...honk your horn

Dusk settled onto my city tonight as I approached home, and in the ephemeral twilight I stopped for a pensive moment to look around at the many neighborhoods built on the hills in view. Around me were the homes and shops I knew; in the distance, the tide of the Israeli settlement crept higher and wider; and in the middle were the crumbled cement and gnarled rebar of homes that once stood. There was a haze everywhere, a kind of mixture of two bloods. Because a coldness has visited Palestine, a refreshing chill from the blazing heat, condensation takes a visible form now, as it dances in the air above stone houses and vineyards. It is clear and fresh, but it isn’t alone. A grimy cloud also floats—over pavement and car graveyards. Every dumpster in Khalil is smoking, sickly and rotten, with the unnatural stench of things thatought not burn, and tires char in the street as monuments of youthful defiance. The two hover, swirl, blurring my usually clear view.

It was such a quiet moment, which was strange for where I was standing, because usually stoop-sitters are calling my name or a mob of young children surround me here. But I was alone.

I was in a ghost town.

Empty Shuhada Street

If you’ve done some research you know that ‘ghost town’ is the sardonic name used for a once-busy area in the Old City of Khalil called Shuhada Street. This road used to teem with Arab merchants and patrons, but has now been shut down by Israel to be used as a sort of buffer-zone between Palestine and the Israeli Settlement. For those whose livelihood existed on that pavement, this has been the most detrimental; for everyone else, it is a fraternal frustration they share. Fight Ghost Town is the cry one can find spray-painted on walls around the city.

But that is not where I was today. I was on the main street in Khalil, Ain Sara, and it was a ghost town. Everyone was at the city-center joining in on the protest. Or denned up in their homes. No shops were open save the bakeries, which closed early. Wind blew vacant bags like tumbleweed and stray animals took their chance to bolt across the street. Schoolchildren in their uniforms disappeared into homes and group of young men all headed to the demonstration.

It was a bit creepy, actually, everything flowing like a river down toward some rapids of social frustration. The higher I got up the street, away from the protests, the more post-apocalyptic it felt. But I think it was smart to stay away. The Palestinian men were reacting to the cost of fuel going up, and, subsequently, everything else. Even bread, a staple here unlike anywhere else, is more expensive, but salaries aren’t raising to compensate. People’s livelihoods are being threatened by an internal force now, too; this is no battle with Israel.

My friend Ihab snapped this earlier in the day.

And it all began in the morning when trucks of all kinds paraded down the street, blaring their horns unremittingly, getting our attention. It was enough to boil my blood. Demonstrations like this occurred all over the West Bank; it was quite the operation. In Khalil it ended with a kind of riot, where windows were broken and the police station was targeted. Billy clubs were passed out to policemen and even the army got involved. But I was safely tucked away in my home avoiding the streets, listening to the sirens of ambulances taking patients to the nearby hospital every few minutes. I even heard a string of shots fired in the distance, but they sounded like warning shots rather than offensive ones.

It is exciting to think what sort of change this might bring to Palestine. The call of these men is for the resignation of the Prime Minister, the need is for lower prices, and apparently he has the power to do something about it. And at the end of this month the President is going to the UN to make another bid for statehood. It's not just crisp Autumn and rank garbage, now; revolution is also in the air.

The protests at the city center...notice people on the billboard.

So schools and shops were closed for one day, but they will be back in business tomorrow. If nothing changes, perhaps something like this will happen again; if something does, they’ll refocus on the Occupation. That cloud never leaves their horizon no matter the waves they deal with today. They greet it at the checkpoints, see it on their hillsides, and feel it in their hearts. And often talk to me about it.

My day ended with tea and fresh-off-the-vine grapes at my cousins’ house. A man with his kuffiya draped on his neck rolled strong cigarettes in front of me while his guest, the soon-to-be father-in-law of his son, engaged me in conversation. He spoke some English and was delighted to share. There was another man there too, who I never fully identified. Certainly Himony, uncertainly who. And it was that man who sent the question my way: Do you love the Jewish people? It’s a question whose answer is deep and delicate, and as I go to speak, I feel like that man, taking his first step out onto the tightrope between the towers of the World Trace Center.

“I love all people.” It is the answer I have settled on, and one the good Muslim cannot argue with. So I am safe. We can agree that people don’t always do the right thing, but my answer serves as a dead end, and we move on to other topics.

Now (two days later), I am finding myself apologizing for a movie about Mohammed I knew nothing about. Some research filled me in—there has been an offensive movie toward Islam posted on YouTube and, as a result, some Americans in Lybia were killed. Here people express sadness or anger, but the don’t justify the murders. All I can say is “I’m sorry.”

“You are a good man, Wisam, but…” It is the response I hear repeatedly. People aren’t too happy about it, and with the passing of 9-11, all these tensions seem to be fuel for something…fuel that has been much more expensive than the rise of gas prices.

Revolution is indeed in the air.

As is this.