Occupied with Kindness

by Sylva Florence (Italy)

Making a local connection Palestine

“Identification,” a young Israeli army soldier said on a sunny December day that illuminated his stern blue eyes. “You two can pass,” he said to my Italian friend Mia and I, returning my American passport. “Seriously?” our Arab driver asked in Hebrew as the soldier’s radio hissed. Our driver suddenly grinned and spoke to the soldier who cracked a smile. “What’s happening?” I asked Mia in Italian. “They’re both named Salim,” she translated as the soldier waved us through. The soldier at the next checkpoint said to Salim, “You can go through. They can't.” Salim rolled his eyes as we turned back, passing a section of wall that divided Israel from Palestine and one side of the city of Hebron from the other. “Hebron was thriving before they built this horrid wall,” Salim said as he kicked it and spat on the ground. We returned via empty streets littered with pro-Israeli paraphernalia and the hauntingly empty market with its abandoned stalls, barbed wire and the occasional vacant-eyed vendor. “How are you going to return to Israel after we part ways in Nablus?” Salim asked as we bought strong, Arabic coffee on the street. The air smelled of cardamom, exhaust and ripe strawberries from a nearby cart. “Public transportation,” Mia answered. “That will be interesting,” Salim said. We wound through 2000-year-old Nablus three days later looking for a sherut, or shared taxi, to Jenin. It wasn’t clear what would happen there, nor was it after we’d hailed a taxi in the Middle Eastern chaos of the Jenin station. Our driver explained in broken English that he could drop us at the checkpoint dividing Palestine from Israel. “I’m Palestinian, no can go.” He shook his head. “How do we get through?” I asked. “Car,” he said, slowing down to hail other drivers. “What’s he doing?” I asked Mia in Italian. “Getting us a ride through the control,” Mia said. The traffic thickened like good hummus until it became the checkpoint queue and here the driver got out to chat with a man hawking homemade cakes. “This man help,” he said as the wiry vendor grinned and began flagging down cars. A woman warily rolled her window down and the man gestured to Mia and I while we smiled. The answer was no. Many cars were packed with goods and others were empty but the drivers all shook their heads. Some windows never rolled down. We’d begun scouring Jenin for rooms when a silver van approached and the driver regarded us while adjusting the flowered scarf covering her hair. She pulled over and we climbed in after the man helped her reorganize bags. He waved away our offer of money with a good-natured smile. “I'm Fatima,” the driver said as we approached the control. “Passports please.” There, a female official glared from them to our faces and into the van windows. She directed Fatima to where other cars were left open like 24-hour diners and we understood why no one else had offered us a ride. After opening the van, we were funneled inside a gray building where our belongings and documents were scrutinized. Then we waited. Awhile later, a soldier approached Fatima and anger rippled across her face. Mia translated the conversation for me as we returned to the van. “He asked, ‘How much did they pay you for the ride? Who was that vendor? Your brother? We see everything.’” “He’s just jerking her around,” I said. Mia nodded as we crossed back into Israel. Fatima pulled over to let us off in Afula about an hour later. She too refused money but I handed her a picture I’d sketched of the three of us and her eyes brimmed with tears. Mia and I walked uphill, free to move about and get on the next bus. I revisited a conversation I had back in Nablus with 20-something Hamid, a Palestinian who spoke perfect English. “I also know Hebrew, Arabic and German,” he said, his coffee brown eyes twinkling. “How'd you learn all those languages?” I asked. “I read constantly,” he said. “In our minds, we are all free.”