Islah - the warden would shout on the loudspeaker, `A visitor for Salina Ibrahim El-Musa.' I would straighten my clean clothes which I had washed especially for the occasion, put on my plastic shoes and walk proudly to the barbedwire fence. There they would be: my father haj Ibrahim, my brother Mahmoud and my mother hajjeh Amina crying and holding a brown sack of oranges. We would stick our hands to the wire and push and push until our palms touched. My mother's hands would be as rough as ever, and endangering my lips I would kiss them through the barbed wire.
I walked through the wide doors into an island of warmth, smoke and noise. The singer's hoarse voice reverberated through the wooden floor. The first glimpse of those who were sitting on the red stools told me who was out hunting tonight. I chose a stool at the far side of the bar to avoid unwanted attention. The owner, who sat on a comfortable chair in the far corner, kept an eye on the numerous waitresses. The girl working behind the bar looked homely in her wide skirt and big blouse; she had a clear, open, unmade-up face that emitted honesty. `Good evening.
`Hello'
`What would you like?'
`Half a pint of apple juice' The colour of apple juice looked like beer so whoever approached me would think that I was open-minded, not an inflexible Muslim immigrant.
Right behind me I was aware of a group of men in their thirties discussing something. I drank some `beer' then turned round. One of them had long ponytailed hair, pleasantly ageing face and a loose smoky-blue shirt. Sixties generation. He pointed at me and asked the man standing next to him something. The two heads met in consultation. I turned to my drink. He was about to smile to me. The pub was full of people congregating in groups. They were talking to each other, but wanting to be noticed. Almost everyone was on the lookout for better options, a better choice than the one leaning on his shoulder and laughing herself silly. Looking at my honeycoloured drink I thought that everything was silly, including buying apple juice and pretending that it was alcohol.
Khairiyya fixed a date for my release. Salim smiled and waved his hands in the air in agreement. I asked for some water. Escorted to my prison room by a guard, I started thinking about the coming Tuesday, when at midnight I should be packed and ready to go. `Go where?' I asked the stained walls. `Where?' Although there wasn't much to pack, I rehearsed the packing tens of times in my head. The most important possession I had was already packed and hanging around my neck like an amulet: my mother's letter and her lock of hair. I sighed and was jerked back to the present by the sight of tomato juice being poured into a glass. The redness of it startled me.
`What?' said the ex-hippy, who was now standing next to me and leaning against the bar.
I shook my head and said, `Nothing' I tried to cheer myself up by summoning a television advertisement. The chocolate ad reminded me of Hamdan. The coffee ad was better, where the couple were about to get together. I took a deep breath and smiled, flashing my teeth as if advertising toothpaste.
Winking at his friends, he asked, `Can I buy you a drink?'
His face had seen better days, and his dark hair was going grey at the temples, but he looked clean and smelt of washing powder. I liked his thin fingers and the ovalshaped fingernails. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I said, `Tomato juice, please.'
`Virgin?' he asked.
`Yes, please.'
He smiled and with a shaky voice ordered the drinks in a south-western accent.
`Where do you come from?'
I foresaw with dread the next few minutes. How many times had I been asked this question since I came to Britain? After years of working in his shop, Max, my boss, still asked, `Where did you say? Shaaam? Hiiimaa?'
`Guess?'
The list, as usual, included every country on earth except my own. `Nicaragua? France? Portugal? Greece? Surely Russia?'
`No. There is a big
I walked through the wide doors into an island of warmth, smoke and noise. The singer's hoarse voice reverberated through the wooden floor. The first glimpse of those who were sitting on the red stools told me who was out hunting tonight. I chose a stool at the far side of the bar to avoid unwanted attention. The owner, who sat on a comfortable chair in the far corner, kept an eye on the numerous waitresses. The girl working behind the bar looked homely in her wide skirt and big blouse; she had a clear, open, unmade-up face that emitted honesty. `Good evening.
`Hello'
`What would you like?'
`Half a pint of apple juice' The colour of apple juice looked like beer so whoever approached me would think that I was open-minded, not an inflexible Muslim immigrant.
Right behind me I was aware of a group of men in their thirties discussing something. I drank some `beer' then turned round. One of them had long ponytailed hair, pleasantly ageing face and a loose smoky-blue shirt. Sixties generation. He pointed at me and asked the man standing next to him something. The two heads met in consultation. I turned to my drink. He was about to smile to me. The pub was full of people congregating in groups. They were talking to each other, but wanting to be noticed. Almost everyone was on the lookout for better options, a better choice than the one leaning on his shoulder and laughing herself silly. Looking at my honeycoloured drink I thought that everything was silly, including buying apple juice and pretending that it was alcohol.
Khairiyya fixed a date for my release. Salim smiled and waved his hands in the air in agreement. I asked for some water. Escorted to my prison room by a guard, I started thinking about the coming Tuesday, when at midnight I should be packed and ready to go. `Go where?' I asked the stained walls. `Where?' Although there wasn't much to pack, I rehearsed the packing tens of times in my head. The most important possession I had was already packed and hanging around my neck like an amulet: my mother's letter and her lock of hair. I sighed and was jerked back to the present by the sight of tomato juice being poured into a glass. The redness of it startled me.
`What?' said the ex-hippy, who was now standing next to me and leaning against the bar.
I shook my head and said, `Nothing' I tried to cheer myself up by summoning a television advertisement. The chocolate ad reminded me of Hamdan. The coffee ad was better, where the couple were about to get together. I took a deep breath and smiled, flashing my teeth as if advertising toothpaste.
Winking at his friends, he asked, `Can I buy you a drink?'
His face had seen better days, and his dark hair was going grey at the temples, but he looked clean and smelt of washing powder. I liked his thin fingers and the ovalshaped fingernails. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, I said, `Tomato juice, please.'
`Virgin?' he asked.
`Yes, please.'
He smiled and with a shaky voice ordered the drinks in a south-western accent.
`Where do you come from?'
I foresaw with dread the next few minutes. How many times had I been asked this question since I came to Britain? After years of working in his shop, Max, my boss, still asked, `Where did you say? Shaaam? Hiiimaa?'
`Guess?'
The list, as usual, included every country on earth except my own. `Nicaragua? France? Portugal? Greece? Surely Russia?'
`No. There is a big
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