Raba'i al-Madhoun - The Lady from Tel Aviv

‘What a disaster,’ I mutter. ‘Where should I go?’

The younger man turns to me. ‘Where are you coming from, sir?’

‘London.’

‘England?’

‘Yes.’ Despite myself, I begin to wonder aloud. ‘Where should I go? I can’t get through and I can’t go back into Israel. If I go to Israel, where would I spend the night? I didn’t anticipate this at all.’

‘No problem!’ The man interrupts me. ‘As long as we’re here, you can stay in the West Bank. You’re our guest! What do you say? Come with us and we’ll take good care of you, sir!’

I decide to jump at his offer before he rescinds it. ‘If the crossing doesn’t re-open, where will you go?’

‘We’re going back to Hebron, and you’ll come with us. I’ve got a car. That blue Opel over there.’ He points to the car, then to a woman who is walking up to him right at that moment. Then to a boy and girl who begin to chase each other. He introduces them to me, ‘This is my family. My wife. These kids you see jumping around — they’re mine.’

When the man’s wife smiles at me, she opens up a familiar window into my heart and fills it with hope and warmth. ‘We’re all in it together. Consider me your sister. You’ll come with us.’

Before I have a chance to respond, her husband adds: ‘Don’t worry about it. Our home is your home.’

‘Bless you, you’re kind. And come to think of it, I have an uncle and some cousins in Hebron.’

‘What’s their name?’

‘The Dahmans. From Asdud. My uncle is Jamil Abdelfettah…’

‘You mean Abu Salah? My God!’

‘Yes, exactly — that’s him. Abu Salah is my mother’s brother. Do you know him?’

‘Of course we do — he’s our neighbour. He lives two doors down from us. I know his children — Salah, Khidr and Shaher — all of them. Can you believe it? Turns out we’re neighbours! But with all respect to your uncle and cousins, you’re spending your first night in Hebron with us!’

I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear this. But my temporary Hebron idyll is cut short by the voice of the bus driver who announces that he does not want to wait any longer. ‘Sorry, folks, but it’s time to pack up and go home.’

He turns the ignition and the man from Hebron steps off the bus. I get off too, followed by the young man who had been sitting right behind the driver the whole time.

The three women who had been sitting next to the bus stand up and relinquish the sliver of shade they had been using to cover their bodies. The bus pulls out of the plaza, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a empty, bright space. Everyone who had been sitting there goes elsewhere, looking for shade.

A voice calls out from the middle of the plaza: ‘There she is, they’re taking her to the Mukhabarat! ’

At that, all eyes turn to look at the main building. There is a woman wearing a hijab and a thin black galabiyya. Two soldiers are escorting her, and she is carrying something I cannot quite make out. They walk out of the building, then disappear behind the military vehicle.

I cannot believe that I am watching a failed suicide attack, that I am seeing it unfold with my own eyes. I cannot believe that I am watching a woman who was about to detonate a bomb on her body, and with that, blow the remnants of the current cease-fire to smithereens. And, I might add, explode my dream of getting into Gaza.

Suddenly, this whole scene seems fascinating to me as a writer. I start to forget how hot it is. I forget how tiring it is. How long I have been waiting, and how tedious it is. It begins to dawn on me that I am actually fortunate; I have jumped into a scene that Adel El-Bashity never experienced.

This is a rare occurrence , I tell myself, trying to wrest some bit of good luck from what is, in strategic terms, a setback. I want to take some photos. I stick my hand inside my backpack and feel for the video camera. Then I stop myself. My hand comes out empty as soon as I remember that doing something like this is sure to cause me all sorts of trouble, and some people will not find it amusing if I begin to take pictures. First, I did not get a permit from the Israeli press office in Jerusalem. Second, they could begin to fire at me, or drag me over, break my camera and detain me. They might then deport me. This is the sort of situation where one does not take risks. I repress my journalistic instinct to record. I will write it all down instead. I think about writing up a report, relating the events I have experienced since this morning. The bag of tomatoes. That is not possible. What if the soldiers in the guard booth take notice of me? What if there are others who are watching us from further off? Do not sit down and start writing here. That would be foolish, the prelude to a bad ending.

A sense of despair creeps over me. My journalistic self falls prey to hesitation and fear.

The only thing about the girl that blows up is her attempt. She walks back to where she came from, trailing her black galabiyya behind her. The same two soldiers escort her. Two other soldiers leap out from behind the military truck and run toward the jeep parked in front of the building, about thirty metres from where I am standing. They get into the jeep and take their places in front of computer screens.

A young man next to me is staring at the scene, and I ask him what is going on. He explains that the jeep is the mobile headquarters for remote control operations. The soldiers operate robots via their computers.

Cameras in hand, three television journalists suddenly emerge from the thicket of trees, then disappear behind the building. No sooner do they disappear from our sight than an Israeli soldier comes to escort them toward the guard booth where they stand as if awaiting orders.

A boy yells out, ‘Mama, I have to pee!’

I look over to where the voice is coming from and I see a woman holding the hand of a boy who cannot be older than four. He is jumping up and down while clenching his other hand between his thighs as if his bladder was about to explode. This is a place that really deserves to be pissed on . The two of them walk over to a doorless cement block.

From behind the truck, a small robot bursts into view. It looks like a metal spider, with a long skinny arm that sticks out about half a metre into the air, from which dangles a strap. Slowly, the robot rolls forward toward the right of the building. It disappears behind the jeep then pops out again for a few seconds before going into the trees. And then I cannot see it any more. I doubt if anyone else can.

I remember the first time I ever saw footage of a robot. One of the Arab satellite channels was rebroadcasting film from Israeli television. The robot was dragging the corpse of a Palestinian man who had blown himself up. As the robot pulled the body, it painted a thick stripe of blood, which traced down the street all the way until it reached the jeep where the pieces of the body were collected.

The three-person television crew is still there with its military escort. They take a few steps from the spot next to the guard booth where they had been made to stand. Then they all — television crew and escort — sprint toward the main building and disappear somewhere behind.

The woman and child return. After draining his bladder in the outdoor urinal, the boy looks relieved, even happy. He hops and skips all the way back to where they had been standing before.

At exactly 1 pm an explosion shakes the entire area, and my body shudders to feel it. Dense smoke rises from behind the thicket of trees, and with it all traces of the attempt.

The camera crew go back to their spot. An officer comes up to them and stands in front of one of their cameras. He begins to deliver a statement that none of us in the plaza can hear. A spokesman from the Israeli army, no doubt briefing the media on what transpired here this morning.