Back in Burqin—we were now about a mile from the tank blocking the road into Jenin—Nidal and I sat in the taxi. Beside us were two other taxis which like us were waiting—waiting for a call on their cell phones to say the military was pulling out of Jenin, waiting for someone somewhere to discover an opening in the encirclement so that we could all speed off and try again, waiting, in many cases, to get back to their wife and kids.
Waiting, and while waiting feeling your powerlessness: this is one way to describe living (or just traveling) under military occupation.
A fellow taxi driver, his family in Jenin, waits in Burqin next to Nidal and me
After maybe twenty minutes of sitting in the small parking lot of taxis, Nidal suggested we try a farmer’s track through a large field of olive trees to the southeast. If successful, we would be in Jenin within five minutes.
There is a chemical rush through the body when one paraglides, bungee jumps, or does a loop on a roller coaster at Six Flags. There is a similar rush, complete with a smile and maybe even laughter, when one has just rounded several bends in an olive field and has only one twist to go before descending a hill into Jenin, knowing he has just slipped past a military encirclement. “I think we’ve made it,” Nidal said, half in disbelief. “We’ll be in town in 30 seconds.”
I’ve never been on a roller coaster in which the car got stuck halfway through the loop, leaving passengers hanging upside down in abject uncertainty. But perhaps rounding a final bend only to find – veryunexpectedly – an armored vehicle sitting heavily on the road is similar. The taxi ride, which seconds earlier had seen the driver and passenger exuberant, suddenly had left them intensely quiet.
We slowed and then stopped maybe 100 meters short of the military vehicle. A soldier atop the vehicle shouted in Arabic and then English to approach no further or he would shoot. While Nidal stayed in the vehicle I stepped out and yelled for permission to approach. After saying no, I asked him again. He didn’t say no and I approached.
Soon both Nidal and I were standing by the Israeli vehicle (it was a cross between a tank and an APC). While one soldier stayed beside the mounted machine gun, the other (the one who first said we couldn’t approach) sat on the edge of the vehicle and spoke with us. No matter what the soldier says, there is always a sense of appreciation that he is allowing you to speak to him, and is willing to speak to you as well.
“I’m sorry, but you cannot enter Jenin now,” he said.
This was not unexpected. Nor was it unexpected for him when we tried to make the case why he might let us pass. I explained that I could simply walk through the woods just to the north of the dirt road and reach Jenin that way, as I had done once before. “You could try,” he said,“ but it would be dangerous. There may be commandos in the woods.” I told him it was my 30th birthday this week and that I was soon leaving for the States; I wanted to say goodbye to my friends and his letting us pass would be a meaningful birthday gift. To this he replied: “For your birthday I will try to protect you by not letting you through.”
Nidal and the soldier then spoke for a while in Hebrew. After a couple minutes they switched to English (“So that you can understand us,” the soldier said).
“You have to understand,” the soldier said to Nidal. “I am in a difficult position. I do not want to keep you from your home, and I don’t want to be around Jenin because I know I could get hurt or killed here. And what if I let you through but then later learned that you were Hamas or something.”
“Let me tell you something,” Nidal said with controlled passion. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Yes.”
“What you do in Jenin and other cities makes some people join Hamas that wouldn’t otherwise join Hamas. Last year one of your tanks sat outside my home for three days while my family was ordered to stay inside. Then on the third night, while we were eating dinner, the tank sprayed machine gun fire through our kitchen window. I threw my children onto the floor and watched as your bullets destroyed pictures on my wall, furniture, and other things. There was no shooting from my building, no provocation. And had my wife or children been killed, I would have had the sort of anger that could have transformed me into your worst enemy.”
After a pause Nidal continued, “I still have the pictures I took afterwards.”
“Do you have them with you,” the soldier asked.
“They’re in the taxi,” Nidal said.
“Can I see them?”
Nidal got the photos and handed them up to the soldier. The soldier slowly looked through them, speaking to the other soldier in Hebrew as he paused on certain images. He seemed sincerely bothered. Handing him back to Nidal he said, “I’m sorry. This should never have happened, and I’m glad your family wasn’t hurt.”
Nidal
For half an hour the three of us conversed. When my cell phone rang, I picked up to hear my friend in Jenin ask when I was going to arrive, that the path through the woods on foot was clear. I told the soldier I was going to walk through the woods. “I won’t stop you,” he said, “but it is more dangerous now than you know.”
In the end I told my friend I wouldn’t make it today, that I hoped to see him again another year. He almost sounded angry that I wouldn’t trust him to walk through the woods.
As Nidal and I went about our goodbyes with the soldier, the soldier reached down to shake Nidal’s hand. “One day I would love for us all to meet in my home in Haifa instead of like this," he said. “We are friends.”
Nidal returned his handshake but before letting go said, “You need to understand that we are not friends. I hope that one day we will be, but so long as you sit on a tank keeping me from my own home and family, we are not friends.”
A few minutes later I was back in Burqin and said goodbye to Nidal as I caught a ride back to Zababdeh and then later in the day to Jerusalem, which felt a world away. Later in the week I would be in the United States, which felt like yet another world away. And so it was.
The Israeli soldier, who asked that his name or exact hometown not be shared, other than that is was near Haifa
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| Joel Carillet, Gather Travel Correspondent | ||||
His articles, based on extensive travels in Asia and the Middle East, seek to shed light on humanity, both our own and that of others. They aim not merely to entertain and inform but also to develop a sense of connection between the reader and the world. Joel's writing and photography have appeared in several publications, including the Kansas City Star, Christian Science Monitor, and The Best Travel Writing 2008. He is also the author of 30 Reasons to Travel: Photographs and Reflections from Southeast Asia. If interested in learning more about Joel or purchasing photographic prints, visit http://joelcarillet.com. When not on the road, he happily calls Tennessee home. Keep up with Joel's article series by joining his network, or subscribing to his content. | ||||
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