The Kites Are Flying Read online

  Contents

  1st May 2008

  2nd May

  3rd May

  4th May

  For the children who live on both sides of

  the wall, who will one day bring it tumbling

  down. No guns or trumpets needed. MM

  For Maia, Molly and Smudge. LC

  Ist May 2008

  Nearly midnight. Gruesome hotel. Jerusalem airport.

  Wish I wasn’t here. Sometimes I really do wonder why I write a diary at all. It’s useful enough I suppose when I’m actually filming – helps me to remember details I might forget, the sequence of events, and so on. But on nights like this I know I’m doing it just out of habit. I’ve written in my diary every day since I can remember. I can see the point of it after the truly memorable days, but then I would probably remember those anyway. The truth is that there have been so many days I just want to forget. Days like today.

  Traffic jams all the way to the airport. Late arriving. Ages checking in. Plane delayed anyway, so I needn’t have expended all that fury and frustration. Can’t those security people at least try to smile while they’re rifling through your bag? I mean, what’s their problem? Then we had to fly into the most violent turbulence I’ve ever known. I should be used to it by now – I do enough flying. But this time I really did think my number was up. Some of the lockers flew open, and the lady next to me started saying her prayers. We didn’t land at Jerusalem. We bumped. Bumpity, bumpity, bump. It was as if the pilot was reverting to his childhood. The plane was a stone he was skimming across a lake. On and on it went, and we were inside it. Then there were more unsmiling security people. Late into this ghastly airport hotel where I know I’m not going to sleep. The sheets and towels stink of chemicals. The only air I can breathe is noisy, because I can’t switch off the air-conditioning.

  When I phoned home for a bit of comfort, Penny said everything was fine. She sounded a bit sleepy, but she said I hadn’t woken her up. Jamie had been a bit hyper apparently when he came home from school, but he was fast asleep now. She’d read him his King Arthur book, again. She told me that Jamie said I read it better than she did. She was a bit miffed about that. But I wasn’t. It made me smile, probably my first smile all day. Makes a fellow feel better to smile. Penny told me she missed me, that she wished I could be at home, and then we wouldn’t have to be phoning each other in the middle of the night. “Max, do you realize what time it is?” she said. She wasn’t cross exactly, but I could tell she didn’t want to talk much after that. I felt very alone after she put the phone down. Still do. Mustn’t get gloomy. Got to sleep. Can’t be gloomy if you’re asleep. Early start tomorrow. Must find out about the buses first thing. The food on the plane was disgusting. I only ate it because it was there, which was pretty stupid. And now I’ve got bellyache.

  Hey, Mahmoud, are you there? Are you there? Can you hear me? I had my beautiful dream again last night, the same dream, about the kites. Uncle Yasser says it is a foolish dream. But it isn’t foolish, is it, Mahmoud?

  You’re always telling me not to listen to old Uncle Gasbag. It’s your dream, that’s what you say. You dream what you want to dream, little brother. I like it when you call me little brother. You know something? You’re not only my big brother, you’re my best friend. Hey, I saw that girl again, the one in the blue headscarf. She was there again today, waving to me, and she was in my dream too. She was waving to me then as well. She does it every time!

  Mahmoud, are you listening? I’m afraid to close my eyes in case I have that nightmare again. You told me the nightmares would go away when the dream comes true. What was it you said? ‘You only dream the beautiful dream, little brother, because of the nightmare. It’s like day always follows night. You can’t have the one without the other. Light is only light,’ you said, ‘when you’ve seen how dark the dark is’. I still don’t understand that, Mahmoud. There’s a lot you tell me I don’t really understand. But I don’t mind. I like it when you talk to me. I like it so much. Will you fly my kite with me tomorrow? Will you be there under the kite tree?

  It’s the same every time I have to go to bed. I want to go on talking to you all night long, Mahmoud. I suppose I shouldn’t talk to you as much as I do – you must get fed up with me – but there’s no one else I can talk to, no one else I want to talk to either, no one else who knows, no one else who was there. You are my big brother, 12 years old – that’s four years older than me – and I tell you everything. I’m always thinking about you, even when I’m not talking to you. I’m so proud of you – the fastest runner in the whole village! But you’re more than just my big brother, you’ve been the father of the family too, since Father was taken away by the occupiers and put in a prison camp back when I was little. We haven’t seen him since. So you have had to help out on the farm with Uncle Yasser, Uncle Gasbag.

  Everything you have ever planted grows well – Uncle Yasser says it’s your green fingers. Broad beans, aubergines, sunflowers, olives, lemons – they all grow. But you have always liked the sheep best of all, sitting on the hillside all day long, looking after the sheep. You know all of them, and they know you. They love you and they trust you. It’s like you’re their big brother too. I like being out there with you and the sheep, Mahmoud. I like feeling the warm wind on my face, and smelling the wild thyme. We lie there watching the hawks hovering on the wind. We talk, we laugh, we dream. You are a dreamer too, like me. I think we even dream the same dreams.

  But we don’t lie out there on the hillside just dreaming. We make our kites, and we fly them. When I hold the spool and let out the string, you race out over the hillside, whooping and yelling as the kite catches the wind. Then it’s up there, and flying high. You make the kite swoop and soar, again and again. Sometimes it crashes into a tree, or dives into the hillside. You are always angry with yourself then, and won’t speak to me. But after a while, when you’ve calmed down, I tell you that maybe we should just mend it, or make another one, and we do. Each one we make is better than before – different, bigger, smaller, with a longer tail maybe, or a shorter one. They’re all painted different colours too, some like birds, some like butterflies, some even like fish. On summer evenings the whole village comes out to watch us. They stand there, gazing up into the sky and loving our kites as much as we do. It’s the only time we can forget all our troubles and sadnesses, and just be happy again, for a while anyway.

  You remember that afternoon, Mahmoud, when I asked you why kites seem to make everyone so happy, why people laugh out loud when they see them soaring up there in the sky. I remember every word you told me, Mahmoud, as if it was yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday, it was two years ago next week.

  ‘Every time I fly a kite, little brother, I’m thinking it’s me up there, and that I’m far away from all this down here, far away from the soldiers and the checkpoints and the tanks. Up there I’m out of it. I go wherever the wind takes me, and no one can stop me. No soldiers, no checkpoints, no tanks,’ you said.

  And then you were angry, Mahmoud. Whenever you talked about the occupiers you always got angry. And that time you cried, Mahmoud. You cried because you were so angry. ‘Why do they keep Father in prison, Said?’ you asked me. ‘Tell me that, Said. Why do they come here and take our lands? Why do they treat us like donkey muck? Why can’t they just go home and leave us in peace?’ Then you told me about the soldier. ‘I want to tell you something, Said’, you said. ‘It happened yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about it. I saw this soldier. He was down at the checkpoint, and I was coming across the road driving the sheep. He was looking straight down the barrel of his rifle into my eyes. Then I saw his face under the helmet. I couldn’t believe it, he didn’t look any older than me. I’m thinking, You’r
e someone’s son too. I’m thinking, one day you’re going to kill me maybe, and you won’t even know why you’re doing it. Do you know what I did then? I smiled at him. I didn’t want to look frightened, so I smiled at him, just to show him. He smiled back, I promise you he did, even gave me a wink. So then I’m thinking that they can’t be all bad, these occupiers. There’s the girl in the blue headscarf who waves to me over the wall sometimes, and this soldier. That’s two. So if they’re not all bad, and we’re not all bad, why can’t the good ones on both sides just get together and sort it all out? Then the soldiers could all go home, and Father could be let out of prison and come home to us, and everything would be right again.’ There were tears running down your cheeks and I remember you brushed them away with the back of your hand. ‘I miss Father, Said,’ you said. ‘Sometimes I miss him so much that it hurts.’

  You know the honest truth, Mahmoud? I hardly remember Father. He’s been gone so long. I know him mostly from those photos Mother shows me. But I don’t like looking at them, because Mother always cries when she talks about him, and I hate it when she does that. When she cries it’s like my whole head is filling up with tears, like it’s bursting with sadness. I like it much better when you tell me about Father, because you’ve told me so many funny stories about him. I love it when I’m sitting under the kite tree and thinking about the things you told me about him, how Father taught you everything you know: how to make kites, how to plant broad beans, how to whistle the sheep in, how to play football. I remember I told you once you were rubbish at football, and you wrestled me onto my back and sat on top of me, threatening to tickle me to death unless I took it back. So I took it back. ‘Anyway, little brother, do you think anyone at Barcelona or Manchester United makes better kites than me?’ That’s what you said. Then you tickled me half to death, and we rolled over and over, screeching and giggling. We looked up and there were all the sheep staring at us as if we were completely mad, which made us laugh all the more. We laugh a lot, don’t we, Mahmoud? I love to hear you laugh.

  Mahmoud? Are you there? I was thinking about you again this afternoon, under the kite tree. It’s a good place for thinking. But I talk to you best when I’m in bed at night, don’t I? I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s more secret. But the kite tree’s my favourite place in the whole world. I love that old tree. Uncle Gasbag says it’s the oldest tree on the hillside, at least ten grandfathers old. That’s why it’s all twisted and crooked, just like he is. It’s the best shade on the whole farm, so the sheep love it too. We’ve put a lot of kites together under that tree, haven’t we? It’s our kite tree, yours and mine, Mahmoud. That’s why it’s the place I most love to be, because you’re always there. And that’s where I was this afternoon, when I first saw him.

  I could see someone walking along the road down in the valley. He’d just got off the bus. I knew right away he wasn’t one of us. None of us would wear a hat like that. And I knew he wasn’t an occupier from the settlement on the other side of the wall. They don’t wear hats like that either. He kept stopping every now and again to look around him, as if it was all new to him, as if he was a stranger.

  Then he saw me, saw the sheep, and the kite tree. He turned off the road and began climbing up the hillside towards me. He had a rucksack on his back, and that silly hat on his head, and he had some kind of equipment slung over his shoulder. And I’m thinking, He’s one of those television reporters, that’s what he is. We see them coming through the village often enough, don’t we? But usually they’re in Land Rovers, and usually there’s lots of them. But this one was alone, and on foot. And I thought, I don’t want him to come any closer. He’s going to disturb the sheep, I know he is. They’re already getting up and moving away. They don’t like strangers any more than I do. Best to stay where I am and ignore him. I’ll get on with my kite and hope he’ll just go away. But then I thought that maybe, before he goes away, I might get some chocolate off him. Television people are always fair game for chocolate, and sometimes dollars too, if you’re lucky. I know how it works: if you want to get lucky with these reporter guys, then you have to smile at them, and do it as if you mean it. You have to call them ‘Mister’ too – you told me that, Mahmoud, remember? I can’t call him ‘Mister’, but I can look up at him and smile.

  When I did, I saw he was just a few steps away from me, taking off his silly hat, and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He was all puffed out from the climb. He took off his rucksack, and put all his equipment down on the ground right beside me.

  I’m telling you, Mahmoud. He’s got the coolest camera I’ve ever seen in all my life! I didn’t want chocolates any more. I didn’t even want dollars. I just wanted to hold that camera. I wanted to make a movie with it. I love movies. You love movies too, don’t you, Mahmoud. ET, Shrek. I liked Shrek 2 best. The donkey – I love that donkey.

  Are you there, Mahmoud? Are you there?

  2nd May

  Roof of village house (don’t yet know the name of the village, will find out tomorrow) West Bank. 11.10 p.m.

  Now I know why I make films. I need reminding sometimes, and today has reminded me. It’s to capture moments, great moments, so that they are held for ever on film, so that one fleeting day does not simply merge into the next fleeting day, and become part of the blur of existence. I feel tonight as if I’m really living inside a story, that I’m a part of it. I’m no longer merely reporting on it. I’m not sure this has ever happened to me quite like this before.

  I have the night sky starry above me, and I’m writing by torchlight. These are the same stars that were shining over 2,000 years ago, on the first Christmas night. That was the picture of this land that I grew up with as a child – it was a place of shepherds and angels and stables and stars. Of course I’ve learnt since that the Holy Land wasn’t at peace then, and it most certainly isn’t now. The images are all too familiar: the bombed-out buses, the tanks and soldiers in the streets, the stone-throwing children, the masked gunmen marching, the hilltop settlements, the squalor of the refugee camps, the funerals, the burials, the grief. But I’m here for the wall. It’s the wall more than anything that has haunted me. It’s the wall that has brought me here.

  It all depends on how old you are. For some people it is the television footage of the assassination of President Kennedy, or the pictures of Neil Armstrong stepping down onto the surface of the moon. For others it might be Nelson Mandela walking out of prison in South Africa, or it might be those planes slamming into the Twin Towers of Manhattan. For most of us there is a happening we have witnessed at an impressionable time of our lives that we shall never forget. For me as a youngster, it was sitting on the floor with a bunch of college friends, watching in utter astonishment as the Berlin Wall came tumbling down in front of our eyes. It was the day when people decided enough was enough, and they wanted to be free. They climbed up onto the wall, and began to pull it down with their bare hands, this wall that had divided the world for so long, and had brought us to the brink of nuclear war. To see that wall coming down was the single most hopeful, most momentous time of my young life. I wrote about it in my diary, copiously, pages and pages of it, rambling stuff when I read it now, romantic, rapturously optimistic. But I was young then.

  Now another wall has been built – nothing new about walls, of course, Hadrian’s Wall, the Great Wall of China, and plenty of others. But this one is now, and, like the Berlin Wall, the passions it arouses threaten once more to engulf the world in global conflict. I had to come to see it for myself. I want to make a film, tell the story, but from both sides of the wall, Palestinian, then Israeli. I want to find out how it is to live in the shadow of this wall, to tell a story that does not point the finger, that does not accuse, but tells it as it is. That was my plan, and it still is. But today, the first day of filming, hasn’t worked out at all as I’d imagined it would. The totally unexpected has happened.

  I’ve discovered over the years that if you travel by bus or train, you get clo
se to people, get to talk to them if you’re lucky. Cars isolate you. So I’ve been travelling on buses for most of the day. Lots of dust, lots of checkpoints, some filming as I went, but not too much – I didn’t want to attract attention. I did the last leg of my journey up to this village on foot, and that was when I came across the shepherd boy.

  It was late afternoon. He was sitting alone on the hillside under an ancient olive tree with a gnarled and spiralling trunk. He had his sheep all around him. Until that moment I had seen nothing even remotely picturesque in this tragic land, little that reminded me in any way of its Biblical past. All I’d seen were newly built hilltop settlements, green valleys below, and scattered across the landscape as far as the eye could see, small, straggling stone-built villages. And everywhere, there was the wall, snaking its way around the hills, a symbol of oppression and occupation for one side, a protective defensive partition for the other.

  The shepherd boy at once made me forget all that. He was making a kite, and was clearly so intent upon it that he did not even notice me coming. He was whistling softly as I came climbing up the hill towards him, not so much to make a tune, I thought, as to reassure his sheep. When he did look up at me, he showed no surprise or alarm. He looked about the same age as Jamie, perhaps a little older, and had the same sort of smile too, open-hearted and engaging. I felt I couldn’t wander on past him with just a wave, or a meaningless nod of the head. And anyway, I needed a rest after my long and exhausting trudge up the hill. So I stopped, sat down under the tree and offered him a drink out of my rucksack. He shook his head at first, but when I pressed him he took the bottle and drank eagerly. When he handed the bottle back, he said nothing. He wasn’t talkative, but he wasn’t sullen either. When I told him my name, he didn’t seem to want to tell me his. I could see then that he wasn’t a bit interested in me anyway. It was my video camera. He couldn’t take his eyes off my video camera. It’s a new one, the latest Sony, digital, state-of-the-art technology, light, neat, beautifully designed and made; the best I’ve ever worked with. The shepherd boy seemed in awe of it, completely fascinated. I thought that maybe this was the way we might make some kind of contact, a way to get talking, through my video camera. It seemed like a good idea.