Free Ishmael's Oranges by Claire Hajaj

Judith nodded uncertainly. How could Kathleen tell? She herself did not know.
    Over the next few weeks, Judith made a point of coming home and watching the six o’clock news on their brand new television. She lost interest in Crackerjack and was half-hearted about spinning records in Kathleen’s mother’s living room.
    On the twenty-ninth of October, bombs started falling in the Sinai. Judith listened to the BBC presenter explaining that Britain and France were helping little Israel to punish Egypt for closing the Suez Canal. The Israeli soldiers waved cheerfully to the camera before climbing into fighter jets. And then they cut to the blast of the bombs, and howling hordes in London with anti-Israeli banners chanting anti-Jewish slogans.
    The year rushed towards its end; everyone else was preparing for Christmas and Kathleen headed to Ireland. In the Gold household, Judith and Gertie lit the Hanukkah candles for the Jewish Festival of Lights.
    Looking into the menorah’s flames in the early darkness of winter, Judith heard them again – the explosions and screams. The match light wavered at the tip of the candlewick as the last candle burst into glorious bloom. She thought of Uncle Max’s star, lying lightless in Dora’s cupboard. And she wondered what life would be like if everyone was doing the same thing at this exact moment – and if no person had to feel different from another.

    The day of his betrayal came out of the cheerful blue sky, at the height of Nazareth’s midsummer.
    It was a school day; the bells rang at noon, ending the first shift. Dozens of books snapped shut, bags were hoisted onto shoulders and shoes pounded the dusty concrete floor. An excited hum of teenage chatter headed out into the stifling air of downtown Nazareth – away from lessons in mathematics, English and Hebrew, ready for the gruelling trudge uphill.
    He was one of the few boys walking alone. A recent growth spurt had added sharp cheekbones, pale skin and bony arms to the other indignities of being nearly fifteen.
    In the fierce heat, Nazareth turned from sandy yellow to blazing white. Salim’s eyes ached as he walked up the winding main road. He passed rows of street stalls, children selling soap, car parts and badly made clothes.
    The truth was, the Al-Ishmaelis were lucky. They’d come to Nazareth like everyone else, running ahead of the Nakba – the great Catastrophe. Thousands had arrived with them, the fellahin and the ay’an flocking together in a shared disaster.
    Eight years later, Salim had a bed in his half-sister’s flat, a school and an Israeli passport. They lived on Tareq’s wages and his mother’s jewels. Most of all, they still had the deeds to Jaffa’s orange groves. But these children had nothing. Their fathers had worked the land, and now the land was gone. Today, work meant scraping a hollow living in the car repair shops or handing out tomatoes at the market.
    In the block of flats where his family now measured out the days, Salim climbed slowly, counting the floors. The stairwell was wide, but dirty and rancid with the smells of daily life – washing, cooking, sweat and the sewers somewhere beneath.
    His half-sister Nadia was in the kitchen leaning out of the window to hang their washing on the narrow balcony. ‘Hi,’ she called out. ‘Did you have a good day at school?’
    Seconds later, she appeared around the kitchen door, wiping her hands. Her brown face was round like Abu Hassan’s, but without the thickness. It was lined beyond its twenty-five years – like so many Arab women deserving a greater serving of happiness than life had seen fit to allot them.
    â€˜Lovely,’ he said, smiling up at her. ‘Did they all go out and leave you in peace again?’
    â€˜Oh yes, there’s a lot happening today,’ she said breathlessly. ‘My goodness, you must be hot, let me get you some water.’ And