virgin olive oil was trickling into the vat where it would settle. Yusef sniffed at it appreciatively. Sartawi oil was among the finest in Palestine and the subtle aroma had seeped into every crevice of the shed.
‘It is a good crop this year, eh Yusef?’
‘The best, Father, the best.’
‘I will tell your mother tonight, this year I think we might be able to afford a water pump for the house.’
‘She would like that, Father.’ Ever since Yusef could remember, water for the household had to be hauled in buckets. The mudbrick house with its dirt floors was at the end of one of the red dusty tracks that led from the village square. Every day his mother Rafiqa or, now that they were old enough, one of his sisters would trudge down the hill and queue at the rusting, squeaky water pump.
Up at the house in the old kitchen preparations for Liana’s birthday were well under way at the rough wooden bench.
‘Tonight we have an appetiser,’ Rafiqa announced, delegating the slicing of the sweet green peppers to Raya and the tomatoes to Liana. ‘ Shakshoukeh .’ A dish of sweet green peppers and tomatoes fried in olive oil with thick slices of garlic, pepper and salt.
Despite the years of village life and five children, there was a certain elegance about Rafiqa. She was slightly built, with burnished olive skin, an oval face and dark hair parted severely. Over the years her serenity had calmed the energy of a house full of children. Raya was like her father. With his heavy eyebrows, she was quiet and reflective. Liana, as much as she was allowed to be, was energetic and rebellious.
‘Your father has brought in a chicken.’
Liana’s dark eyes danced. ‘Chicken fatteh! ’
‘Just for you, my child, with your favourite seasoning – cardamom and nutmeg.’ Rafiqa stoked the cantankerous old wooden stove with an expertise born of long years of practice. Water for the rice simmered in a well-used blackened pot.
Judging the temperature of the oven to be about right, Rafiqa placed the chicken and some onions in a battered baking pan, poured some of the precious water over the top and placed it in the oven. She reached for the pita bread she had baked earlier in the day and sliced it ready for frying.
‘What time will Ahmed be home, Mother?’ Liana asked excitedly.
‘Any time now, I expect,’ Rafiqa replied, her dark eyes softening at the thought of seeing her eldest son again.
The old bus from Ramallah wound up the hill towards the dusty square. Ahmed was surprised to find the driver having to slow down to negotiate his way past lines of Israeli tanks and armoured vehicles on either side of the road. The command vehicle was at the head of the tank column. Four thin aerials flexed in the light breeze and a group of officers in kevlar helmets were clustered around a senior officer spreading a map out on the desert camouflage of the jeep’s bonnet. Towards the top of the hill two Israeli helicopter gunships circled menacingly overhead. Above them, even more menacingly still, two F-16 fighters supplied by the United States were turning, their wings flashing briefly in a sun that on the ground had already been obscured by the mountains.
The bus juddered as the driver crashed the gears; it took him three attempts to get it into low, the gearbox clanging more loudly each time. Ahmed held onto the rusty iron of the seat in front as the bus lurched forward. A great cloud of black smoke belched from the various orifices of what passed for an exhaust system and a little more grime was caked onto the cracked and rusted blue and white paint. Ahmed knew he was almost home.
‘Ahmed! Welcome home!’ His father embraced his son warmly as he walked through the door. ‘The sun is almost set. You are just in time to lead us in prayer,’ he said, stepping back and holding his son out at arm’s length so he could look at him. Ahmed embraced his mother, brothers and sisters and after they had all washed, Abdullah led them out
‘It is a good crop this year, eh Yusef?’
‘The best, Father, the best.’
‘I will tell your mother tonight, this year I think we might be able to afford a water pump for the house.’
‘She would like that, Father.’ Ever since Yusef could remember, water for the household had to be hauled in buckets. The mudbrick house with its dirt floors was at the end of one of the red dusty tracks that led from the village square. Every day his mother Rafiqa or, now that they were old enough, one of his sisters would trudge down the hill and queue at the rusting, squeaky water pump.
Up at the house in the old kitchen preparations for Liana’s birthday were well under way at the rough wooden bench.
‘Tonight we have an appetiser,’ Rafiqa announced, delegating the slicing of the sweet green peppers to Raya and the tomatoes to Liana. ‘ Shakshoukeh .’ A dish of sweet green peppers and tomatoes fried in olive oil with thick slices of garlic, pepper and salt.
Despite the years of village life and five children, there was a certain elegance about Rafiqa. She was slightly built, with burnished olive skin, an oval face and dark hair parted severely. Over the years her serenity had calmed the energy of a house full of children. Raya was like her father. With his heavy eyebrows, she was quiet and reflective. Liana, as much as she was allowed to be, was energetic and rebellious.
‘Your father has brought in a chicken.’
Liana’s dark eyes danced. ‘Chicken fatteh! ’
‘Just for you, my child, with your favourite seasoning – cardamom and nutmeg.’ Rafiqa stoked the cantankerous old wooden stove with an expertise born of long years of practice. Water for the rice simmered in a well-used blackened pot.
Judging the temperature of the oven to be about right, Rafiqa placed the chicken and some onions in a battered baking pan, poured some of the precious water over the top and placed it in the oven. She reached for the pita bread she had baked earlier in the day and sliced it ready for frying.
‘What time will Ahmed be home, Mother?’ Liana asked excitedly.
‘Any time now, I expect,’ Rafiqa replied, her dark eyes softening at the thought of seeing her eldest son again.
The old bus from Ramallah wound up the hill towards the dusty square. Ahmed was surprised to find the driver having to slow down to negotiate his way past lines of Israeli tanks and armoured vehicles on either side of the road. The command vehicle was at the head of the tank column. Four thin aerials flexed in the light breeze and a group of officers in kevlar helmets were clustered around a senior officer spreading a map out on the desert camouflage of the jeep’s bonnet. Towards the top of the hill two Israeli helicopter gunships circled menacingly overhead. Above them, even more menacingly still, two F-16 fighters supplied by the United States were turning, their wings flashing briefly in a sun that on the ground had already been obscured by the mountains.
The bus juddered as the driver crashed the gears; it took him three attempts to get it into low, the gearbox clanging more loudly each time. Ahmed held onto the rusty iron of the seat in front as the bus lurched forward. A great cloud of black smoke belched from the various orifices of what passed for an exhaust system and a little more grime was caked onto the cracked and rusted blue and white paint. Ahmed knew he was almost home.
‘Ahmed! Welcome home!’ His father embraced his son warmly as he walked through the door. ‘The sun is almost set. You are just in time to lead us in prayer,’ he said, stepping back and holding his son out at arm’s length so he could look at him. Ahmed embraced his mother, brothers and sisters and after they had all washed, Abdullah led them out
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