Five Minutes One April Morning: Twelve Pictures (and considerably more words) From a Day in Palestine

Here is where the "five minutes" took place, on a hillside northeast of the West Bank town of Nablus

Never in my life had I seen an adult begin to hyperventilate because of fear, but a day in Palestine always brings new experiences.  Sitting beside the driver, I turned to the backseat to see 20-year-old Said shaking.  His chest heaved frantically for air.  His face was twisted with anxiety and every few seconds his shaking turned into a single, uncontrollable jolt.  It reminded me of a man in an electric chair, first waiting and then receiving that awful electric burst.  None of the other six passengers made a move to comfort him.  How could they?  Faces were frozen.  Hearts pounded.  Hands gripped door handles or knees.  One person turned this way and that, eyes scouring the landscape to find that which would surely be upon us in the coming seconds.

No, there was no comforting going on right now.  We all knew death might be hurled into us at any moment.  Some faces froze as if anticipating eternal stillness.  Hearts beat wildly as if they might never have the chance to do so again.  Adrenaline flowed.

A mere 15 seconds earlier I had been standing outside the parked taxi, a bright yellow dot surrounded by the endless green grass covering these massive hills of ancient Samaria.  The spring morning was wonderfully fresh and warm.  I was returning from an overnight trip to Nablus, a city infamous for the harsh measures Israel has taken to cut it off from the rest of the region.  Tomorrow would be the one year anniversary of my only other visit to Nablus.

I recalled how a year ago I shared a taxi with a young couple also heading to the city.  She vomited because of the poor road we were forced to use, our taxi coming ever so close to cliff-edges and making slow turns that not all before us had made, judging by the carcass of one taxi that seemed to have slid off the sloping curve.  Eventually we reached the end of the road, or at least the end of the passable portion.  Because Israel had taken a backhoe to sections of the road in order to prevent its full use by Palestinians, we had no choice but to exit the taxi and continue 45 minutes on foot till we had passed all the humiliating, manmade ditches.  We passed a stream of people, including pregnant women, elderly men, a family on the way to a hospital.  Once across we caught another taxi and made it to Nablus.

A year later there is little change in entering and exiting Nablus.  The only thing that changes is the position of the military on these roads.  Each day taxis learn which road, if any, does not have an Israeli military presence.  Then they take that road.  But all involved in this laborious travel recognize that a tank or jeep could change the plan in an instant.  And so would be the case for us today.

On this beautiful April morning a taxi had taken me from the center of Nablus to the northeast outskirts of the city, from where it was a five-minute walk across a destroyed section of road to the taxis waiting on the other side.   I paused during the walk to photograph a donkey perched on the edge of a hill.  They are used to transport luggage or goods between the two sides.  A few Palestinians laughed at my patient attempts to capture the perfect picture of such a thing.  I laughed with them, joking that no donkey is as handsome as a Palestinian donkey. 

On the other side there were about a dozen waiting taxis and I soon found the one heading to Tubas, from where I would transfer to another one going on to Zababdeh.  We were still a couple passengers short of a full load and so we all stood by the car enjoying the warm air, smiling as we greeted one another and learning where each was from.  I asked if it would be okay if I took the front seat -- it was better for taking photographs, which I hoped to share with Americans to help them better understand the situation in Palestine.  They heartedly and in unison said the seat was mine.

Leaning on the hood of the car, I tried to recollect the different biblical stories that took place in these hills.  Nablus is the location of ancient Shechem, the setting of many pivotal events in the Old Testament.  It was here, for example, that Joshua gathered all the tribes of Israel, newly arrived in this land, and issued a crucial challenge to them:

Now fear the LORD and serve him with all faithfulness. Throw away the gods your forefathers worshiped beyond the River and in Egypt, and serve the LORD.  But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve....  But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.

Joshua's words still echo through these hills.  Many of the Jews living in Elon Moreh, an illegal settlement less than two miles east of where I now stood, surely hear them today.  And so do many of the Palestinian Christians who were born and raised in Zababdeh, just a few miles to the north.  Both read the same text, but the difference in their understanding of its modern application could hardly be wider.  For the one, the text permits and may even command the mistreatment and subjugation of Christians and Muslims who have lived here much longer than these recent settlers.  For the other, it is seen in light of a crucified Christ, who called people to embody sacrificial love rather than violence and exclusivity.  For them it is this Christ -- who did not clamour for geographic conquest and dominance as did some of his fellow Jewish contemporaries -- that is to be served "with all faithfulness."

My ultimate allegiance, I hope, is to a God of love.  A God who walked through these very hills in which I now stood.  A God who was hated by enough well-placed people that they killed him.  Jesus surely had the freedom to flex his muscles, but he chose another path.  He loved widely.  He challenged that which was unjust and unholy.  And he forgave.

I am inspired and shaped by how Jesus used his power and freedom.  Working in the West Bank has taught me the beauty of using freedom to serve and walk with others who are isolated and sometimes in danger.  It is a source of greater joy than I think I could experience if I were in a "safer" environment.  It is with the intent of using my freedom well that I regularly relax my grip on physical security and on some days step into an environment that tragically swallows lives on a regular basis. 

* * *

As I pondered Joshua, Jesus, and other people connected to ancient Israel, modern Israel suddenly demanded my immediate attention.  I instinctively jerked to the right, where the initial screams came from the people who had been walking near the crest of the road.  Now they were running for their lives.  What had been a quiet, still scene in the midst of nature suddenly became the locale of unwanted drama.  It was as if we were all pilots scrambling to our planes.  I was confused at first, not knowing exactly what was happening but understanding clearly we were in danger.  Like everyone else I dove into the nearest taxi and listened as the sound of dozens of slamming doors filled the air.

As the driver rustled in his pocket for the keys, I craned my head out the window to see an old woman stuck in what had now become no-man's land.  She was too old to run but must have been pleading with her tired limbs to go faster.  A young man jumped out of another taxi and began a 100 meter dash back up the road to help her down.  He was potentially risking his life, willing to sacrifice it for another.  My eyes darted back and forth from this scene to the crest of the road another 100 meters up.  I now understood that a tank was approaching to enforce the closure of this road.  And it was now that I turned to see 20-year-old Said hyperventilating in the seat behind me.  We all anxiously wondered when the tank would crest the hill and what it would do to us if we were still here.

It is funny what can go through one's mind at a time like this.  I thought of several stories I had heard about people being killed in these hills merely trying to get from one place to another.  I thought of my Danish friend Lassa who two weeks ago was in one of three taxis that had the bad luck of coming across a military humvee.  The Israeli vehicle raced toward the caravan, shooting around the cars at it came to a screeching halt on the dusty road in front of them.  The soldiers jumped from their vehicle and pulled out knives with which they slashed most of the Palestinian tires.  Then they left.  I had expected Lassa to tell me that the Palestinians in the cars were immediately angered by this unnecessary assault, but instead he said that they turned to him with thanks, believing that things would have been a lot worse (e.g., beatings, taking car keys) without his international presence.  They had to fix their tires before they could continue on their way, but at least they still had their cars and their bones weren't broken.

But sometimes people do get killed in these situations.  That is why Said was gasping for breath behind me.  A burst of bullets to teach this group of travelers a lesson might hit a few of us.  True, even in the worst-case scenario most people here would get out of this situation okay.  There were at least 50 people here.  But it is the wondering that can cause you to hyperventilate:  If the tank decides to fire at the cars, will I be among the unlucky ones to get hit?  And if so, will it be a high caliber bullet through the face?  Or will it rip through my chest or take off an arm?  Or will I be fine but have to watch the person next to me bleed to death?  You think of the almost daily pictures of dead bodies you see in local papers.  You know what can happen and you know exactly what it looks like.

I remembered an ex-soldier in his early twenties, Danny, who picked me up when I was hitchhiking to Jerusalem earlier in the month.  He asked if I was scared to be working in the West Bank.  Usually when Israelis ask me this they mean, "Are you scared of Palestinians?"  They don't seem to realize that only Israeli settlers and soldiers have shot internationals in the Occupied Territories, not Palestinians.  I politely began to give my answer to Danny and he excitedly cut me off, saying, "That is exactly what I mean.  I spent three years in the army and I saw soldiers shoot at civilians all the time.  It is nuts and I hated being a part of it.  Don't be a hero.  They shoot heroes."

In moments like this you wonder what political party the tank commander votes for, Likud or Labor.  (Then you wonder if it matters!)  You wonder if he was taught to kill only when absolutely necessary or if he is convinced that Palestinians are like dogs and their lives are worth nothing, as some far-right rabbis and politicians confidently tell their people. 

You wonder how this scene appears when viewed from the bowels of a motorized metal box.  You fear it is too much like a video game for those inside.  Personally, it is the tank more than any other ground based military vehicle that I fear.  There is no eye contact, no human flesh with which to connect.  There is no place to fix your gaze, unless you want to torture yourself by focusing on the menacingly large barrel that is the tank's trademark.  All of us in the taxi could see one another's eyes and our human desire to live connected us, but what could connect us to this tank and the people inside it?  How could we communicate that we want to live and they do not need to shoot, if that is what they are preparing to do?

A sense of isolation also permeates these moments.  Suicide bombings make the news.  Those terrible deaths are and will be known.  But the deaths here on this hillside northeast of Nablus, if any were to occur in the coming moments, almost certainly would not.  CNN might not even be able to find this isolated spot in the West Bank in a timely manner, or they might conclude that the spot is too dangerous to visit or that the event wouldn't "sell" back home.  Of course, if I as an international were to die, then what happened might make for a short news blurb, and an Israeli spokesperson would probably express regret for the tragic incident.  But if it were only the Palestinians in the seat behind me that would be needlessly shot, people outside this area probably wouldn't hear about it, and Israel almost certainly wouldn't express any regret.

* * *

It did not take long for the driver to pull out his keys.  Once the last passenger was securely in the taxi we departed.  So did the other dozen cars.  The first seconds were like the start of a NASCAR race.  Cars jockeyed for position on both our right and left.  This comparison, however, abruptly ended about 80 meters down the road.  There all the cars slowed to a crawl as they sunk into and then rose out of a partially filled trench (dug by the Israelis and filled again by determined Palestinians).  This was repeated every 100 meters or so until we hit an intact stretch of road and then gained a consistent speed.

It was near the last filled trench that we turned around and saw the tank cresting the hill and approaching the spot where we had been just two minutes before.  Our driver stopped for a moment to gauge the situation:  The rule of thumb in Palestine is to move as fast as you can when a tank is approaching, but once it can see you slow back down to a crawl or stop altogether.  I considered getting out of the taxi and hiding out behind an embankment to see and photograph how the soldiers might treat the two or three Palestinians still standing in the area.  But I decided it was not worth the risk, at least not without others knowing where I was at.  It was just yesterday that a Frenchman merely observing a checkpoint near Nablus had been handcuffed, blindfolded, had a gun placed by his head, was put in a jeep, driven to a nearby settlement, and then interrogated before being released without arrest or charge.  I had also just met some international activists the day before who described an encounter with an angry soldier who shot around them and threatened to shoot one of them in the head.  It is increasingly dangerous to witness and document the truth here.

The taxi continued on and soon rounded a bend that would securely separate us from the threat behind.  Said began to breathe normally now and everyone else in the taxi made sure I knew that my tax dollars helped pay for the experience we just shared.

Before long I was back home in Zababdeh, smearing a bit of chocolate spread on a couple crackers before heading to a Palestinian home for lunch.  Later I would go for a hike up a hill on the edge of the village with several local university students.  Together we had a beautiful time of fellowship and watched the sun set behind the olive trees.  Before long the day was at its end and I got into bed and thought back to another event that took place around Nablus.  It was there that Jesus told the Samaritan woman at the well that real worship is not dependent on geographic location and tradition but is rather done in spirit and in truth.

I was tired and didn't dwell on what it means to worship in spirit and in truth.  My eyes were too heavy.  Still, I sensed a wonderful freedom in what Jesus said.  I looked forward to tomorrow and the opportunity to dig deeper into what such worship means in real life.  I was thankful for the freedom I had as an American, which allowed me to choose to be here in these troubled times.  I was also thankful that I was beginning to see more clearly that freedom finds its deepest purpose when it is employed in the love of others.

And finally, I was thankful that I had lived another day -- not so much that I didn't die along the way but that in these waking hours I had experienced the beauty of life.  I had seen spring flowers dotting the grassy hills northeast of Nablus while a donkey stood quietly on the side of the road.  I watched the soft light of a falling sun turn olive leaves a golden brown.  I met a wonderful Muslim family who gave me a lift as they saw me walking along the side of the road to their village for lunch.  I watched Palestinian university students have a chance to laugh as one strummed a guitar and others sang Enrique Iglesias' song Hero.  I had the opportunity to share in the fear and relief of a handful of people scared to death by a tank.  And on my way home this evening I was handed a beautiful array of hand-picked flowers by a young Muslim lady who I had met earlier in the day but probably will never see again.  Her hair covered but her eyes shining brightly, she thanked me for being in Palestine.

Yes, how wonderful it was to live another day.

______________

Photos from this day, April 23, 2003:

The owner of the donkey used to transport goods between taxis

A typical scene in Nablus:  During raids into the city, Israeli soldiers wanting to search a house would often place an explosive charge on the front door to open it.  On some streets, every home looks like this.  And sadly, the method has killed innocent people who come to open the door at the same time the charge explodes.  For a disturbing 3-minute video clip produced by the Canadian Broadcasting Company which shows the tragic result of one such explosion, click HERE.  The Israeli military usually succeeds in keeping such footage off the air, but this one somehow got by.

A poster in Nablus, showing two friends who earlier in the month had gone on a suicide mission.  If I remember correctly, they had attacked Israeli soldiers somewhere near Nablus. Such posters are ubiquitous in the West Bank.  

At the end of the day, I was back home in Zababdeh and climbed into the hills with Palestinian university students for a time of fellowship.  On the way we passed this shepherd. 

 Sunset in the hills

University students (from Arab American University - Jenin)

University students (from Arab American University - Jenin)

University students (from Arab American University - Jenin), as well as three visiting Americans, chatting, sharing, joking, and singing songs like Enrique Iglesias' Hero.