Balcony on the Moon Read online

  In the late afternoon after work, observing the endless changing images we see from our balcony becomes the perfect escape for Mona and me and our younger siblings. Mother writes ten balcony ground rules, all beginning with the word no: no climbing; no standing on chairs; no waving to friends, or anyone, even if they wave to you; no spitting on passersby; no shouting; no dropping shoes on people’s heads “accidentally”; no wearing skimpy clothes; no combing hair; no throwing things on the street; and no smiling at boys. Following these instructions makes us feel like we do not have a balcony. So we follow them only when Mother is watching.

  My younger brothers bring chairs and stand on them. They dangle strings as though fishing and are happy when the strings reach people’s heads or go all the way down and touch the sidewalk. They fly paper airplanes over the side of the balcony. They float balloons. They play a game in which one of them sneaks out of the apartment and goes down to the street so the other can drop a walnut or a piece of candy for him to catch inside a brown bag or small bucket. People passing by wonder what my brothers are doing.

  On the first floor of our building, there is a liquor store owned by a man named Zaghroot. Liquor stores are frequented by the many Christian residents. Ramallah Muslims who drink alcohol, however, try to hide their drinking; to make the shop appear innocent, Zaghroot has a big stand of chewing gum, KitKat, and Mars candy bars near the entrance.

  Next to the liquor store, there is a billiard hall also owned by Zaghroot. Once, two men darted out into the street holding pool cues like wooden swords as they clashed and swore. Mona and I dropped a trickle of water on their heads. They looked up and didn’t see us, but they stopped fighting.

  Across the street from us, there is a stretch of shops that includes Halweyyat Demashq, Damascus Sweets. Every hour the boy working there pours syrup on a huge tray of freshly baked kunafah, nearly everyone’s favorite pastry in the West Bank. When the boy plays popular songs loudly as he works, we hear the music clearly and hum along as we do our housework.

  Next to the pastry shop is the barber. His name is al-Hen. He looks like an ancient white-haired lion who chain-smokes. Every few hours, a man walks in to get his hair cut. Al-Hen drapes a sheet on the customer and flies around him with scissors and a comb. When the customer leaves, Mona and I give the haircut a score from one to ten. We wish this were a women’s hair salon so that we would see more appealing hair art.

  Farther down Main Street is Abu Iskandar’s stand. He sells shawerma sandwiches, the Arabic version of the Greek gyro. With only one small table and two chairs, people mostly stand on the curb to place their orders and eat. He also sells sheep- and goat-brain sandwiches. When he slices the brain, it is as soft as cream cheese, and he spreads it on pita bread. High school students joke that if you eat brain sandwiches you’ll do well on Tawjihi exams. I ate one once to see what a brain tastes like. It was like a bland cream.

  Kishshik, right next to the shawerma stand, is one of the many gold shops on Main Street. Gold shops are extremely popular because girls have the main part of their marriage dowry in jewelry. So each shop is filled with charms made of 24-karat gold—hearts, snakes, pears, flowers, girls’ names, zodiac signs, the name Allah, alphabet letters, crosses, and Qur’ans. There is also a one-inch-map charm of historic Palestine before it was renamed Israel. Many girls wear this map, and it is the only inch of Palestine they can take with them wherever they go. I do not have any pieces of gold since I lost the earrings Mother gave me in the first grade. I wear rubber or yarn bracelets and a piece of tape with drawings on it for a ring.

  The most famous shop on Main Street is Rukab, the ice cream shop where my brothers purchased ice cream to sell during the summer. It is so famous that Main Street is nicknamed Rukab Street.

  Right across from Rukab is one of the most annoying spots for girls and women in Ramallah. Here, many high school and college boys stand as though they are fashion runway commentators and evaluate out loud the clothes, shape, hair, height, and looks of every girl and woman who walks by. They whistle, shout praise, and throw love letters written on napkins or folded pieces of paper; sometimes they are mean if they do not like a girl. They act as though girls and women are there for their free entertainment.

  The number-one attraction for Mona and me is Cinema Dunia, the building next to ours. Mona and I are forbidden by our parents from entering the theater without one of them with us. My brothers, sister, and I are not allowed to enter the billiard hall at any time.

  When new movies arrive, Mona and I watch the man who stands on a ladder gluing the posters of actors and actresses to the wall: Najla’ Fathi, Su’ad Housni, Noor al-Sharif, Hassan Youssef, Mahmoud Yassin, Hussein Fahmi, and many others. The posters always say: Coming soon to this theater.

  But, Mona and I agree, we have a live theater below us. We have memorized details about many people who appear every day on the street going to work in the morning and then coming home in the afternoon or night. We can tell who they are by what they wear, how they tilt their heads, and how they carry their bags, hunch their backs, walk slowly, or hurry. We give them funny names based on their most pronounced characteristic. Abu Shaar Mkanfash, Father of Messy Hair; Mashyet Tawoos, Peacock Walk; Na-ameh Bkaaeb Aalee, Ostrich in High Heels; Um Ghurrah Taweeleh, Mother of Long-Hair Bangs.

  One of my favorite people on Main Street is Abdel Noor, the owner of a bookshop across from Rukab. He is an old man who always dresses in a three-piece suit. He wears thick glasses and has a gentle smile.

  Even though we are friends, he never asks about my father, my mother, my siblings, my age, my grades, my address, or my religion. I never ask him personal questions either. I know that he is Christian because there is a cross on the shop’s inner wall. Muslims in Ramallah put verses from the Qur’an on their walls instead.

  At first glance you would never notice that Abdel Noor’s right arm is paralyzed. I am curious about his arm, and his limp, too. I want to know if he was injured during a war. I am also curious whether he has children, because he appears older than my father, but he never mentions a son or a daughter.

  From the first visit I made to his bookshop, searching for stationery, special pens, fragrant erasers, and fun greeting cards to send to my pen pals, Abdel Noor and I have spoken about art, books, news, and Ramallah history, always in humor. Often he surprises me with special publications he saves for me.

  Dreams

  “Marhabah! Hello!” I say to Abdel Noor as I offer him the tiny bag of freshly roasted almonds I bought for him to say thank you for the time he spends talking with me about the world.

  “Ahlain, two welcomes,” he responds, with the common reply to my greeting.

  Abdel Noor has all three West Bank daily newspapers in front of him. Their names are Al-Quds, Arabic for Jerusalem; Al-Shaab, the people; and Al-Fajr, the dawn. I pick up one and skim a few lines from the front page. He volunteers the headline topics: “The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, American hostages in Iran, civil war in Lebanon, and more militant settlements on the West Bank … I will stop here. One more thing and it is doomsday,” he says.

  Then he reaches into his drawer under the counter, pulls out a magazine, and sets it on the glass case. He puts his hand on the cover, trying to hide it and surprise me, but I know instantly.

  “Al-Arabi!” I cheer. I have read old issues of this magazine that people had saved for two decades, dating back to years before the closure of borders that followed the wars. The closures prevented all publications printed in the Arab world, including books, magazines, and newspapers, from reaching us in the West Bank.

  “You can keep it for three days! A friend who traveled to Jordan brought it back to me as a gift, and I have not read all of it yet.”

  I promptly write down the day, the hour, and the minute on a piece of paper and next to it print: Ittifaq, agreed! I sign my name. The clock is now ticking.

  On the street, at home, on the balcony, in bed, I read and read about the diverse geography o
f the Arab world: al-Rubuaa al-Khalee, the Empty Quarter, the world’s largest desert, located between four Arab countries; Nahr al-Assi, the Orontes River, in Lebanon, which flows in the opposite direction of other rivers in the Middle East; Jabal al-Sheikh, Mount Hermon, between Syria and Lebanon, which has snowcaps all year round. The essays and full-page photographs also explore the ethnic composition of the Arab world, which is as rich and rooted in ancient history as the geography is. I am struck by a photograph of two men rubbing noses. The caption explains it is the way people greet each other in several nomadic North African desert tribes called al-Tawareq, where men veil their faces and women do not.

  I absorb every word as if I were the writer of each story. I imagine my name in print under an essay about Ramallah, describing the places, people, and events I see around me. The writers of Al-Arabi must be paid for their writing; maybe I could be, too.

  I read the magazine in two days, not three, and having filled a notebook of thoughts related to its content, I now study the inside cover information: it is an illustrated monthly cultural magazine, founded in 1958, directed to every reader in the Arab world and every reader of Arabic in the world. Under that, I gaze at the photograph of its current editor, Ahmad Baha’ al-Din. I copy his address, located next to an invitation for readers to send him letters.

  That very moment, I begin composing my letter to Mr. Baha’ al-Din. First I praise the content of the magazine and the striking photographs. I write that the English word magazine is taken from the Arabic word makhzan, storehouse, and Al-Arabi is a storehouse of exceptional information.

  Then I offer to become a correspondent from a closed area, reasoning that Al-Arabi writers and photographers cannot enter the West Bank where I live. I could write an article about an imaginary tour of Ramallah and Jerusalem.

  I also introduce myself to Mr. Baha’ al-Din and give the reason I am eager to contribute to Al-Arabi. I talk about my people being refugees in our own home, about feeling the world does not see us, and how all the loss we have been experiencing makes us feel that we always have to be ready to lose more. Because I know nothing about Mr. Baha’ al-Din, I find myself writing openly to him.

  I tell him I will complete high school next year, but I can only go to college if I pass the Tawjihi exam and get a scholarship. Even with that, there will be many expenses. My parents cannot afford to help me, so I must work. If I could, I would choose to be a writer because it is my number-one love. I sign my letter.

  After I return the magazine to Abdel Noor, I hurry to the post office and ask if there is a way to send a letter from the West Bank to Kuwait. Amal, the only woman who works at the Ramallah post office, says that there is, but it would be indirect, not guaranteed, and costly. “A response to a letter mailed this way is not likely,” she warns.

  “I would like to try, no matter how uncertain the outcome,” I say.

  Amal details the necessary steps: Address the envelope and place it inside another larger envelope addressed to the postmaster in England. Also place sufficient international postage stamps and a short letter inside the larger envelope requesting that the British postmaster use the stamps to mail the letter to Kuwait, so it will appear as if it came directly from Europe.

  “Remember,” she warns, “on the return address you give to the Arabs you are writing to, do not write the word Israel; the Arabs will become upset to see it and might not write back. For them Israel is a painful name. And do not have the Arab sender write the name Palestine on the coming letter either; the Israelis will become upset to see Palestine, and the letter will not be delivered. For them the name Palestine is painful. Write nothing for a country, maybe just The West Bank or The Holy Land, then wait and see. Please let me know if it works.”

  I follow the directions and mail the letter. When I tell Abdel Noor, he says it will be magnificent if Mr. Baha’ al-Din invites me to send articles to publish in Al-Arabi for everyone in the Arab world to read.

  I raise my hands to the sky with a smile and a hopeful prayer.

  Relative

  The first week of school I make a promise to myself:

  Every day and every hour I shall remember that I cannot stop people from fighting and dying, and cannot do anything about Iraq and Iran, the American hostages, Lebanon, the civil war and the Palestinian camps, the PLO, Ireland, Spain, Africa, Russia, America, and the Israeli settlers, but I can study for Tawjihi, and I will do that.

  I also try to avoid the new tension in our house. Muhammad still doesn’t want to go back to school, preferring to work odd jobs on construction sites. “You once liked reading books, taught me what you learned, and wanted to compete with me for good grades. What happened to make you avoid finishing high school?” I press him. He does not want to tell me and changes the subject.

  And Mother has asked Father to help in the kitchen. “You can drive a truck and build a house, but cannot fry an egg?” she challenges him.

  He raises his eyebrows, then tries cooking. But he mixes everything up so that Mother has to step in to save the meal.

  “Why do I have to be your Boxer?” she complains.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Boxer, the workhorse from Animal Farm,” she replies impatiently.

  Father has never heard of Animal Farm, which is a required text for both Mother and me this year, so I explain it to him. Father finally learns to fry an egg and even prepare an omelet and simple meals for himself. Rather than feeling neglected by Mother, he is proud to arrange his food on a tray and carry it to the balcony to eat and watch people. He looks like he is at a restaurant.

  “I knew you could do it,” Mother teases him. She feels a triumph and whispers to me that having a husband is like having an extra child; the woman has to go on teaching him how to take care of himself.

  * * *

  One day when I am in math class scribbling numbers, there is a knock on the door and then Sitt Salwa, the principal, enters. Her gaze scans the room from right to left. When it reaches my seat, our eyes meet. She beckons: Come with me! I quickly weave between the seats and backpacks on the floor. Usually only teachers speak to students unless it is something urgent. That is why I am especially alarmed to have been summoned by the principal.

  Following Sitt Salwa to her office, I am certain that no one envies me. Aloof and demanding, our principal makes her daily announcements at the top of the stone stairs facing the school’s playground, where we gather in the morning. There, she delivers only serious news: the beginning and ending dates of holidays; a change of teachers; the immediate canceling of the school day, which happens unexpectedly because of clashes between demonstrators and the army that ended in a curfew; and, most anxiety-provoking, the unfolding news about how to prepare for the Tawjihi exams.

  When Sitt Salwa and I reach her office, she explains, “One of your relatives is waiting on the playground. You may be excused for the day if needed.” She then puts on her reading glasses, pulls a stack of papers close, and motions for me to go.

  That a member of my family is on the playground at this early hour of the school day is the last news I want. Who might be there, and why? The principal used the masculine noun, so I conclude that the person is not my mother. I ask if the person is wearing a hatta wa egal, because my father does not leave the house without his traditional head cover.

  “No,” she replies without looking at me.

  Now I wonder if my father has had an accident and someone is here to tell me. This is my biggest fear.

  “Don’t expect the worst!” the principal suddenly says as she notices my reluctance to go to the playground. “Roohee shoofee shoo sayer. Allah maa-ek,” she says. Go find out the news. May Allah be with you!

  I am surprised by the gentleness of her voice and think that perhaps she cannot let many girls see this side of her. Encouraged by her compassion, I venture out.

  On top of the steps, from where Sitt Salwa delivers her daily speeches, I look across the playground. There are three palm trees, and
a man is waiting near the tallest one. He is wearing a bright white shirt under his suit jacket. Moving closer, I am certain I have never seen him before.

  “You are here to see me?” I ask.

  “Let me first say that we have not met before. Your relative in Kuwait requested that I carry an amana, a gift, for you. He wanted to make certain that you receive it by hand.”

  “My relative in Kuwait?” I reply, as though I’m in a dream and do not understand the story. But only a few seconds later, I am thrilled because I have figured it out.

  “You are speaking of Ahmad Baha’ al-Din? The famous writer?” I ask.

  “Baha’ is proud of you,” the stranger says. “He praises you as an excellent young writer. Writing must run in the family!”

  I accept the praise gratefully. The stranger then continues his dreamlike news: “A few days ago, Baha’ and I met at a gathering for Arab thinkers in Jordan. He knew that I would be coming home to the West Bank. My name is Munther Salah. I am the president of al-Najah National University in the city of Nablus.”

  I nod as though I’ve known Mr. Baha’ al-Din all my life and he is my actual relative. Dr. Salah reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rolled envelope. “For you from Baha’,” he says. “A letter from Baha’ will follow. I dropped it off in the mailbox at the Allenby Bridge separating the East and West Banks. The extensive searches and questioning that happen there make it impossible to carry a letter to anyone. But expect to get it maybe in ten days, maybe in ten weeks. I certainly hope it arrives soon.”

  “If I walk there and rest every five minutes, I would get there in less than ten days,” I protest.

  Dr. Salah smiles. “Do not be surprised if the letter arrives having been opened,” he says. “Anything before I go?”

  “Will you see Mr. Baha’ al-Din again soon?”

  “Perhaps next year, if I can get permission from the Israeli authorities. If you need any help, however, I have promised Baha’ that I will help you to the best of my ability. Please do not hesitate to contact me.” Dr. Salah then gives me his phone number on a piece of paper.