Balcony on the Moon Read online

Even though he does not say whether he will publish my writing in Al-Arabi, I leap with joy that now I have an enthusiastic reader, and will be paid for my writing, too. I want to shout: I do write every day! Mother can testify to this. She says I am the revenge of girls whose hearts are broken from being made to leave school. That is, when she is not mad at my writing everywhere I can. I scribble on my hands and use my five fingers like lines on paper. I leave notes on my clothes, especially my pants, and on the walls and doors, and because Arabs believe that one’s destiny is written on the forehead, I write on my forehead to request good fortune.

  On my way home I stop by Rafidi print shop, another one of my favorite places in Ramallah. Many months ago, I was pondering how to solve the problem of writing on everything when I remembered that Nazeeh, the husband of one of Mother’s friends, manages a print shop. He must have leftover paper, just like Mother always has leftover scraps of cloth. When I asked him he told me to choose what I wanted from a mountain of paper scraps. Since then, whenever I can, I have been coming home with armfuls of paper.

  “When you become a famous writer, mention Matba’at Rafidi in Ramallah,” he always says, smiling.

  I promise to do so and say, “Mother thanks you for helping her to have fewer fights with me.”

  Today, striding home carrying what feels like half a tree’s worth of scrap paper, I wish I could celebrate my good fortune openly with glossy cards designed and printed especially for this occasion. I would have my classmates come to my home and bring orange balloons. We would blow them up into full moons filled with unspoken dreams. We would dance gripping the strings, then release them all to the heavens. The balloons would mingle and disperse in different directions.

  Mine, as I see it in my mind’s eye, goes high, then turns east, leaving Ramallah, crossing the Allenby Bridge to Jordan and then on to Saudi Arabia. In fewer than sixteen hundred miles it finds Kuwait and finally lands in the hands of Mr. Baha’ al-Din.

  But in reality there will be no parties or even a small gathering because I am not going to tell anyone. And I hope no one notices how different I have become.

  For a few days, no one says a word, but then my Arabic-language-arts teacher, Sitt Fatima, notices that for many classes I have not participated.

  “Elly makhed aqlek yet-hanna feeh, the one who took your mind, may he enjoy the company,” she says.

  I am embarrassed and admit that she is right. “My Bedouin mind is wandering. If someone sees it, please let me know!”

  My friend Ghada, says, “My mind saw yours half an hour ago. It was in the desert shopping for a camel.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “I will explain more during recess,” I promise Sitt Fatima.

  Sitt Fatima moves on to another topic, leaving me in peace. That is one of the reasons she is my favorite teacher. Another reason is that when she speaks, she shares her love for language, hoping that we will find reasons to love it, too.

  In Arabic language arts we must learn nosoos, selected literary texts; qawa’ed, grammar and sentence-structure analysis; mufradat, vocabulary of ancient classical words; insha’, creative composition; and mahfoothat, poetry, which is described as literature worthy of preserving permanently.

  Most students in Ramallah, boys and girls, complain about these classes because they are so demanding. Changing any harakah, the mark placed above or under a letter in an Arabic word to guide the reader for the correct pronunciation, can dramatically change its meaning even though the letters remain the same. So careful linguistic analysis is a necessity. A sentence, and then the paragraph in which the sentence occurs, must be considered with the precision of analyzing a chemistry equation.

  Because of this requirement, many students dislike Arabic class and find algebra easy compared to it. Also, many people on the streets use expressions and sentence structures that are disconnected from the original meanings. If our ancestors listened to us speak now, they would be laughing and crying.

  That is why Sitt Fatima is patient. She says that forgetting our once-pioneering heritage has weakened our mastery of our culture, especially our command of our rich language, with its ancient roots.

  Sitt Fatima also seems to understand the conflict between teenagers and grownups. Every day, during recess, she is the only teacher who speaks with students during her free time rather than staying in the teachers’ room. We are not a burden for her. And she is excited to hear about our lives.

  Even though she is kind and clever, I wonder if she is happy. Before she came to our school, she studied in Syria, then after the Six-Day War she was imprisoned by Israel for her political views. She married a famous Palestinian poet, then divorced without having children. After that, she came to teach in Ramallah and to live with her parents in her village, Kufur Ne’mah. She is the only woman in that village who drives a car.

  I am so lucky this teacher came to my school and into my life. When I see her car in the parking lot, I am at ease no matter what else is happening. Instead of adding to a problem when hearing about one, like many adults do, she tries to help solve the problem.

  During recess she walks toward me, adjusting her burgundy head scarf over her short hair. I must speak with her quickly before other girls join us.

  “Hatee ma endek, show what you have,” she begins.

  I hand her the card and letter from Mr. Baha’ al-Din, then hold myself tightly as she opens them and reads. She gasps, laughs, and quietly chirps Ya bayye … ya bayye … under her breath from sentence to sentence. After she finishes reading she gives me a big smile. “You have a good reason to be absentminded in class,” she says. “He is one of the most respected journalists in the Arab world!”

  I jump and twist in excitement. “How should I respond to him?” I ask.

  “You already know what to write, because you have gotten a response!”

  “I mean, something that makes me sound older…”

  “Al-haqeeqah, the truth, is ageless,” she says.

  Throughout the day, I consider the word al-haqeeqah, truth. It is a noun with a feminine gender, not a legal expression like al-haq, which is a masculine noun meaning justice.

  I think that the truth in Ramallah lives on the streets among our homes, and nests like birds in the tops of our trees. It is mixed with the songs we hum to ourselves when we sit alone. And because it comes out when we are alone, we are never alone. The truth is with us.

  Now I ask the word itself: Dear al-Haqeeqah, tell me more about yourself. What are you? A person’s pleasure? Anger? Pain? Silence? Secrets? Dreams? I put my pencil over my ear, wanting it to hear all my thoughts as I gather them before I begin my reply to Mr. Baha’ al-Din, later on tonight, once Ramallah sleeps:

  Dear Baha’,

  It is late at night. I hear the occasional careening of army jeeps patrolling the empty streets and people’s dreams, and I hear the snoring of my father. To answer your question, yes, I have received both the gift and the card with the letter.

  If you ask me about the happiest moments of my life, please know that you created two of them.

  I am obsessed with writing, even though I am in the last year of high school and have little spare time. But writing helps me take out some of my feelings and put them aside so I have space for new feelings and thoughts. And I am never lonely because I have words. They are my confidants and companions. When I need someone to speak with, someone who really understands me, I make up a story that has that person in it, who then becomes my mind’s friend.

  Now I will write knowing that I can reach not only the pen pals I have around the world, but a “pen-nacle” writer in the Arab world. Thank you for encouraging and helping me to grow and continue to reach others with my words.

  Ibtisam

  I enclose with my reply a separate page filled with nothing but the word shukran, thank you. In my heart I know that the first and the last thanks are to Allah. Father reminds me always that if one says shukran to Allah, that means acknowledging a gift has been recei
ved and appreciated. More gifts can then be granted.

  PART V

  Jerusalem Street

  1981

  Time

  It is spring vacation, only one semester to complete before the final Tawjihi exams. I am gazing at the distant hills of Ramallah, which have turned into giant waves of poppies, calla lilies, tulips, wild daisies, and dandelions. But I am thinking about a thorny problem.

  This year, some of my classmates have gotten engaged and plan to get married in the summer after the exams.

  Sabah says she is marrying for love and is celebrating. Feeling bolder by her changed social status, she no longer worries about what the principal thinks or says. Sabah now curls her hair, and the minute classes are over and we walk out of the school gate, she unbuttons the collar of her school uniform to show the gold necklace she received, with the engagement ring on it as a charm, and rolls up her sleeves to show her bracelets, gifts from her groom that are part of her dowry.

  Farah, however, whom I have known since middle school, is mourning her engagement. She went home one afternoon to discover that her father had given her hand in marriage to a man who lives in Saudi Arabia. Her mother also agreed to this arrangement. She is the only girl in her family, with nine brothers. She has no one in her family to speak to about her problem.

  Sawsan and Sonya did not get engaged, but they began to cover their hair with scarves and wear their long hijab on top of the school uniform. They are getting ready for a new life as observant religious women.

  Dana, a girl everyone calls progressive, comes from an activist family and is going in the opposite direction. She says that she doubts the existence of God. Everyone whispers that her father is a communist and she is, too.

  I avoid speaking about marriage and religion with my classmates, feeling that no one knows what is in another person’s heart and mind and no one has had another person’s experiences. So I believe that it isn’t right to judge this way. I only listen to everyone’s views.

  Months ago, when questions about Allah filled my mind with doubts after my people’s conditions only got worse, I knew that I could not ask anyone for an answer about God without their becoming alarmed and trying to press their views on me. So I told no one about my doubts.

  I bought a big white daisy from a flower shop and sat amid the television antennas on the roof of our building. Silently, I said a big hi to Allah, thinking that I must say high as I looked at the blue sky. I smiled at how people would be surprised to know that I say hi to Allah as though I am speaking to a dear friend. I then asked with all my heart: If you exist, know all things, and control all outcomes, please help me not to have any doubts about your existence. I then began: Allah exists, and ripped off a petal. Allah does not exist, ripped off another petal. Allah exists, Allah does not.

  My heart pounded as I got closer to the last few petals, not at all wanting the possibility that Allah does not exist. I stopped and then thought about both possibilities for the rest of the day.

  Finally, I decided that Allah exists simply because that is the better answer for me. If God is not present, then that would mean only men and guns, soldiers and bullies are in charge of the future, and my prayers go nowhere. I wanted, in my mind, for Allah, who creates all the flowers of the world and all the beauty in life, to be bigger than all men, just like the daily prayer says five times a day: Allah akbar: God is greater than everything and everyone. I felt happy with my decision.

  The continuing news of my classmates’ engagements makes me wonder how any girl can do well in her end-of-year exams while thinking about marriage, too. I relate only to those dedicated to their studies and hoping to go to college, until Father announces on the first evening of spring break that the son of someone he respects is asking for my hand.

  “Not possible!” I reply. “I have one goal between now and the summer.”

  “They are coming to see you, and the date for the visit is set,” he says, leaving me in shock.

  “It is only an engagement, nothing serious before you and I finish Tawjihi,” Mother intervenes. “They are wealthy, and he speaks English. We will make sure that he agrees to permit you to attend college.”

  The words wealthy, agrees, and permit make me boil. Why must I rely on someone else instead of working? Why must I add another person to my life whose permission I need?

  Many girls I know try to escape their families’ strict control through marriage. They say marriage will give them more freedom. But I think they are wrong: all they will have is a different life that is more of a prison with harder labor. Unmarried girls spend many hours outside the house for school each day, I reason, so girls should delay getting married as long as they can and choose education. Besides, what are they going to teach their children if they know so little?

  In my heart, I want to experience what my grandmothers and mother have not—real freedom and the ability to make decisions for myself. That is why, without knowing who he is, I am certain that this man who is coming to ask for my hand must be stopped.

  Because many men in Ramallah prefer to marry girls who have long hair and who do not wear glasses, the next day I find myself at a hair salon saying one sentence as sharp as a pair of scissors: “Cut off the braid.”

  The hairdresser says, “Why? Who died?” She thinks I am cutting my hair because I am in mourning. I watch my long braid fall to the floor. I pick it up and hold it in my palm for a minute before I drop it so it can be swept away. After that I buy a pair of nonprescription glasses.

  When I knock at the door, Mother does not recognize me for a minute. Then she slams the door and refuses to let me enter.

  “It is my hair,” I say, “every strand of it.”

  She does not respond.

  I wait outside for Muhammad to come home from work, thinking he may help me. But when I tell him what happened he says he has no advice to give to me. “This is your life,” he says. “As for me, I am working three jobs to be able to save up some money for a ticket to leave the country.”

  “I want to be able to do the same,” I tell him.

  “But you are a girl, and our parents will never let you go anywhere unmarried.”

  When Muhammad fails to convince Mother to let me in, he comes with me on the bus to Grandmother Fatima’s village in Jerusalem.

  “Do some thinking and I will be back in a couple of days,” he says. “And by the way, you look good in short hair, too,” he adds, smiling.

  I thank him for his support.

  In the quiet of the village, I anxiously try to decide what to do to make peace with Mother before spring break is over. I do not want to miss any school days. I am thankful that Grandma does not side with my parents or with me. So after only one day I decide to go home. I agree to meet the man asking for my hand, but on one condition: I will speak to him in English when they visit us.

  My parents agree. “Whatever it takes to get you closer to marriage,” they say.

  * * *

  Opening my books, I pretend to study but instead think about boys and men and how strange their behavior is. Girls and women do not seem to create problems for men’s plans and dreams. They often help them. Why do men then try to interrupt women’s lives and call that love and admiration! I have never seen anyone in my family or among our relatives teaching boys and men to listen to a girl without interrupting her, or encouraging them to ask a girl about her talents and dreams and how she plans to change the world, then celebrating her desire to become a leader with her talents.

  For me, even the thought of marriage before I become independent feels like a shackle around my ankle. If I do get married, I will not be able to move freely, or leave the country when the opportunity comes. Every year, Aunt Rasmeyyah, Father’s sister, reminds Father that one of her sons wants to marry me. Every few months, my parents mention that someone is interested in visiting us to talk about me. But when they raise the subject I quash it quickly, like running to shut a window when a dangerous storm begins.

&
nbsp; I have been avoiding boys, except for my pen pals, and those who are where I have worked. Some of the foreign students I taught Arabic to, and those who had incompletes whom I helped to pass exams, are boys. But when I am the teacher, I act like a parent. I am responsible for their learning and helping them to succeed, and do not think about anything else.

  * * *

  I still do not have a plan for setting myself free from this man whom I agreed to meet. Mother keeps repeating the proverb that does not apply even to her own life: The shade of a man is better than the shade of a wall.

  “Are you saying that a woman must live in someone’s shade? I do not want shade,” I tell her. “I like the sun, for it has all colors, and if I must stay away from the sun, there are trees and hats that can provide shade better than a man.”

  “His father owns a watch shop,” she announces happily.

  “That means he has plenty of time on his hands,” I mock. “But I do not. I have something more important to do.”

  “We want you to marry after you are done with school so that your happiness and safety will be ensured,” Mother says.

  Now I am furious. “Look at how marriage ensured your happiness, Mother. I do not want to rely on a man for money or protection and I do not want a life like yours. And no one is safe on the West Bank, not a man or a woman.”

  “There is nothing you can do,” she presses. “It is already agreed.” She also says that she has made an appointment for me at a beauty salon to groom my hair and eyebrows. The next day we go, and I come home with eyebrows as thin as pencil lines.

  * * *

  I am on the balcony asking Allah to help me, then asking the moon and stars to shine light on this dim moment. The moon tonight is full. It has just risen above Ramallah and appears soft and smudgy, as though it has been drawn in chalk.

  Mona comes to speak with me, bringing a blanket so that we will be warm. We put our feet up against the cool rails. Jamal nestles between us. He is only seven but he wants to understand everything.