Where the Streets Had a Name (15 page)

‘Your ID!' the soldier demands.

The driver pulls his wallet out from his trousers and produces his card.

The soldier looks at it and then throws it back at the driver. He then walks over to the man with the cramps.

‘What problem?' he yells in broken Arabic, towering over the man.

‘Cramps,' the man splutters. ‘I suffer cramps. There was no room—'

‘You not leave bus!' He slaps the man in the face. The impact propels the man a step backwards. He cries out, raising his hand to his cheek.

‘You want trouble?' the soldier yells.

The man stands silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. I want to vomit. My head swims as I watch him avoid eye contact with the soldier.

Then the other soldier approaches. The two soldiers converse quickly in Hebrew and the second soldier says: ‘It's okay. Fix cramps quick. Then back in bus.' His voice is stern but gentle.

Somebody cheers. Another claps. ‘What a good man he is!' somebody exclaims. ‘He is so caring compared to the other one,' another cries.

‘That soldier
was
nice, wasn't he?' I say to Raghib after everybody has calmed down and a quiet has descended over the van.

‘When I was young my father told me a story,' Raghib says in a low voice. ‘Do you want to hear it, Hayaat?' Seeing me nod, he continues. ‘Once upon a time a fisherman went out to sea. He caught many fish and threw them into a large bucket on his boat. The fish were not yet dead, so the man decided to ease their suffering by killing them swiftly. While he worked, the cold air made his eyes water. One of the wounded fish saw this and said to another, “What a kind heart this fisherman has – see how he cries for us.” The other fish replied, “Ignore his tears and watch what he is doing with his hands.” '

 

 

Fifteen minutes pass. The man is pleased to announce that his cramps have gone. Several people praise God. Several curse Middle Eastern summers. Some offer him advice on how to increase magnesium in the blood.

We sit bottled up in the minibus like the bubbles in a shaken can of fizzy drink, waiting to explode.

Twenty-five minutes. Somebody remarks that it's odd to experience cramps in this heat. They usually occur in cold weather, don't they?

Half an hour. David and Molly's heritage is discovered. Oh, the excitement! Peace activists! Israeli peace activists! Such courage, such integrity. Demands for David and Molly to share their stories. Abo Jaffar, a fruit grocer, offers David and Molly some apples and pears from the boxes he has squeezed under his seat and balanced on his lap. ‘
Itfadalo
. You are welcome,' he says, urging them to eat. So they crunch on an apple and pear each and we hear about the time they helped a family to harvest their fruit orchards in the face of settlers who had tried to prevent them from entering their land. Some trees poisoned. Some shots fired. Then there was the time Um Mazen's house was demolished because she had no permit. They could not stop the demolition. Actually, maybe that was not such an interesting story to tell, they remark. What about the summer camp for Israeli and Palestinian children in Jaffa?

What a lovely idea!

This is what we need more of!

Yes, the children spent one week together on the beach, at historical sites, in the bazaars, playing sports, doing art and craft.

Good. Good. Very good.

I try not to be jealous.

An hour. Could we not open the windows any further? No, that is as far as they open.

Well then damn the flies and peace talks.

One hour and ten minutes. A signal. A soldier flicks his finger and our driver laughs and turns the ignition on. The service rolls forward a few metres, and then the driver is ordered to stop. The ignition is turned off.

Play the
oud
!

Marwan beams. But then we realise there's no room for we're squashed, squashed, squashed.

I stare at the blindfolded men crouched on the ground. It seems such a normal sight because their presence doesn't raise a stir among the passengers in the minibus.

I wonder what the men have done. It can't be too serious as there's only one soldier standing guard over them and he doesn't look too concerned. Have they been caught with the wrong papers? The possibility sends a shiver through my body, given that we're about to do the same thing to try and enter Jerusalem.

Two hours. It's now three o'clock.

Marwan has dozed off, his head rolling sideways and forwards. The sun swells. There are no white or brown faces, just red ones. Samy fidgets as best as he can. I try to count the number of lines on Raghib's shirt.

We will ourselves to be patient. I marvel at how many people trust in God when all I can think about is stabbing the soldiers' eyes out with their black sunglasses and quenching my thirst with one of Abo Jaffar's pears. Molly marvels too, but for different reasons. During a conversation about her nephew's Bar Mitzvah, she somehow reveals that she's an agnostic. The passengers are suddenly in a frenzy.

‘But you're Jewish!'

‘Ya Molly, give thanks to
Him
who shaped you in your mother's womb.'

‘So what do you say when you stub your toe?' That's Samy, who dislikes church but believes in God in the same way I dislike school but believe in education.

Molly admits to saying
oh my God
in times of crisis or toe-stubbing. Samy looks triumphant. ‘Aha! So you do believe in God!'

‘Yes! Yes! Good point, ya Samy,' Grace cries.

‘He got you!' somebody exclaims with glee.

Molly's crinkled eyes sparkle as she giggles. ‘You all sound like Orthodox Jews. Perhaps you might have more in common with them than I do! If there is a God, he certainly has the best lawyers sitting here in this bus.'

‘But there are no lawyers here,' Samy says, looking puzzled. ‘Is anybody here a lawyer?'

‘Teacher!'

‘Glass maker!'

‘Engineer!'

‘Student!'

‘Bored housewife,' one woman says, provoking laughter among the passengers.

I stare at Molly, curious to meet an agnostic for the first time in my life. She notices me staring and smiles. Not wanting to be impolite, I explain to her that I've been staring because she's an agnostic and not because I want to make her feel uncomfortable. There's something about Molly I really like – she always seems to have a big fat laugh itching to escape her crooked, pink mouth. Before she can answer, Samy dives in.

‘Yes, but we proved she's not an agnostic, Hayaat! She fell over her words and can't pull them back into her mouth now. They're out there with witnesses who can all testify that she calls on God when she stubs her toe.'

‘My goodness, Samy!' Molly exclaims. ‘It turns out we do have a lawyer in the bus after all.'

Samy still thinks she's a
Shabak
agent. Maybe that's why he tries to hide the grin spreading over his face.

The tail back of cars builds up. The long queue moves slowly. Sometimes there's no action. No papers being checked, no cars being allowed through, the soldiers standing around like bored employees, perhaps grumbling to each other about low wages or annoying bosses.