Qissat by Jo Glanville Read Free Book Online

borrowed an ID card in a green plastic cover from her neighbour, Umm Othman al-Ashqarani. Umm Othman was very mindful of her husband’s opinions, so she had told him all about Umm Hasan’s determination to go to Ramallah, making up a story about some paperwork regarding rheumatism treatments for her husband. On this basis, he had allowed her to lend Umm Hasan her ID card, for no more than two days. Umm Hasan was just a harmless woman, after all, he thought. Who could mistake her for a terrorist? If one of her children were to start whining, and the rest of them joined in, they would be such a nuisance that anyone would let them through just to get rid of them!
    In truth, he was more than ready to encourage Umm Hasan’s travel plans, hoping that in her absence the yard their families shared would be a little quieter, and he could manage a siesta after lunch.
    Umm Hasan had chosen to borrow the ID card from Umm Othman in particular, because she had the same number of offspring, in the same age range as her own. In addition, she had managed to borrow another neighbour’s mobile phone, so she could get in touch with Abu Hasan if she needed to. She was careful not to mention these successes to the children until the following morning.
    As soon as Abu Hasan left for work, the preparations began. Manal packed their many belongings into plastic bags. Umm Hasan made no attempt to cut back, since there was no knowing how long they would be there, or how many changes of clothes they would need. They might manage to stay for a whole week, or for a few days at least. At last, after all the stifling times they had endured in old Hebron, they would have the chance to get out and enjoy a change of scenery. Umm Hasan invoked the name of merciful God, and said a prayer, remembering her father, God rest his soul, who used to turn up the radio so everyone could hear the song
‘Wayn? ‘a-Ramallah’
(‘Where to? To Ramallah!’)
    She packed a bundle of bread and a bottle of water with plastic cups, calling, ‘Hurry up! We’re going to Ramallah today!’
    They all crowded into the yellow Ford. The driver asked, ‘Do you have an ID, missus?’
    She swallowed. ‘An ID?’
    She stalled, fussing with her white scarf, but he didn’t wait for her answer. He wasn’t stupid; he had noticed that his passenger was Abu Hasan’s wife, and all of Hebron knew about her ID problem. He sniffed, sighed, spat into a tissue and muttered: ‘God will provide!’
    As the car lurched forward, Umm Hasan leaned over her children, checking, in a whisper, whether they had learned their assigned names, as shown on the ID card. The car swayed left and right as the road curved more sharply along
Tariq Wadi al-Nar,
the road of the ‘Valley of Fire’, which loomed like a deep well they could fall into at any moment.
    As the car swerved around bends and the view tilted before her eyes, Umm Hasan felt more and more dizzy and nauseous. The driver kept invoking the name of God, blowing his nose, sighing and complaining to the two passengers in the front seat about all the trials and tribulations he faced daily. The passengers responded with encouraging comments and stories of their own.
    The cotton fringe around the rear view mirror jiggled constantly, making a muffled rasping sound that jarred her nerves and made her heart quiver like a frightened moth. Now she was beginning to have second thoughts. What would happen if one of the kids slipped up during a security check and let out the secret – that the ID card was not her own?
    Her stomach kept turning over, but she wasn’t afraid of throwing up, since she had purposely avoided eating that morning, knowing how anxiety always went to her stomach. She kept reciting the Quranic verses of
Surat al-Kursi,
relying on Manal to take care of her younger siblings, who leaned against her with pale faces. As she watched the military patrols pass by, Umm Hasan stroked her baby’s forehead. Every time a military vehicle came