Where the Streets Had a Name (12 page)

Samy looks bored and is rubbing his hand on his cheek.

‘Does this look like stubble to you?' he asks me in a hopeful voice.

‘More like dust from the road.'

The small talk of the crowd is suddenly cut by voices travelling up the small dusty incline that leads to the bus stand. At first the voices are muffled; slowly, as the distance narrows, there's a different language in the air. The collective mood of the crowd shifts. In a single moment bodies stiffen, ears prickle.

We can't tell whether the people speaking Hebrew are soldiers ready with their guns and fatigues to set up a flying checkpoint and interrogate us. The only Israelis we know are the ones who give us orders. Who map out our lives every day, controlling where we go, whom we see and when we move.

The older people begin to rummage in their pockets, bags and wallets, ready to present their identity cards. The resigned looks on their faces terrifies me. The
shabab
, the teenagers and twenty-something year olds, stand still, their faces defiant. They pretend to look at ease but I can see the tension in their jaws, the stiffness in their backs.

I look over at Samy and for a second I don't recognise him. He has a hardened look in his eyes and the muscles in his neck spring out. In that moment I realise what it means to have a parent alive and yet feel like an orphan. Because while Samy's mother's death couldn't be prevented, his father's life is in the hands of the Israeli army.

In a moment, all is revealed. A middle-aged man and woman emerge over the hill. The woman has a mass of brown curls that bobs up and down as she walks. The man's hair is slicked back into a low ponytail, tight black curls jutting out of the elastic band. They aren't wearing military uniforms. They're wearing jeans and T-shirts. Instead of guns they're holding water bottles. Their voices are loud and energetic. They're speaking Hebrew but have shawls in the colours of the Palestinian and Israeli flags draped over their shoulders. Samy and I stand in awe, watching without moving.

They approach us, smiling as though it's the most natural scene in the world. Then they greet us in fluent Arabic, introducing themselves as David and Molly. Molly's eyes are crinkled and kind. She smiles easily, her self-confidence obvious in the way she holds her back straight, her neck swanlike. David, on the other hand, seems slightly tense. Pigeon-chested with an almost grey face, he has large midnight-blue eyes that have a sheen of desperation over them. He smiles anxiously, as if longing to be understood by us, to be trusted. In that moment, his vulnerability makes me feel powerful. Rarely have I been on this end of a seesaw, high in the air while the other person's feet scrape the floor, looking up at me to shift the balance. I don't want to let go of this feeling. For an ugly moment, I want David to grovel.

A couple of the younger men and women in the crowd look at David and Molly curiously, some with suspicion and apprehension.

‘What do you mean by wearing that shawl?' one asks. ‘You're Israelis.'

‘Yes, but
against
the occupation,' David says with a nervous laugh.

Ahh
. Heads nod in acknowledgement. It's not unusual for us to meet international as well as Jewish peace activists visiting the West Bank, offering their solidarity by planting olive trees, staging vigils at checkpoints or at the Wall, mediating with settlers on behalf of people who are prevented from accessing their land.

‘We're peace activists,' Molly says, ‘on our way to Jerusalem.'

‘So why don't you take the Israeli-only bypass road?' I exclaim. ‘It's much quicker. It's direct!' I suddenly feel excited for them. Maybe they don't know that as Jews they can easily travel to Jerusalem. I feel as though I'm revealing a wonderful truth to them.

‘We're on checkpoint watch,' Molly says.

Samy and I look at each other and back at them. Our looks clearly indicate that we think they're crazy.

The service minibus destined for Jerusalem via Wadi Al-Nar arrives moments later, and Samy and I cheer.

‘
Ahlan
, welcome to the service!' Samy sings, twirling and dancing on the spot. ‘God bless the service!'

He grabs my hand and we dance the
dabka
, twirling a tissue in the air as we kick and step around our audience. Some of the people look at us and laugh.

We pay for our tickets and board, taking our seats at the rear. The service is typically rundown with the seats almost reduced to springs, the left-hand mirror absent and the driver's ashtray overflowing. A large vanity mirror like the one Mama uses when she plucks her eyebrows is Scotch-taped into the empty frame of what was once a rear-view mirror. Photographs of three grinning children and a stern-looking elderly man wearing traditional Palestinian dress are stuck on the dashboard.

Molly and David climb on board and sit on the seats in front of us. David is so tall he has to hunch himself over as he enters to avoid a nasty bump from the low door. Passengers slowly fill up the service until we're a total of eight. Everybody introduces themselves,
Assalamu alaikom
s ringing through the air.

‘I must first check the water and play with the motor a little,' the bus driver tells us. ‘Here, listen to some music while you wait.'

He turns on the stereo system and Kazem al Saher blasts through the speakers. Samy and I turn our noses up in frustration.

‘He sings classical poetry!' I moan.

‘Put some pop music on!' Samy cries.

The bus driver raises the volume and grins. ‘Pop music? Huh!'

Through the open windows I can hear the driver singing out of tune as he fiddles with the engine, oblivious to the pain he's causing us.

‘We have Israelis with us on the bus,' I whisper to Samy as softly as I can. ‘That means we can probably get through the checkpoints.'

‘They're probably agents,' he hisses into my ear. ‘Like the ones that took my father.'

I lean my elbow on my thigh, cup my chin in my hand and study David's profile as he turns and speaks to Molly. I can just see the side of his nose, mouth and eye, all so ordinary. The rough stubble around the pointy chin: it could be the stubble that Baba grows in between breakfast and lunch. Put David in the olive fields, in a pew in the Church of the Nativity, in the bazaar at Manger Square, in a
keffiyeh
, in a
galabiya
, and nobody would know the difference between him and a Christian or a Muslim.

‘The Jews and Arabs are cousins,' my teacher told us. ‘We descend from Prophet Abraham.' But I've never been sure what to do with this piece of information.

‘Where do you come from?' asks a woman who introduces herself as Grace.

‘We were both born in Tel Aviv,' Molly replies in Arabic. ‘But we've been American citizens for the past ten years. We're back for a visit. We're working with a human rights watch group.'

‘But you both speak Arabic fluently,' a young woman called Nirvine remarks.

‘We've studied Arabic,' David says.

‘They have television accents,' Samy whispers in my ear as David explains where they've studied and the Arab countries they've visited. ‘We're Arabs. We know phlegm when we hear it. It's probably part of the training. The American accent is a cover.'

‘They don't look like agents,' I whisper back. ‘She's wearing red nailpolish on her toes and he has an earring in his eyebrow.' I tap my finger against my forehead. ‘Do you think it would hurt?'

‘Even if it did, they're probably used to pain. Part of the training. An earring in the eyebrow is nothing to him.'

One of the men on the service introduces himself as Raghib. He's wearing a thick pair of spectacles and his eyes appear as tiny brown dots. Like Samy's Amo Joseph, he has combed the few strands of hair on his head to the side, but the exposed parts of his balding head are shiny. He looks funny, but when he speaks his voice is gentle.

‘And how is it possible that Israelis can sit here with us, wrapped in the flags of two people?' he asks.

‘We're peace activists,' Molly explains.

‘Ahh! Hippies!' Nirvine says through giggles.

David raises his eyebrows and smiles. ‘Not quite.'

‘So what's your story then?' Grace asks. ‘Sorry to pry, but the majority of Israelis I encounter have guns in their hands.'

‘Well,' David says, running his fingers through his hair, ‘we're here because we report back about the human rights abuses. We don't all support what's happening.'

‘Yes, we know that,' Nirvine murmurs, while several other people clear their throats.

Samy nudges me in the side. ‘Do you think he's lying?'

I shrug, still trying to make up my mind.

‘We want a just peace,' David says.

Molly interrupts. ‘We're here because we care about justice for everyone.'

‘Don't tell us,' Grace says. ‘Go tell your government.'

‘You want me to prove my worth?' David says a little testily. ‘I've paid a price for my beliefs. That's why I live in America now. I was forced to leave my birthplace. I'm a refusenik. I was part of the IDF—'

‘You were part of the army?' I'm shocked.

All eyes are suddenly boring holes into David.

‘You were part of the army?'

‘The IDF?'

‘You were part of the occupation?'

David sits upright in his chair. ‘Yes, conscription is compulsory. I was eighteen and had to enlist.'

‘David, you were part of the army?'

‘David, are we terrorists?'

Raghib roars at us to be quiet. ‘Let him finish!' he hollers. ‘Let him tell his story.'

‘Yes, let him finish.'

‘We're being rude.'

‘Let him talk.'

‘Let us be quiet and let David speak.'

David fidgets in his seat. ‘And I thought Jews were the only people who spoke over each other,' he says softly.

For a moment there's blank silence and then, as glances are exchanged among the passengers, an eruption of laughter. From that moment, something in the air changes.

‘Yes, I was part of the IDF,' he continues, his voice relaxing. ‘I grew up believing in a land without a people for a people without a land. Don't mistake me. I believe in Israel. That may offend you but it's who I am. But I'm against what's happening. I just want to do what I can in my own way.'

‘You believe in one people taking over the land of another people?' Grace asks.

David runs his fingers through his hair again. ‘Look, it's complicated, I know. I don't have all the answers. I just want the occupation to end and then we can talk about how to sort out this mess.'

Nirvine smiles at him. ‘Well, it's good to have people like you supporting us.'

‘They have fallen for him, naive fools,' Samy whispers to me. I tell him to shut up as I want to hear what David has to say.

‘When I was in Gaza we took over a Palestinian home that was in a strategic position. The family had no choice in the matter. We arrived and forced our way in. We ordered the family to live on the bottom floor, a family of nine in one living room. We took the second level and the rooftop. Some of the soldiers trashed the rooms. They thought it was fun to write on the walls and mirrors and ransack the family's belongings. It sickened me when I saw they had written
Gas the Arabs
on one of the walls.'

‘I've seen that,' Nirvine says quietly. ‘On a wall in Hebron.'

‘When they wanted to use the toilet they had to ask our permission,' David continues, ‘as the toilet was on the second floor. One day, the father needed to use the bathroom. Some of the other soldiers teased and taunted him. They made him wait.' He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. ‘I watched as the inevitable happened. The man broke, and the wet patch spread right before the eyes of his children. But it is his eyes that will haunt me forever . . . That night I refused to serve for a minute longer. I was arrested, eventually tried, and sentenced to a prison term of seven months.'

My skin prickles as David speaks. I imagine strange men in my home strapped with machine guns, sleeping in my bed, smoking on my rooftop, telling me when I can use my bathroom. I try to picture him in his army fatigues. But I can't. I can only see the face of one of the bravest people I've ever met. I'm momentarily overcome with mixed emotions. It's less complicated to think of all Israelis as my oppressors. It's less complicated to resent them all.

‘I don't envy your soldiers their power for one moment.' These words are spoken by a middle-aged man sitting in front of David and Molly. He introduces himself as Marwan. He has earphones dangling down his chest, the faintest sound of rock music streaming into his ears. He is wearing jeans, a striped pastel blue shirt and a chunky gold necklace. His shoes fascinate me: scaly grey leather so pointed at the front I think he might be able to reach the dashboard with the slightest flick of his foot. Propped up against the window beside him is a large
oud
case. ‘You know something?' he says. ‘I'm afraid for the future of your children just as much as I'm afraid for the future of mine.'

Grace shifts in her seat, fanning herself with her purse. ‘I don't pity them,' she says. ‘I see the way they look at us at the checkpoints and roadblocks, like animals to be herded. Why should I pity them, ya Marwan? I am sorry, David and Molly, but there is no room in my heart any more to care for those who sit on the stolen tops of our mountains, watching us as though we're insignificant cockroaches, mere nuisances to their aims and claims.'

‘And that is why,' Marwan says, ‘the occupation steals from the humanity of the occupier
and
the occupied. We are all losers.'

Grace purses her lips and then, her voice taut, says: ‘Perhaps. But I did not ask for my land to be occupied, and to be honest I don't care about my
attitude
when I find it difficult to feed my children, have a normal life and give my children a safe future. It will never end, I tell you. Sometimes I feel I have given up hoping.'