Balcony on the Moon Read online

  I then beg Mother for a lira, the paper money we use. She refuses. I explain to her that I only want to draw it in my notebook, not spend it.

  “All right, for a few minutes,” she agrees.

  So I draw the one lira many times on many pages, making it ten times the amount by adding a zero, then one hundred, then one thousand. I offer her the notebook as I return the lira. That makes her laugh, which makes me feel that I made her happy for one minute. That minute will make me happy for a whole day. Among the many classes I wish I could add to my studies is a class about how to make Mother happy without my having to stop doing the things I love to do.

  Because I want to make friends so that the Beitunia Girls’ School will begin to feel like it is mine, too, I listen to what my classmates talk about as we walk home and learn about their world. But for days, all they do is gossip about people.

  Do you think he will talk to her tomorrow? Did she explain to him about her father? They traveled without letting anyone know. She is more attractive than her cousin. I am annoyed because I have no idea whom and what they are discussing. So I decide that they must be speaking about their relatives who live in other countries.

  But finally, Hoda, the town elder’s daughter, notices my confusion and says that these are actors in the Egyptian soap operas she and my classmates watch every evening on television. Now I see the problem: we do not own a television set. So I walk home with tears in my eyes as I begin to understand the purpose of the many antennas on the roofs. I am feeling ashamed and deprived: What else do they see that I do not know about? I can participate in none of their conversations.

  I decide to talk to two of my teachers about this. When I speak to them I use the title Sitt, meaning lady, as I do with all female teachers. My math teacher, Sitt Ikram, and my Arabic teacher, Sitt Adalah, both encourage me to ignore television. Sitt Ikram assures me that there will be no questions from the “foolish soap operas” on her exams. And Sitt Adalah says, “Show them good grades and they will come to you wanting to be your friends.” I am happy with my teachers’ comments but still want to watch those soap operas if I can.

  School is easy for me because I have learned every subject one or two years ahead of my class, from my older brothers. When Muhammad does his homework, I sit next to him and ask him to teach me as though I am his student. He loves reading out loud and especially loves to tell me when I am wrong. We compete in learning, and that makes me progress more.

  Basel is reading Around the World in Eighty Days for school, and he excitedly translates sentences and speaks of the fictitious British character Mr. Phileas Fogg as though he were entirely real.

  I copy all the new English words I learn from school and from Around the World in Eighty Days on scraps of paper and deposit them with their meanings inside a small toy bank. The bank has no money—only pieces of paper that I fold and deposit into it. This is my word wealth, and I plan to add to it daily so that I will have more language knowledge than my classmates have money.

  Ramadan

  Mother gives birth to my fifth brother, Jamal, shortly after school starts. His name means beauty. All I want to do is carry him, look at his face, and speak to him. I don’t want to leave him for even a minute.

  Jamal opens his cinnamon-brown eyes for a short time, then closes them. I rock him and speak to him in two languages: “Our family’s name is Barakat, an Arabic word that means blessings. You were born on al-Sabt, Saturday. Today is al-Ethnayn, Monday, your first Monday as a newborn on the planet. Our planet’s name is Ard, Earth. Can you believe that the ard is spinning like a top all the time? Tomorrow has two names: Tuesday and the future. Our family uses two different calendars: one is lunar and tells the years that have passed since the beginning of Islam, and the other is called the solar Christian calendar because it honors the history of Christianity. The Islamic calendar says this year is 1393; the solar calendar says this year is 1973. They are different because the religion of Islam is a younger sibling of Christianity, and the lunar year is shorter than the solar year by ten or eleven days. I hope that you will grow up to love languages and mathematics like I do.”

  When I think he is ready for more, I hold him up to the night sky. Would you like to sit inside the scoop of the Big Dipper? Or do you want the Little Dipper? I can make a hammock for you between them and rock you to sleep.

  When Jamal is almost two weeks old, the monthlong celebration of Ramadan begins. It is the time of the year when Muslims abstain from food and drink all day long. Unlike in other months of the year, the iftar meal, breakfast, is served at the end of the day, not the beginning. A fasting person also cannot chew gum or smoke.

  Ramadan is the lunar month of the ancient Arabic calendar when the Prophet Muhammad went to sit alone inside a desert cave called Hira’ in the country now known as Saudi Arabia. He meditated and listened to the Archangel Gabriel reveal verses of the Qur’an, the holy scriptures of Islam. The revelation of the Qur’an during Ramadan made this month sacred for the Arab people who became followers of the Prophet Muhammad. After the formation of Islam, Muslims took the date of the Prophet Muhammad’s migration from Mecca, his hometown, to Yathrib, another town more than two hundred fifty miles north of Mecca where Islam spread quickly, to be the beginning of the Muslim calendar, 1,393 lunar years ago.

  Muslim children do not have to fast during Ramadan. My parents say we will do so when we are older. Mother is also excused from fasting during this Ramadan because of the recent birth. When nursing, sick, weak, or traveling, a Muslim does not need to fast, but does have to make up for that by giving alms or by fasting for the number of missed Ramadan days in another month.

  During Ramadan, Father wakes up at three-thirty or four in the morning for the suhur, the special small meal a Muslim can have before sunrise that makes it possible to endure hunger and especially thirst for fourteen or fifteen hours. Father does not need an alarm clock to wake up. He also never falls asleep during prayer, but sometimes he weeps quietly during this time devoted to Allah. We know this because we can hear him, and after prayer we see his tearful eyes.

  There is also a musahher, a man who carries a drum and a stick, who helps wake those who want to eat suhur. A musahher exists in every city and village where Ramadan is celebrated. He starts his work at three-thirty in the morning and goes from door to door beating on a drum under people’s bedroom windows, saying, Ya nayem, wahhed al-dayem. You who are asleep, wake up and worship God the Everlasting. As the musahher walks along the street, lights come on in one house after another. It is as though his drumstick is a light switch.

  The mu’athen, the man who recites the athan at the minaret, also helps wake people during Ramadan by reading over the mosque’s loudspeaker verses from the Qur’an that praise the ritual of fasting. Then he calls the athan at the highest pitch of his voice, to reach ears as far as possible and mark the first light of dawn, which is the exact moment people must stop eating and drinking.

  Because my siblings and I don’t fast, Father emphasizes that it is not only food that one must set aside during Ramadan but also words, thoughts, or actions that are harmful to oneself or others. He tells us endless facts about Islam. I am eager to learn and I especially love when he says that each year, beginning about two months after Ramadan, and for one-third of the year, Muslims must avoid fighting with anyone or hunting and killing any animals. These peaceful four months are called the ashhur al-hurum, the sacred months.

  While observing Ramadan, many people work only in the morning, and rest or sleep during the afternoon. The school day becomes shorter because our teachers, all women, need to go home early to prepare meals. Every evening, iftar is preceded by great excitement as we count down minute by minute, then second by second, until the sun sets and we can eat. I hold my wooden ruler against the window and measure how far the sun has to travel to reach the horizon line and disappear.

  While we set the table for iftar, we listen to a radio program hosted by the religious journalist Abu J
areer, who chants thekr, the Islamic rhymed blessings that, when repeated over and over, can bring spiritual gratitude. Abu Jareer leads, and we murmur the words after him. When it is finally time to eat, his voice swells up with joy as he announces: “Hana al’an mawa’ed al-iftar.” It is now time to break the fast. Those words put the biggest smiles on our faces.

  We call this announcement the sawt al-madfaa’, the sound of the cannon. There is no real cannon, only the name. My parents explained that in the past, before radios made it possible for information to reach everyone at the same time, a blast fired from a cannon alerted everyone far and near to begin eating.

  * * *

  But then on October 6, while we are continuing to celebrate Ramadan and the Israelis are having their Yom Kippur observance, to our great surprise and horror, we hear real cannons. We do not want to believe we are hearing the dreaded sounds of war. But they are outside and also on the radio.

  Egypt has attacked the Israeli border, wanting to regain control over the Egyptian Sinai Desert and the Suez Canal, which were occupied by Israel after the Six-Day War. Israel built a defense line called the Bar-Lev to separate Egypt from the Egyptian areas Israel had gained. The Syrian Golan Heights border was also occupied by Israel as a result of the Six-Day War, so Syria is part of today’s attack, aiming to break the Israeli hold there.

  Father estimates that it is not more than a hundred and fifty miles between where we live and the front line in the Syrian Golan Heights. He is hopeful that Egypt and Syria will be successful against the Israelis because their victory may mean liberation for us. As he speaks, we hear sirens.

  Mother begins packing our belongings. “War has a way of displacing people in the blink of an eye, and we must be ready to go,” she laments.

  “I feel afraid,” I tell Mother.

  She shouts that she does not want to hear it. “Feel something else!”

  Now I want to open my schoolbag and hide inside it, nestle between the covers of books, enter other worlds and stories. I quietly put on my shoes and place my schoolbag where I can see it. I busy myself by gently swinging Jamal’s bassinet so he will not cry and make Mother more agitated. I give Najm a ball he likes to play with, and he chases it around the room.

  Muhammad goes to the kitchen and eats and eats. That is what he does when he feels anxious. Basel becomes quiet. He does not answer if anyone asks him a question. If pressed, he becomes angry. Mona puts on many layers of clothes and a coat and says that she now feels safe. Samer holds hands with Father and becomes part of him. Father becomes one with the radio.

  * * *

  The next morning, the announcer on the Egyptian radio bellows news of victory. “Six hours, not six days,” he cheers. He explains that the Egyptian army broke the Israeli Bar-Lev defense line on the edge of the Sinai Desert and crossed the Suez Canal. War songs fill the airwaves and resemble desperate calls for prayer, saying bessm ellah, in the name of Allah, victory will grow. The radio also airs sound tracks of the battlefield to encourage the Egyptian troops to press on and liberate more of the Sinai Desert.

  People in Beitunia gather on the streets with their handheld radios. Some say they have not felt happy since the Nakba in 1948 and this Egyptian victory stirs hope in their hearts. Others say that, since the Six-Day War, they had feared that Arabs could not defeat the Israeli army—and now they are celebrating because that fear is gone. Everyone prays that the Egyptian army will soon liberate the Sinai Desert from Israeli occupation and move on to the Gaza Strip and us.

  But soon we hear on the radio that the United States will send massive military support to Israel. So the news shifts to the actions of the big powers and their role in our lives: the US military support of Israel on the one hand and the Soviet Union’s military support of Arabs on the other.

  Ramadan amid war becomes a mix of food words and war words: shorabat khudar, vegetable soup; atayef, nut-stuffed half-moons; qamar al-din, dried apricots with pine nuts; Khat Bar-Lev, the Bar-Lev armistice line; Qanat al-Suais, the Suez Canal; and Ta’erat MiG Wahed Wa Aashreen, Russian-made MiG-21 fighters that are battling US-made Skyhawk fighter planes.

  Then the main oil-producing Arab countries begin to withhold their petroleum exports to the United States and several other countries as retaliation for their political stance on the events. They hope to create economic pressure and shift the outcome of the war in favor of Egypt and Syria. Kerosene and gas prices go up and make it necessary for us to ration our fuel.

  I become like the grownups, obsessed with news. A cease-fire is enforced within weeks, but the oil embargo and political fighting continue for months after Ramadan and are the primary theme of the news. The Egyptian radio endlessly repeats the special songs aired during Egypt’s initial victories.

  Even though it is now clear that Egypt will not liberate us from the Israeli occupation, Mother hums along with the victory songs as she does housework. “Tahya Masr. Long live Egypt,” she sings. Father sings along with her.

  * * *

  The soap operas are less important to my classmates now that war and months of political reports have changed the focus of our lives. So my friendships with them become stronger and I learn more about them.

  Wafa, who lives only two houses away, likes to walk slowly, as though she does not want to arrive at school in the morning or arrive at home in the afternoon. She says that her mother is sick, which leaves her with much housework.

  Zaina is the only brown-skinned girl at school. Mother has warned me and Mona that if we sit in the sun too long our skin will become dark and that will affect how people respond to us. She says many men prefer to marry light-skinned women. So I ask Zaina if her mother has not explained she should not sit in the sun, but she says it is not a tan, her skin is naturally this color. And so is her mother’s. She invites me to visit her home and meet her family, which I do.

  When Hoda, the daughter of the town elder, speaks to me, she constantly adjusts her padded bra under her school dress. I do not wear a bra because I am still flat as a book. She also mentions that she has her period. I have no idea what she means. She says that even though we are in the same grade, she is two years older than me. She is my brother Muhammad’s age. Muhammad is one grade ahead of me, instead of two, because when it was time for him to start first grade, our family was in Jordan awaiting permission to return to Ramallah after the Six-Day War, so he lost a school year. I wonder what happened to Hoda and to all the other girls in my school during that war.

  * * *

  When I start sixth grade, I decide to try to make friends with the middle school students in the seventh, eighth, and ninth grades. I stand at the sidelines of their volleyball games and bring back their stray balls. The older girls start to treat me like a younger sister, tying my undone hair ribbon or patting my shoulder to acknowledge that they like me.

  Their warmth makes me feel more and more at home at Beitunia Girls’ School and encourages me to participate in more activities. I am especially looking forward to when our school will have a cultural costume pageant called Children of the World and perform a special play that one of the teachers wrote with the ninth-grade students, about war. Those who are chosen to participate will get extra credit.

  My goal is to get a chance to stand on stage for the first time and speak to a crowd of people whose only task for those minutes is to listen to me. I anticipate that it will be close to the pleasure of calling the athan, an experience I will never know. In Islam, girls and women are not allowed to perform the call to prayer. We are also not supposed to sing in public, although many Arab women defy that religious teaching, singing in public about love and longing. But I have not ever heard of a woman calling the athan. So I whisper it to myself and imagine it amplified a thousand times.

  Even though I don’t know whether I will be selected to participate in the pageant or the play, I practice. I stand at the top of our forty-five steps, or on an empty chair in the house, or on the stacked-up farshaat, mattresses, that we fold
in the morning and unfold at night, and make speeches. “To you, dear farshaat, that help us sleep and hold many of our night dreams, the residents of this house offer thanks.”

  I grow more and more eager for the auditions and happily count down to them like I count down to the sunset preceding a Ramadan dinner. Finally they arrive, but they begin with sadness.

  Death

  I know Wafa is excited about today’s auditions, too. I go to her house and call her name, expecting that she will run out like she does every day, her big white ribbon flying behind her on her ponytail. But Wafa does not answer. I call again. Nothing. I think she must have overslept.

  I throw a pebble at the green metal shutters on her window, and when she still doesn’t come out I knock on the front door. I hear slow footsteps, and when Wafa opens it her face is pale and her eyes are teary. She says her mother died last night. Preparations are being made to bury her within twenty-four hours, the custom in Islam.

  Twenty-four hours and she will never see or touch her mother again. I cannot grasp the thought. That is only 1,440 minutes. Before I say another word, one minute of that will be gone. I embrace Wafa, sharing her tears. What do people say when hearing such news? I search for the right words, but all I can think is that now two minutes are gone.

  “I can bring you notes from all our classes,” I finally offer.

  She is quiet, then answers in a stumbling voice: “Ma fee hajeh, no need. My family has decided to take me out of school.” She explains that they need her to stay home to run the household.

  I want to shout: That is wrong; do not let them do it! I want to tell Wafa to come and see my mother, how unhappy she is because she was taken out of school after the sixth grade. But I say nothing. Instead, I embrace her again, and as I walk away, I wonder whether I should run to school or run home to see my mother’s face and touch her hand.