A time for...

by saleh hijazi

Down the shots and we were going. One of us was still stuck at the bar talking. It was not a bad night. Regrouped, we got on our way to a post-party, maybe, or just bed. The foreigner in the car this time was from Berlin. All of us there, the car started.

Driving fast, we were going through our hometown like mad people. We spot a hummer. It flashes its lights but the car doesn’t stop. A sharp turn, then a short chase. Another jeep joins and we’re blocked--they’re shooting! At us, at the sky, at the car!

Everyone ducking in the seats, the car was moving on its own until it stopped. They are shouting, and we raise our hands as they come running to open the doors, and pull us out as we murmur. They push us against the wall and scream HAWIYYA!

In my mind there’s a battle: I punch one soldier and another one jumps on me. My friend joins in, but on the wall I’m crucified, moving my hand slowly to get out my card. Calmed down, everyone did the same. We were not green, but blue, dark blue, and whatever the color of the German passport is.

They let us go, but we’re in shock, adrenaline pumping and imaginations flowing in the most real of situations. Everything is sober, our bodies are dry, and they leave. They remind us that this is their time. A time for occupation.

We drop off the German to go to Jerusalem, and then we go to drop off Maryam. It was late, thirst was almost a killer. We go up for a glass of water and to collect ourselves. After all, when war is life, you forget--until it shoots at you. And when it does, you stop, you feel paralyzed.

I down three glasses of water. Maryam’s roommate wakes up and we sit to tell her the story, trying to catch our breaths and to collect ourselves when Bang Bang Bang!! The door of the girls’ apartment almost falls in.

Maryam runs to the door and we’re standing on our nerves again as she unlocks the door and three men, veiled with the kuffiyeh and armed with machine guns, the same kind as the soldiers, three M16s all pointed at us, enter and yell at us.

I could not understand…the water I had just drunk evarpoated in front of my eyes and with it my sense of self.

HAWIYYA!

But wait. This time war is in Arabic--absurd. Mukhabarat they say, uncovering their faces. Guys, just like us--the only difference is that we were scared and they were angry.

They stand between us, the boys on one side, the girls on the other. Criminals and hookers, they yell at us. We refuse to give our cards and they get angrier. One of the girls tells them to get out, only to be slapped.

“SHARMUTA,” they scream, “if you open that dirty mouth one more time we will tell your family, they will hang you.”

No one moves. There is no blue, green, or anything that can save us now. All hail to anger and fear. My blood boils hopelessly as we tell the guys to cool down, that there’s no need to hit the girls or anyone else for that matter. We tell them they’ll get what they want.

They explain that they want to rid Palestine of people like us, of sins, of whores and the guys who run after them. They threaten to call more people to have us taken to the headquarters.

The girl starts crying, and the officers start feeling awkward. But sensitivity is evil, and they are men. “Shut up, stop whining, we have files on you girls. Files about everything you do, everyone you know, and other things you don’t do, and don’t know.”

She is quiet. He smiles: a man in control, a Palestinian in power. A people in rage.

They tell the girls to stand up. They want to take them to the bedrooms, to “question” them, they say.

The mood shifts. They’re flirting, they’re horny, and one of them starts touching the girl. He holds her from behind and asks her to go inside. A few questions, he says. Answer them here, or answer them at the headquarters.

She refuses. He seems to like it so he pushes harder--she cries again. We pull her from his arms and replace her with our cards so that they stop. They take the cards and we leave together with them, leaving the girls alone.

The problem will be solved tomorrow, they say. Giving us a few slaps, they remind us that this is their time: a time to build a nation. A time for Palestine.

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Saleh Hijazi is a member of the Peace and Freedom Youth Forum (PFF) in Ramallah, Palestine. To contact him, send an e-mail to saleh.h at pff-pal dot org.