August 23, 2002

After a mediocre night's sleep (our poor bodies - they are so confused!) we headed up, eight bags in tow, to the Qalandia checkpoint to find a taxi to Jenin. When we first arrived two years ago, there was a bus and several taxis going every day from Zababdeh to Jerusalem and back. The checkpoints have put an end to that, as have the lack of jobs in Jerusalem (usually in the tourist industry) and the danger to Palestinians who might try and sneak across anyway. Even so, even now a taxi or two go almost every day from Zababdeh to Qalandia, which offers people the option: a checkpoint to the north into Ramallah or a checkpoint to the south into Jerusalem. As our luck would have it, no such drivers were going today (business is always light on Fridays). But we walked a bit, each with a frame pack on the back, day pack on front, and two more bags hung or dragged in tow (we were certainly wondering why we decided to bring so many books back with us). Fortunately, after not too long, we found a taxi going to Jenin, which only took an hour and fifteen minutes to fill up. But we made good use of the time, chatting with an English teacher from nearby 'Aqaba. He and his daughter had accompanied his aged mother to Jerusalem for her eye surgery and were now returning home. Our taxi driver was adept at avoiding some checkpoints by taking routes (the term "roads" cannot apply) across barren arid land. Part of the way up the Jordan Valley road, we were pulled over by an impromptu Israeli checkpoint. One officer took all of our IDs, asked each of the Palestinian men what they did for a living (one teacher, one laborer, and one unemployed) and phoned them in. Another soldier came up and practiced his English with us - "what are you doing with these people?" Marthame: "Just riding in a taxi." Soldier: "When I looked at you, I thought, 'what is he doing, traveling with these Arabs, these terrorists, these f***ing animals. They are just f***ing animals - do you know what I mean?'" (dramatic pause, as Marthame contemplates the best strategy at this point...) Marthame: "You know, most people wouldn't talk that way to a priest." Soldier: "You're right. I guess it's like talking to a rabbi." Marthame: "Exactly." Soldier: "But you know, life is like a box of chocolates. Forrest Gump. Did you see it? What do you think?" Surreal is just the tip of the iceberg here. As he walked away, the English teacher behind us offered his analysis. "He seems scared. This is why he talks this way." A few minutes later, another soldier handed back our IDs and motioned for us to go, then thought twice and pulled us over again. "You, in the front seat, come here." Slowly, the young unemployed man got out of the van and approached the four soldiers. "You, teacher, come here." Our new friend followed suite. (in English) Soldier: "Tell Mundir that we know he has been in prison, so he might as well confess." Teacher: "You seem to know Arabic well. I don't think you need me." Soldier: "If you don't tell him, we know what to do with you." Arabic followed, the man again denied ever having been in prison, and eventually we were all allowed to go - you can literally feel the tension leave the taxi when it pulls away from a checkpoint. Cigarettes usually emerge, too, as part of a collective nicotine sigh. As we approached the next checkpoint, our taxi driver turned off into the desert - one harangue limit per day - and suddenly we found ourselves squeezing the van under a dry aquaduct. With several furtive looks in all directions, the driver pulled the vehicle around and got us back up on the road, some distance past the checkpoint, and we were on our way. The final detour for the day, followed by one more checkpoint, and we were home. We were greeted by good news for a change - our good friend Firas who has been on the road to ordination in the Melkite Church for about eight years is, in fact, going to be ordained a deacon on Saturday! In other words, a land which has been closing churches due to emigration will be re-opening one. Amazing. With this news, it feels like we've participated in something concrete.