confiscated like Abdullah’s did? Or so I can spend every day from checkpoint to roadblock? No thank you. I don’t dream stupid dreams, Hayaat.’
    For a moment I don’t say anything. Then, after I swallow my anger, I stare into his eyes. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I whisper.
    He holds my stare and then grins. ‘Does wanting to be a soccer player count?’
    I offer him a shrug. ‘Maybe.’
    â€˜Well that’s what I want to be. And when your cageless zoo idea fails, you can always come to me and I’ll employ you as my personal assistant. You can manage my fan mail and advertising contracts.’
    I dive at him but he’s too quick, stepping to the side and erupting into a fit of laughter.
    We press on towards the main centre of Bethlehem. The marketplace is already noisy and chaotic, even at this early hour. We dodge the taxis and cars that race through the streets, somehow negotiating their way through pedestrians, fruit stands, ambling donkeys, broken footpaths and redundant traffic islands. Shop owners stand outside their shops, smoking as they lean against their doors, surveying the scene with bored expressions on their faces. Children run after their mothers and fathers, carrying shopping bags and cartons of fruit and vegetables. We run in front of an overcrowded bus and wave at the passengers. We run past the Armenian Convent and down Milk Grotto Street with its numerous souvenir shops selling silver jewellery and hand-made crucifixes, medals, rosaries and boxes carved in olive wood and mother-of-pearl. We run past restaurants, cafes and bars, where men sit at the entrances haggling and gossiping over small cups of Turkish coffee. Finally we reach Manger Square. We spend a couple of moments trying to catch our breath. I lean my head in between my legs and inhale slowly.
    Now we’re here I decide I want to pay a quick visit to the Mosque of Caliph Omar, which stands at the edge of Manger Square.
    Samy is