Jerusalem Bound...
Galit decided to take the kids to Jerusalem to visit her parents. Her mum is disappointed that I'm not coming too. She'd like the family to all be together to light the first candle of Channukah. She'd also feel safer if everyone came by car instead of having to hazard public transport at this tense time. Nobody wants to be (or see their children, grandchildren, husband, wife, friend) blown up in a bus, run over at a bus stop, stabbed by a random attacker in a busy public place – but these are things one needs to consider at times like this. Of course, the danger of having rocks thrown at my car while I'm driving down the Jordan Valley is also a risk to be weighed up – in light of Trump's recent announcement regarding Jerusalem – what ever it meant, why ever he made it...
You can bet Galit's mum knows all about Karly. She keeps a jealous watchful eye on who my female friends are on facebook – suspiciously reading between the lines and heart emojis. You can bet she checked out Karly's profile when she heard about my mysterious visitor from across the Atlantic. Everyone's a facebook detective these days.
I took them to the bus stop. The online bus time application got it wrong again. There was no bus. Never mind – there'd be another one in half an hour, probably. So we waited.
Maayan wanted to play on my phone.
'No. We'll wait for a bus without looking at phones', I insisted. 'Like we used to do in the olden days.'
She found it a very strange concept. It made her nervous. 'How?'
'Like this..' I demonstrated, patiently waiting for the bus without looking at my phone. 'Look! There's a car with a Christmas tree on top of it. See? You wouldn't have seen that if you'd been on the phone.'
Maayan loves Christmas. It doesn't really happen round here, in the holy land. Not like in England. Here it's just another working day, like Sunday.
Cars rush by, everyone staring ahead. Dry east wind is blowing dust across this dreary crossroads. That east wind makes everyone nervous, jittery.
'But you're not even using it..' she moaned.
'Yes I am. My phone is receiving messages from all over the world, all the time', I said impressively. She was not impressed.
'This is boring. Let me use your phone.'
'No. When I was younger, I waited for hundreds of buses, for thousands of hours – and never once even thought of looking at my phone...'
I'm such an old fogey sometime.. but really.. kids today...
A soldier boy came an sat down in the bus stop, looking resigned. He laid his machine gun across his lap and looked at his phone.
Another young recruit got out of his mum's car, kissed her goodbye and came to wait for the bus. The same dull green uniform, the same dusty red boots, the same haircut, the same blunt, dull metallic black assault rifle slung at his side, the same look of proud, weary resignation on his young face.
It was one of the teenagers from the village. I knew him. I guess I hadn't seen him for a while as he'd all grown up now and become a soldier. It happens to pretty much everyone round here. At least, to the Jewish kids. I don't know many parents who don't expect their children to become soldiers too. It's a fact of life. Part of growing up.
I asked him where he's stationed. 'Jerusalem. Near Jerusalem.' He didn't say exactly where and I didn't ask. Some things are not spoken about, for security reasons. That much is understood. 'Be careful', I said. He nodded in a significant way, which suggested – yes, he had seen a few things.. perhaps done a few things.. taken part in some ugly scenes.
I've seen those scenes on facebook, of course. The checkpoints, the roadblocks, the house demolitions, the protests, the midnight house searches and arrests. I would not want to see them in real life. I wouldn't want my son to participate. What does it achieve? Some kind of peace and security for me and my family, I'm told. But what kind? And at what price?
Two of his fingers are bandaged. I asked him if they're broken. 'Cut', he said, but he didn't say how. I didn't ask.
'How's the situation down there.. near Jerusalem?' I ask, concerned.
'Not so good. You know. Since this thing with Trump,' he says simply.
It seems that our fate and the fate of our children are in the hands of a few madmen that we let run the world. It seems there's no getting away from the fact.
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Last night, Karly asked me if I'd heard about the attempted suicide bombing yesterday in a New York subway. I hadn't heard. 'It was because of Trump's Jerusalem announcement,' she said, matter of factly.
'Maybe.' I replied annoyingly. 'Depends how you look at it.' Meaning that if it's not one thing , it's another. If some kid decides to go suicidal homicidal, he'll always find some reason or justification – and plenty of people to help him along the way too.
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Driving back from the bus stop, listening to Woody Guthrie singing 'This land is your land' on the old tape player of my old American car. God Bless America. And I mean that. Because America gave us American music. Billie Holliday, Bessie Smith, Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles...
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