The lucky ones.

by Bessie O'Dell (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Israel

My left hand quivered as it held my worn-out burgundy passport. ‘So, what do you think of Megan and Harry?’ an elderly lady in my peripheral vision enquired with a wry smile. Early spring sunlight streamed in through the window of the local bus and illuminated her dark eyelashes. She had the slight hint of a Lebanese accent. Was she oblivious to my anxiety, or were these words of distraction? I twisted my body around to face her on the seat behind me. ‘Yes, I’m sure the Royal Family –’ I began tentatively, before my next few words were drowned out. A man began shouting instructions next to us in a language that I did not understand. He was diminutive yet imposing, dressed entirely in black. Was that Arabic he was speaking? A very large gun was slung across his shoulder. The same man nudged a large pile of plastic bags on the floor with his foot, showing no regard for its contents. I caught a waft of fresh meat. He looked up at the owners of the bags enquiringly. I too, was curious. A badge on the man’s uniform flaunted that he was an official, but this made me feel unnerved rather than secure. The doors of our bus were wide open, and we had stopped at a checkpoint. The Israeli–Palestinian border checkpoint, to be exact. We had long since passed the long, decorated concrete wall separating the two territories. I’d first spoken to Georgetta whilst waiting in line for the bus. Or rather, she’d spoken to me. ‘Don’t touch that orange juice!’ Stern, knowing words. ‘He just offered it to me for a third of the price.’ She pointed a long accusing finger at a teenage boy, who at once narrowed his brown eyes yet pretended not to hear as she laughed at his expense. I quickly withdrew my outstretched hand, embarrassed. Back on the bus, she again offered up vital information that I had somehow missed. ‘You should have gotten off the bus when we stopped, then joined a queue to show your passport to the guards and reboard.’ She pointed at two more men with guns at the entrance to the bus. Apparently, the only exceptions were for children, the elderly and pregnant women. I clearly did not fit into any of those categories. I’m a twenty-something able-bodied woman. My anxiety increased. ‘But don’t worry’, she added, ‘you’re with me.’ Should I be worried? Georgetta continued to translate the scene unfolding before me. The plastic-bag owners were instructed to leave the bus immediately and return on foot to Palestine without their purchases. They were travelling with only one ID card, and this was not acceptable. They had journeyed to Bethlehem to buy food – it is cheaper there, and they are poor. A wave of guilt passed over me. I look down at the bag of souvenirs I bought from a gift shop near The Church of the Nativity. I no longer felt particularly festive. The queue outside began to embark our bus, single file. No more fuss. All ID cards accounted for. The journey resumed with idle chit-chat - where was I planning to visit in Jerusalem? What did I do back at home? The bus came to a stop near the Walls of Jerusalem. This was my destination. It was Georgetta’s too. As we stood outside, I felt the familiar rush of awkwardness of having to part from someone but not quite finding the right words. We had been talking for the best part of an hour. I ventured a final question. ‘Georgetta, why were you travelling today?’ She laughed gently. ‘Because my dear, nothing is open in Jerusalem on the Sabbath and I get bored easily. I wanted to go shopping.’ She paused. ‘I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones.’ So am I, I think guiltily. So am I.