Staircase summer

It was circa 6 AM, Palestine Shari3 Al Khala time.

I tied my shoelaces, and lifted off my temporary twin bed. I grabbed my billaphone and my iPhone, and made my way out the door and around the left to the kitchen.

I figured "Sitti" would be in there, shuffling through yesterday's groceries in the refrigerator or washing dishes. And she was.

She figured I would be up soon to go "tarid". And I was.

"Kont bidee asa7eekee bes fakrt, 'khaleeha tnaam.'" She always said that.

I kissed her "deeree balik," and headed out the kitchen door, dodging the hanging, drying laundry; and un-noseily floating passed the awakening windows of the neighbors' living room; climbing up the broken stairs, passed the "shajar-house" and shajrt il lemon.

At the border of the street corner, I started to prepare myself for my inaugural "daraj" run, and used that focus to lose focus of the drive-by starers who simultaneously wonder and figure that this redhead girl must be a Palestinian visiting from Amreeka, and coming from dar il Shamali. And I continued up, toward il Mutala3.

I left Samear sleeping: ***Let him sleep. Those boys have been staying up pretty late, and this is his vacation. Let him stay sunk into takhto, ta7t il Falasteenee farsha wl i7ram, u bayn a7lam that now likely include Palestinian girls and land and trees and "shajar-houses."***

This was my run anyway--the daraj were mine--this sunrise is mine--a wakening At-Tur is me.

I arrived.

The daraj had left.

I stood, stunned on the former first/sixtieth stair, and stared.

I looked beyond at the Israeli flag that marked the Israeli company that was based at the bottom of the staircase. I looked beyond at Falasteen, at the highway to the right of me, and the Golden Dome shimmering in the now-risen sun and beckoning pilgrims, tourists, innocents, and evils toward her city.

Standing, I stared. Seated, I stared.

I attempted to start a make-shift, new-formed daraj run, but to no avail. Even if the first 10 were there, the subsequent sets were not. And this was not a roll-in-the-dirt exercise. I was there to descend and climb.

My heart sunk: "Yakhsara."

I turned around, sideswiping the parked cars and tourist bus that were still sleeping in the parking lot. I walked up with heavy step passed the lion insignia and toward the bend, staring at the forests and lands before me as I shifted toward the right. I greeted the lamp poles with a swing, as I treaded on the narrow side pocket which held dirt and rocks and trash and settlements of grass.

I was at il Mutala3, and I started down the hill, exchanging smiles with some of the women and girls, now awake, and going somewhere. I kept focus off the drive-by starers who had seen me before and still wondered. I cut the corner by Duko's store, and hop-walked down the white sidewalk on the right side of the street. I descended the stairs passed Aunti Layla's house and the lemon trees and the "shajar-house" and the make-shift playground, and the single step that caught those unfamiliar and unfamilial off-guard. I walked passed the stirring salon and the mostly-dried laundry, and I opened the screen door to an empty kitchen. Well, almost empty--the jelly was there waiting for me to put it away.

"Meeeeeeeen?!?!?!" I didn't respond. "MEEEEEEEEEEN 3al bab?!"

"Ana, ana."

"Ya3?! Taradti, khalasti?"

"La. Hadoo il daraj. Daraji ra7. Ishee bikhzee."

"U laysh?"

"Ba3rfsh, shikilhom bidhom ybano daraj jdeed."

And there my annoyances and I plopped, next to il Shamaleeya, who was counting the beads on her masba7a and saying quick prayers on every one, interrupting herself to tell me a story or to ask me about Samear or to tell me to eat kirshela or notifying me again about the secret ma3mol basket in the stand-alone closet in her room or telling me, "kaman shway, immik, Majeeeeda b ttsl."

And I stared out from il shubak 3a Shari3 il Khala: I frowned that my Palestine summers would never be the same.

I looked back at il Shamaleeya, lit by the 7 AM sun, and I smiled that my Palestine summers were staring back at me and, in between beaded prayers, sneakily winking and spiriting, "the less the staircases, the more of you for me." Her eyes hugged me with laughter on the left and history on the right, and whispered, "you'll be alright."

"Roo7ee fay2ee Samear, khalee yakol." She always said that.

***Allah yir7amik ya 7abibtna ya mukhtara ya sayf Falasteen, ya Shamaleeya***