Palestine: Crossing The Border (cont.)
A few side streets later we arrive at a mural of a spread-eagled Israeli soldier and a little girl in a pink dress frisking him; a little girl is emasculating a big gritty Israeli soldier. I can understand the mural's appeal to Palestinians who are subjected so often to such invasive experiences.
The increasing number of open businesses and pedestrians tells me we are approaching the city center. Elarj stops the car, “one minute, fresh bread for my family, I go home, no more business.”
About five minutes later we stop again. “Center,” says Elarj smiling warmly and pointing. There is a small church to our left and a large sign reading Palestinian Peace Center to our right. A couple cobblestone streets wind up a curving slope towards a densely populated urban market place.
Sandy and I had worried that her shorts would draw unwanted attention from Palestinian Muslims who might interpret them as rude, immodest or promiscuous. To our surprise she draws few disapproving stares, a handful of curious glances, and a sprinkling of giggles from bashful children. We are warmly greeted by almost everyone we pass on the street. Falafel vendors, souvenir sellers, and pedestrians greet us alike. A barrage of "welcomes!" rains down upon us to a point where it becomes difficult to reciprocate each individual’s hearty greeting.
Sandy ducks into a small convenience store to buy some water. While I wait outside, a man with a silver tray overflowing with steaming cups of tea and coffee offers me a drink. Though I have already had two cups this morning, I do not want to refuse this gesture of hospitality. I smile, and moments later he produces a small chair. The coffee is served in a nearly melting thin plastic cup. The cardamom and chocolate aroma soothe my still tense nerves. A tune reminiscent of a Mr. Softie truck, catches my ear, and I look up and notice small blue pickup truck chugging up the grey cobbled hill before me. Instead of ice cream it carries propane that the driver and his young son dispense to local businesses. Sandy emerges with a smile and perspiring bottle water. We trade beverages; and just as we start to let our guard down, a faded poster on a boarded green door provides a gentle reminder as to where we are. The poster features four men posing confidently with their automatic weapons, black mustaches draped over thin smiles. I can’t read the Arabic but I think I get the idea.
We spot a few other tourists; but mostly the streets are crowded with gregarious locals bustling through daily tasks. One man stirs an enormous vat of yellow beans. He catches my intrigued gaze and offers a handful. Usually I’m wary of street foods, but my curiosity gets the better of me, and I chomp a few of the bright yellow beans. I thank him in English and then ask how to say “thank you” in Arabic, “Shukran,” he replies with a broad toothy smile. We wind our way up the small streets and stumble upon a woman’s art cooperative with fantastically ornate woven designs. Vibrant blue and midnight black geometric shapes burst from the fabrics. I never realized a pillowcase could be so stunning.
The sun rides low in the sky signaling we ought to be heading back to the border soon. As we stroll back down the grey cobblestones, a young man who speaks perfect English convinces us to enter his small shop.
“Just come and look,” he says, and for the first time these words coming from the mouth of a beckoning shop keeper seem to be uttered with sincerity and pride. So we do. Inside, the shop is crammed with ceramic plates decorated with blue Arabic writing, colorful candles, and clothes adorned with the name Bethlehem. Moments later the shopkeeper has summoned a man who sells golden cake dripping with honey and topped with almonds. He insists we try some and explains that they both come from the same village. The shopkeeper tells us of his dreams to go to law school in Iowa. He articulates the difficulties for Palestinians trying to leave, but his tone is self-assured, and he seems confident he will eventually achieve his goal.
We are anxious to get back to the border before nightfall and cut our conversation short. The alluring aroma of fresh falafel tantalizes us as we hurry back to the main square in search of a cab. We can’t resist the temptation and grab a couple for the road. As we sink our teeth into the still steaming green balls, tahini seeping out of our stuffed mouths, I glance back up the street that had seemed so foreign and ominous before. I notice the shopkeepers pulling down shutters and packing up their goods as the sun begins to dip behind the white Jerusalem stone buildings turning them gold. One man holds a giant red, white and blue towel. I do a double take; is that an American flag? I look back a third time. The young man wears a white t-shirt with the words Express Yourself in bubble letters across his chest. What a photo I think and make the exaggerated clicking motion with my pointer finger, the international sign for “Can I take your picture?” The man’s warm countenance freezes immediately into an icy stare. We walk away.
We hail a cab and bargain the driver down to ten shekels to the border. Back at the giant gray wall I see a red graphic that I hadn’t noticed before, an enormous rose-colored hand reading Five fingers of the same hand with the words Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist written below each finger. A child tries to sell us a stack of generic Jerusalem postcards, calling out in English “No money, no honey, no wifey no lifey.” We smile and rush passed him. He hangs his head and stomps in frustration, the theatrics more for his own benefit than for ours, “Nobody wants to buy!” he adds. We walk back though the walled corridor. Through the steel bars I can make out the word Apartheid, scrawled against the wall in large green block letters. I hadn’t noticed that on the way in. Finally, as we head back to Israel, a mural depicting a black skull and cross bones barks a morose farewell at us, Israeli Occupation, the caption reads.
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