Free Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah

start to walk and the boy follows us.
    â€˜My uncle and I are from Aida refugee camp. Are you from there too?’
    â€˜Certainly not!’ I cry with indignation. That Mama was born in a refugee camp and lived there until she was married isn’t something I like to advertise. Anyway, Mama generally doesn’t approve of me mixing with children from the camp. ‘God knows our life is hard, Hayaat. But in the camps it can be unbearable. I don’t want you to mix with people with no hope, ya Hayaat. Some of them have nothing left to lose and sometimes they feel there is nothing to live for. People prey on that desperation. They play God with people’s lives. Promising heaven and meetings with angels and twisting God’s words to suit them.’
    I didn’t ask Mama if, since the settler roads took my father’s land, we’ve become desperate too.
    For some reason, looking at that scruffy, skinny boy makes me angry. ‘Why don’t you wash?’ I ask scornfully. ‘I’m sure there’s soap in the camp. You smell! And your clothes are filthy.’
    The boy shrugs. ‘Tell me about your
mission
. I’m bored.’
    â€˜Go away,’ I say, flicking my hand in the air as though I’m trying to get rid of a fly. ‘We don’t have time for you.’
    â€˜Why is your face like that? What happened to you? Does it hurt?’
    I turn around swiftly and glare at him. ‘Shut up! Leave me alone, you filthy, stinking refugee!’
    His eyes suddenly moisten. And what stabs me is that he tries to hide it. He makes as if to tie his shoelace. But his slippers don’t have laces. The shame I feel in that moment is overpowering. It floods my body with such force I feel as though I might topple over. To think that somebody has to protect their self-respect and dignity from
me
. After all the teasing I’ve endured at school. After all the times I’ve looked in the mirror and felt embarrassed by my reflection. I have to redeem myself.
    So I buy his entire bag of tissues.
    â€˜What are we going to do with all those?’ Samy asks as he watches me stuff the small packets into my backpack.
    â€˜What we do with them isn’t the point,’ I mutter.
    â€˜I saw an episode of
Spider-man
,’ the boy says thoughtfully, ‘where he rescues someone who tries to climb up a building with bedsheets tied together.’
    I give the boy a funny look. Samy is interested.
    â€˜Imagine if you tied the tissues together and climbed the Wall.’
    â€˜Imagine if the soldiers saw us doing that,’ Samy says with a laugh. ‘I think they’d let us over to reward our pure genius.’
    â€˜A tissue crumples with a bit of snot and you two think it’s going to carry our body weight?’
    â€˜Where’s your imagination?’ the boy asks, giving Samy a knowing look.
    â€˜She’s being Miss Practical today,’ Samy says.
    â€˜Come on, let’s get moving,’ I say. ‘If you both shut up I’ll show you the kite I have stuffed in my bag. We’ll get Spiderman here to hold it over the Wall while you and I dangle off the ribbons, Samy. Now
yallah
. We need to find out how to get to Jerusalem.’

Chapter EIGHT

    Â 
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    The dirty boy from Aida refugee camp who has no tissues left to sell is named Wasim. We let him walk with us because he’s been recruited by a United Nations–sponsored soccer team to play in international tournaments. Samy is instantly impressed. I don’t know whether he wants to embrace Wasim or hit him.
    â€˜Why you?’ Samy asks, his voice drizzled with envy. ‘How did you get picked? I mean, you’re a refugee.’
    Wasim grins. ‘That’s the point,
ya zalami
.’ I can’t help but snort in laughter.
Ya zalami
means ‘oh man’ but only old people say such things. It sounds funny coming out of Wasim’s mouth. ‘Because I’m a