A Moment of Ecstasy

by Luke Oades (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Palestine

I ran back to my house as quickly as I could with my friend Lottie, hurriedly passing teenage boys with slingshots and women using their hijabs to cover their faces from the tear gas. This was Hebron on Land Day in 2018, and a series of deaths and injuries from rioting in Gaza had immediately spilled into unrest on the streets beside the Old City. A boy of about 18 was being carried off by his friends after taking a rubber bullet to the thigh, and a couple of burning tyres and a skip pushed on its side formed a temporary roadblock right beside a well allegedly used by Abraham back in nicer days. Earlier on this day, a squad of Israeli soldiers had stood on a rooftop above a checkpoint, protecting the zone behind from the protestors who would consistently run up, launch rocks from slingshots and then recede instantly into the background. Every minute or two the soldiers fired sound grenades, tear gas canisters and (occasionally) rubber bullets onto the streets below in failed attempts to disburse all those who had gathered. Aware of their failure, and possibly embarrassed by one Palestinian child - no older than 12 or 13 - who had just successfully thrown an opened tear gas canister back onto the rooftop from which it originated, these soldiers decided to take to the streets to end the tension instead. Two teams of soldiers now ran down adjacent roads, causing many to flee, and as I saw one team fire rubber bullets sporadically into an alleyway, I and my friend froze against a wall and waited for them to pass us. We immediately dashed back to our house, and as we did so I rushed passed a middle-aged woman lying in a dark corner by an alley, attempting to remain shielded from all the events unfolding around her. Thankfully, my friend Lottie did not pass by so carelessly, and she stopped and shouted to me to come over. I saw the woman, and I now noticed that the red in her eyes had not been caused by the tear gas, the smell of which still hung faintly in the air. She was crying, clutching her two young children tightly - one in each arm - and quivering as she spoke to my friend about her predicament. She had lost her husband in the demonstration and could not seem to contact him. Unable to return to her house without him and scared for his wellbeing, I suggested that we ought to return to the Old City and find him, for two Europeans, an Arab mother and two little boys would hopefully be nobody's target in a day of conflict between Palestinians frustrated with Israeli expansionism and Israeli soldiers struggling to keep the peace. Lottie immediately agreed, and we all made our way back towards the Old City. The neighbourhood appeared more still than before, yet the fragility of the atmosphere was undeniable. Lottie held the hand of one of the young boys, consoling the distraught mother in Arabic whilst I walked ahead with the other boy, scouring the scene for her husband. Lottie's sense of compassion for the children was evident not only to myself but also to the mother, and it was clear that the brevity of their encounter had not prevented a deep connection forming between the two. So glad at having met someone so friendly and so calm, the mother even let out a hint of a smile as we walked; an unexpected glimmer of happiness on an otherwise dark day. Their heart-warming interaction was surpassed only a few minutes later by the approaching of the woman's delighted husband. As their family reunited in a moment of ecstasy, the mother and Lottie grinned at each other with a sense of relief greater perhaps than either of them realised they would feel. Just as their maternal instincts had immediately bonded these two very different women, so too the father now turned to me after I had helped lead them across the town, and he smiled with a warmth which meant more than any words could. It was then that I first appreciated how strong a brief connection could be.