Balcony on the Moon Read online

  Having finished his mission, he turns around and exits through the huge metal gate that separates my school from the street.

  As I return to math class, I see Sitt Salwa standing by the door of her office. I say that all is well but I am requested at home.

  She nods and comments, “So this important man is a relative of yours!” Her voice speaks the kind of respect I wish were extended daily to all people, especially teenagers and children.

  Math is ending. I clutch my schoolbag, ready to go. Everyone asks why the principal took me to her office. “One atom of mascara is seen on one of my eyelashes, and I need to go home and wash it for the rest of the day,” I joke. When pressed further I announce, “I must go home because I have learned everything there is to know.”

  Everyone laughs.

  I assure my classmates that no one died and no one was born today in my family, because I want to make certain that none of the girls stop by our home to offer condolences or congratulations after school later.

  In my heart, however, I am feeling great wonder: A man who is the president of a university and whom the principal thinks is important came to give me a gift! And someone who is a famous writer, to whom I wrote a letter only a month ago, responds to me by sending a gift!

  One claimed to the other that he is my relative. The other claimed to the principal that he is my relative. What a giant lesson on the theory of relativity!

  * * *

  At Ramallah Club, the restaurant nearest to my school, I find a perfectly hidden table and chair under a big jasmine bush profuse with white blossoms. I sit and order a cup of mint tea. When the waiter leaves I open my gift.

  What I see leaves me mesmerized: a roll of money. The word Kuwait is printed on the top banknotes. Under the Kuwaiti bills I discover Jordanian money that I recognize because in the West Bank we use the green Jordanian dinar as well as the red Israeli lira. I also find American dollars and, under the dollars, British pounds.

  I look around to see if anyone notices what I am holding in my hands, but the restaurant is empty at this time of day.

  Overwhelmed with the unexpected gift, and uncertain what to do next, I begin writing all that comes to mind in my math notebook until I’ve filled the blank pages. When I’m done, I rub my hands on the money, wondering how many and whose fingerprints I am touching and in what countries the money circulated before reaching me.

  I decide not to go home until school is over, so I run to Abdel Noor’s shop to share the news with him.

  “No school today?” Abdel Noor says, glancing at my uniform.

  “There is. But I had to leave early. How are you?”

  “Pondering the world,” he says, smiling.

  “May I add a happy piece of news that perhaps can change your view of the world for one minute?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Remember that letter I wrote to the editor of Al-Arabi magazine?”

  “Of course!”

  “I received the reply today.”

  “Alf mabrook, a thousand congratulations,” he cheers.

  “The editor sent me a gift, and a letter from him is on the way.”

  I show Abdel Noor the money. He gasps and adjusts his thick glasses to make certain that what he sees is right. “All of this is a gift! And in Kuwaiti cash?”

  “Not only Kuwaiti.” I show him the other bills.

  He praises the Virgin Mary, then holds out his left hand to shake my right hand, his eyes shining with friendship. If his right arm were not paralyzed, he might have clapped and cheered in excitement. “Promise me you will go on writing no matter what the editor’s response is to your offer to write articles for the magazine,” he encourages.

  “I promise, but only if you sell me the best paper, good stickers to put on my envelopes, and a Parker fountain pen. I think I can now afford one.”

  “Parker! It is the pen of a real writer. To write with it, one must slow down as though each word is meant for eternity,” he says, mimicking the pen’s television advertisement. “The Parkers are parked over here with different-colored ink jars, too, anytime you want to price them.”

  Now, judging by the clock on the bookshop’s wall, half an hour remains until the school day is over. I must leave right away to make sure my classmates will not see me still in my uniform and wonder what I have been doing.

  Walking home, I am torn between a great rush of happiness when I think of the moment I opened my gift, and the need to answer one immediate question: where to hide the money to keep it safe. I do not want to tell my family, because Father would say, “Let’s spend it now and Allah will send you more for your college expenses.” Mother would go on and on for a whole day complaining about how she suffers, so that I would give the money to her to buy a washer and dryer, or something to show off in front of her friends, rather than keep the money for my college tuition.

  With every step I consider a different possibility for where to hide it. Then as I pass by a fabric shop, an answer becomes clear in my mind.

  * * *

  For three days, the money has been inside a ball of orange yarn that I unraveled from a sweater that had holes in the elbows. The afternoon I arrived with the money in my pocket, I announced that I needed a rest from books and using my mind, and wanted to do something with my hands. I then pulled out the sweater and unraveled it. I placed my treasure in the center and wrapped the yarn around it. When I was done, I knitted new rows so it would look like I was beginning a winter scarf. Planting the two needles in the sides like antennas, I left it on the table. Mother admired the speed with which I completed the task. What a relief!

  This, however, is only temporarily safe. Hour after hour, when not imagining how this gift can change my life, I am thinking that I need a permanent hiding place for the money.

  I decide I should see about putting it in a bank, although my parents do not deal with one and I have no knowledge of how to start. But I tell myself if my life is to be different from my parents’, I must do something they have not done before.

  There are no Palestinian or Islamic banks in Ramallah. There are only two Israeli banks: Leumi and Discount. I stand across the street from Leumi to watch the entrance and see who goes in and out. I am going to be late for school, but my investigation is more important. After fifteen minutes I realize that not one woman has walked in, and certainly no girls. A few Palestinian men dressed in business suits enter for a short time, then leave.

  Do they only speak Hebrew inside? I wonder. Certainly someone there will speak Arabic or English since the bank is in Ramallah. So I walk in.

  Employees sit behind glass panels. People quietly carry money in and out, sign papers, and converse in whispers. It is so solemn it doesn’t seem like the bank is part of bustling Ramallah.

  In the middle of the reception area, a man notices me and comes to ask how he may be of assistance. He thinks I am lost and looking for directions. He starts to lead me outside, but I tell him I have some questions about money.

  “Are you seeking information for a school paper?” He is now impatient.

  “I want to see if I can open an account.”

  “You must be of a certain age to open one.”

  “I am seventeen.”

  “Do any of your relatives have an account with us?”

  “No.”

  “You have funds for this?”

  I nod.

  He enters a small glass booth sectioned off from the lobby and speaks to the employee sitting there. The employee comes toward me. I see that he is extremely thin. His hair is blond and his skin is so light it is almost transparent.

  “Reymon,” he says, introducing himself, and guides me to his office. I take the seat across the desk from him.

  I explain that a relative of mine in Kuwait has sent me money to help with my education. I want to deposit some of it and take out a little bit at a time.

  “Good decision,” he replies.

  He explains that he might be able to open a savings accou
nt for me. But since I am only seventeen, I would need my father’s co-signature.

  “My father does not have a savings account himself,” I protest. “I am old enough!”

  Reymon is not certain that he can proceed.

  “I will be twenty in three years, and thirty in thirteen,” I joke quietly.

  He smiles.

  “If the bank requires more than my signature, I cannot continue,” I say as I get up to leave.

  Reymon stops me and goes to talk to his supervisor. When he returns he says, “We will open an account for you.”

  He takes my ID card and types up a long sheet of paper with pink, yellow, and green carbon copies, saying that a minimum amount is required to keep the account open. Fees apply to various transactions, and all of it is recorded and explained on the papers he hands to me.

  “Any questions?” Reymon smiles again as he taps gently on his desk with the back of his pen.

  “Can I bring the money during recess time around noon?” I don’t want to unravel the ball of yarn in front of him.

  “Yes, we can complete the transaction then.”

  “What if I want all my money at once someday?”

  “You may have it back with the same ease you brought it in.”

  Reymon and I shake hands.

  I run to school and the principal stops me to ask why I am late.

  “I am not feeling well, but I made every effort to make it even though I am late.”

  She motions for me to go to class.

  In my mind I say, I am not feeling well. I am feeling great!

  During recess, after everyone is gone, I stay in class and unwind my yarn ball to set the money free. I also take out the list of currency exchange values that Reymon gave to me. A simple calculation to know how a Kuwaiti dinar, a British pound, and an American dollar compare to an Israeli lira and a Jordanian dinar tells me that Mr. Baha’ al-Din sent the equivalent of more than seven hundred US dollars.

  * * *

  I leave school, telling the principal I should have stayed home that day. She tells me to rest and get better quickly. I run to the bank and deposit the money in my new account, except for one hundred Jordanian dananeer. Although I do not know what I can do with this sum, I am certain I could buy the entire postcard tree at Abdel Noor’s shop if I chose to.

  First, however, I must give away a portion of my gift as zakat, alms, because in Islam when you receive income or wealth you must give some away in gratitude. I learned this from my father, who gives away a tiny amount of his income to someone in need every year. He believes that Allah blesses what remains.

  There is a panhandler who wears black, covering herself from head to toe in the color that represents mourning her poverty and her shame of having to beg on the streets, and she comes to mind for today’s zakat. She has an infant whose face is coated with dust and whose clothes are rags. She sits on the ground by al-Manara Circle, where there is a big sculpture of lions and where cars exit in six different directions. It is the busiest spot in the city, with fumes, dirt, and noise all day long—and it’s the least friendly place for an infant.

  I buy a small can of powdered milk and a plastic blow-up lion toy for the baby. If he worries about the lion sculptures, he can hold his own and not feel afraid. When I put the toy and can in the woman’s hand with some money, she explodes in gratitude and blessings: “Allah yateekee.” May Allah compensate you. I am the one who is grateful, imagining how much happier the baby will be playing with a toy.

  Then there is a boy who always sits near them with a wooden box filled with Kiwi polish and black brushes for cleaning and shining shoes. His shoes have holes, and his face and hair are not clean. His clothes are covered with brown and black polish. He begs the better-dressed men who pass by him to give him a few minutes to clean their shoes. Anytime I see a boyajee, shoe-cleaning boy, my heart sinks and I want him to be in school or somewhere else with other children.

  No woman ever asks a boyajee to shine her shoes while she stands reading the newspaper or chatting with friends like men do. So I slow down without stopping and put one dinar in the boy’s box. He opens his eyes wide, not knowing whether he can offer to clean my shoes or not. “This is for you to clean your own shoes and shine them,” I say. He looks at his feet and pats his shoes, giving them a kiss, grinning with excited child cheer.

  For my last zakat, I go with my father on the weekend to the hesbeh, the main farmers’ market, in Upper Ramallah. The carts carrying every kind of fruit and vegetable have colors beyond any painter’s dream. The canvas of the ground under our feet, however, is nothing but a sheet of mud. The hesbeh is crowded, and when we are done and away from the market, I tell Father that while he was shopping, I found fifty Jordanian dananeer, rolled up like a cigarette. I hand him the money.

  He is ecstatic as he moves his eyes between me and the money. “I am sorry for the person who lost this, especially if they have a big family to support,” he says. “Where exactly did you find it?”

  “In the middle of the crowd. And I think that it is meant for you to have,” I say. “What will you do with it?”

  “First I will ask Allah to make certain that the person who lost the money finds an equal amount. Then I will buy a dinner for the family from the best kabob place in Ramallah. And for your mother I will get the best bottle of perfume.”

  I have tears of happiness. Mother always asks for good perfume, but Father gets her inexpensive brands. She does not open them. She wants a bottle of Chanel. I will show him where to get one.

  * * *

  Day by day, I am getting more accustomed to the new feeling in my life of having a bank account. In the back of my mind, however, I have been thinking about the promised letter that Dr. Salah dropped in the mail for me at the bridge.

  Every time I go to open my post office box and don’t find it there, I wonder if I will ever receive it. But I continue to go and look, hoping that I will.

  Poetry

  When the letter finally arrives I am breathless as I read the sender’s name: Ahmad Baha’ al-Din. On the steps outside the post office, I hover over the letter. I turn it over and see the sentence stamped on the side stating that it has been opened for official reasons. Someone I do not know has read my mail before me. But just as when I see this stamp on some of the letters from my pen pals, I stop myself from dwelling on it, focusing instead on finally having received my mail.

  I open the envelope, and inside there is a card embossed with a big purple flower. The card is the size of a small notebook; Abdel Noor’s shop does not have anything like it.

  Neatly folded into a square inside the card is transparent airmail paper, resembling the tracing paper I use for copying and memorizing maps for geography tests. I unfold it.

  Ahmad Baha’ al-Din’s handwriting is the first surprise. It is so small, and the contrast with the size of the card makes me laugh. As I read slowly, out loud, any anxiety I had felt about him being famous is replaced by happy anticipation:

  Dear Ibtisam,

  I am an editor of a magazine that reaches over a million readers; I receive much mail. I read it all and appreciate every writer. Due to time constraints, I only reply to a few. But I read your letter many times and carried it in my pocket for days, hoping to find a way to reach you with an answer. I felt that my best chance was to give my response to someone returning to the West Bank who could send it from there. I also kept thinking about how determined and brave you were to manage to send me a letter from beyond the postal barriers that keep Ramallah as far from Kuwait as the moon! I have not received letters to the editor mailed from Ramallah to Kuwait before now.

  Mr. Baha’ al-Din’s words bring tears to my eyes. People often tell me that I am shujaa’ah, brave, sometimes with praise and sometimes with a hope that I will stop. Shajaa’ah, bravery, is a quality my culture encourages in boys more than in girls. My father does not agree all the time. “You are as good as a boy,” he says. But when he wants to express his highest encour
agement, he says, “You are better than a boy!”

  “Boys for you are the standard of goodness?” I argue. “I prefer that when a boy does well, you tell him that he is as good as a girl.”

  He always smiles when I say this.

  I continue reading:

  I hope you can let me know if you have received my gift. Please know that I am not a man of big wealth. I have many obligations that I must work hard to meet. I sent you the present to express my understanding of the hardship you and your people live under, and the importance of having a voice and of being heard. Writing is a most essential vein of any person’s life.

  I have a daughter who is in college and a son in high school. I wish for you to go to college, too. I think that the responsibility of helping young people belongs with all the adults of the world, not only their immediate families and communities. In my opinion, education is the only hope, not only as a way out of economic hardships but also out of world conflicts, because with education one can find new solutions. Girls and women especially make a big difference when they continue their journey of learning.

  About writing, please feel free to write to me as much as you wish and keep a daily diary addressed to me if you choose to. And if you find ways to continue to reach me, and let me know more about the life of a young person in the West Bank, I will find ways to send you compensation every now and then, whenever I can. Hardly any Arab journalist can enter the West Bank in person. But anything you write will give me a fresh firsthand glimpse of light into a closed world.

  Please know that as a journalist I keep up daily with news and the realities of the policies affecting your people, although I do not live them like you do. I also know what it is to be an exile, for I am working in Kuwait, away from my home country, Egypt, mainly for political reasons.

  Under his signature he tells me to call him Baha’, the name his friends call him.

  * * *