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A R T S & C R A F T S S HORT S TORY • M I CHAEL MORPURGO No Trumpets Needed Saeed was flying the kite of peace. Iam a cameraman. I work on my own. It’s how I like it. I was on the West Bank a few weeks ago, my first job in the bitter cauldron of contention that is the Middle East. Of course I had seen on television, like most of us, the burnt-out buses, the ritual humiliation at checkpoints, the tanks in the streets, the stone-throwing crowds, the olive groves and the hilltop settlements – and now, the wall. I knew the place in images, I was there to make more of them, I suppose. I began my travels on the Palestinian side. I had been there only a couple of days when I first came across a shepherd boy. He was sitting alone on a hillside under an olive tree with his sheep grazing all around him. I had seen nothing remotely picturesque in this land until that moment, nothing until now that reminded me in any way of its biblical past. The shepherd boy was making a kite, so intent upon it that he had not noticed my approach. When he did look up he showed no surprise or alarm. His smile was openhearted and engaging. I could not bring myself to pass by with a mere greeting or a paltry nod of the head. So I sat down and offered him a drink out of my rucksack. He drank gratefully, eagerly, but said nothing. I patted my camera, told him who I was, shook his hand. I tried to communicate in English, then in the very few words of Arabic I had picked up. His smile was the only reply I got. When I began to film him he seemed unconcerned, disinterested even. We shared what food we had. He took a great fancy to some Scottish shortbread I’d brought with me from back home, and he gave me some of his pine nuts. And we shared our silence too, both of us knowing instinctively that this was fine, as good a way as any to get to know one another. When evening came and he stood up and began to whistle his sheep home, I knew he expected me to go with him, like one of his sheep. Later, I found myself sitting in his house, surrounded by his huge extended family, all talking amongst 60 Resurgence No. 258 January/February 2010

each other and watching me, not with hostility, but certainly with some suspicion. It was an unsettling experience. But the boy, I noticed, still said nothing. He was showing everyone the progress he had made with his kite. I could see that he was a much-treasured child. When the boy came and sat himself down beside me, I knew he was showing me off. I was his guest, and I felt suddenly honoured by that, and moved by his affection. Then, much to my surprise one of the men spoke to me directly, and in good English. “I am Saeed’s uncle,” he began. “You are most welcome in our home. Saeed would want to say this himself, but he does not speak. Not any more. There was a time when you could not stop him. “It happened two years ago,” he went on. “Mahmoud was flying his kite on the hill. It was before they built the wall. Mahmoud was Saeed’s elder brother. He loved to make kites. He loved to fly kites. Saeed was with him. He was always with him. “That day, a settler’s car had been ambushed down in the valley. Three of them were killed. One was a little girl. Afterwards the soldiers came, and the helicopters. There was some shooting. Maybe it was a revenge killing. Maybe it was a stray bullet.Who knows? Mahmoud was shot dead, and Saeed saw it all. Since this day he does not speak. Since this day he does not grow. God willing he will, God willing. But you make the best kites, don’t you Saeed? And Saeed’s kites are not ordinary kites.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Maybe he will show you that himself. Maybe he will fly this kite for you tomorrow. This one is ready to fly, I think. But the wind must always be from the east, or Saeed will not fly his kites.” I spent the night under the stars, on the roof of the house. I was tired but far too troubled to sleep. I was up at dawn and went down into the valley. I wanted to film the sun rising over the wall. Once I’d done that I climbed back up the hill so that I could get a long shot of the wall, tracking it as it sliced obscenely through the olive groves and across the hillside beyond. Dogs barked, and cocks crowed at one another from both sides of the wall. After breakfast I went off with Saeed and his sheep, Saeed carrying his kite, now with its string attached. I doubted he’d be flying it that day ILLUSTRATIONS: LA URA CARLIN Resurgence No. 258 January/February 2010 61

Page Text

A R T S & C R A F T S S HORT S TORY • M I CHAEL MORPURGO

No Trumpets Needed

Saeed was flying the kite of peace.

Iam a cameraman. I work on my own. It’s how I like it. I was on the West Bank a few weeks ago, my first job in the bitter cauldron of contention that is the Middle East. Of course I had seen on television, like most of us, the burnt-out buses, the ritual humiliation at checkpoints, the tanks in the streets, the stone-throwing crowds, the olive groves and the hilltop settlements – and now, the wall. I knew the place in images, I was there to make more of them, I suppose. I began my travels on the Palestinian side.

I had been there only a couple of days when I first came across a shepherd boy. He was sitting alone on a hillside under an olive tree with his sheep grazing all around him. I had seen nothing remotely picturesque in this land until that moment, nothing until now that reminded me in any way of its biblical past. The shepherd boy was making a kite, so intent upon it that he had not noticed my approach. When he did look up he showed no surprise or alarm. His smile was openhearted and engaging. I could not bring myself to pass by with a mere greeting or a paltry nod of the head.

So I sat down and offered him a drink out of my rucksack. He drank gratefully, eagerly, but said nothing. I patted my camera, told him who I was, shook his hand. I tried to communicate in English, then in the very few words of Arabic I had picked up. His smile was the only reply I got. When I began to film him he seemed unconcerned, disinterested even. We shared what food we had. He took a great fancy to some Scottish shortbread I’d brought with me from back home, and he gave me some of his pine nuts. And we shared our silence too, both of us knowing instinctively that this was fine, as good a way as any to get to know one another. When evening came and he stood up and began to whistle his sheep home, I knew he expected me to go with him, like one of his sheep. Later, I found myself sitting in his house, surrounded by his huge extended family, all talking amongst

60 Resurgence No. 258 January/February 2010

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