Edeet Ravel: Look for Me

The inside of the building was as neat and sterile as the outside. The police o cer sat on one side of a desk and I sat facing him. It was a game, a ridiculous game with assigned roles, and I wondered how we hadn’t al tired of playing it. I wondered how it was that we weren’t bored to death. Wel , I was bored. I had final y reached the point where I was bored to death.

“What were you doing here?” the police o cer asked me. He was bald and he looked a bit like a toad. He had mild toad eyes and a squat amphibian body. If I kissed him he would turn into a handsome prince.

“I’m a terrorist, can’t you tel ?”

“Let’s start over. What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting my husband.”

“Is this another joke? Don’t push me, I’m not in a good mood.”

“It’s not a joke. I apologize, I’m just frustrated. I’m here to see my husband.”

“Your husband, where?”

“My husband lives in Qal’at al-Maraya.”

“You’re married to an Arab?”

“No. He was wounded in the army and he went into hiding. I just found out. So I’ve come to see him.”

“In the army! I can’t make heads or tails of your story.”

“Wel , that’s the story.”

“What’s he doing in a Palestinian city? Did he have a …you know …breakdown or something?”

“Yes. He lost his mind, so he went to live in Qal’at al-Maraya, and now I want to see him.”

“You’re bet er of without him! How come I never heard about this? An insane former soldier living in a Palestinian town!”

“I don’t know. Check your computer. He’s there.”

“What were you doing trying to free a prisoner?”

“I wasn’t trying to free him. Obviously! How could I? I just wanted to …I just couldn’t bear to watch it.”

“Next time stay at home. This isn’t a place for the softhearted. Do you think we’re here to play Ping-Pong?”

“Aren’t you bored? Aren’t you sick and tired of al this?”

“Of course I’m sick and tired of it! You think you have a monopoly on that? You think only the left knows what’s going on? If you think

“Of course I’m sick and tired of it! You think you have a monopoly on that? You think only the left knows what’s going on? If you think that, you have even less brains than I gave you credit for.”

“This is Palestine. This isn’t our land.”

“You can say that about the whole country. Al right, you can go. I’l get someone to drive you.”

“Yes, yes, you can say it about the whole country. We don’t even deserve the part we have. You can write that in my file.”

“Believe it or not, Miss Hil man, this interview has come to an end. Someone wil drive you to Selah. You can wait outside.”

“A set ler?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t want to get into a car with a set ler. I want to live a few more years.”

“The car is bul etproof.”

“Just take me to the gate, I’l take a Palestinian transit. Or I’l walk.”

“You don’t have a choice. A car is going to take you to Selah. Once you cross over, you can take whatever means of transportation you want. We don’t ever want to see you here again.”

“You can’t keep me out.”

“Yes we can.”

He told me to wait, and returned a few minutes later with a driver. The driver looked like an ordinary person, someone I might have seen on any city street. But we were enemies: he hated me for supporting the Palestinians and I hated him for living in a set lement. I climbed into the back of his luxurious, air-conditioned limousine; it was the most expensive car I’d ever been in. He drove me to Selah, which was in fact only minutes away from the set lement. Neither of us said anything, not even good-bye; we were both too angry.

Standing before me at Selah was a magni cent man. He had a close white and charcoal beard and smal metal-rimmed glasses, very slightly tinted. He wasn’t wearing the uniform of a border guard, and he wasn’t a soldier; he appeared to be another sort of guard, sent here perhaps to l in for someone. His navy bul etproof vest lay against his body like a baby carrier. He had broad shoulders and he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed, casual, and modest; he could have been a crossing guard at a school. His body and his thin mouth suggested a gentle soul, kind and good. He was almost certainly an immigrant, and this was probably the only job he could nd in these hard times.

I knew at once that he would help me. I went up to him, showed him my permit, and said, “I need to get to Qal’at al-Maraya.” I had no idea whether news of my arrest had reached him. In any case, he nodded and without taking his hands out of his pockets indicated with a movement of his head that I could pass through.

I turned around and began walking down the road toward Qal’at al-Maraya. I had no idea how I would pass the second checkpoint, the one with the violent soldier, but I’d find a way. Nothing could stop me.

A taxi slowed down next to me, and even though I would have preferred to walk, I couldn’t refuse. The drive to the checkpoint was very short and the driver wanted to charge me half a shekel. It was a ridiculously low amount, even for a short ride. I gave him ten shekels and he was very grateful. As I stepped out he surprised me by saying, “Thank you for what you did. You were very brave.” I wondered by what remarkable system of communication word spread so quickly in the strip.

I joined the long queue of bodies at the checkpoint. Everyone was dusty, miserable and fretful. They clutched documents; they were hot; some of the children were too tired to stand, and their parents held them until the parents were also tired. Many of the people in line were sick. One or two hobbled on crutches, and several sat by the side of the road, pale and feverish. I could have been at some nineteenth-century procession at Lourdes, except that no one here expected a miracle.

Progress was very slow and it took me an hour to reach the barrier. The kid with the earring stared at me in amazement. He couldn’t believe I was back. He cal ed over an o cer, a huge man with a blank, narrow face and sunglasses that returned your own re ection when you looked at them. The of icer kept gulping water from a canteen he held in his left hand.

He said, “Weren’t you told that we don’t want to see you again?”

“I need to get in. Please. I’m going to see my husband,” I said. “He lives here.”

The of icer was confused. “You’re married to a Palestinian?”

“No, he just lives here.”

“Wait.”

He disappeared into a lit le hut covered with rubbery camou age. When he came out a few minutes later, he said, “You can’t go in.

Especial y you. If you don’t leave I have instructions to arrest you.”

“I have a permit.”

“Your permit is void.”

“I want to see my husband.”

“It isn’t up to me.”

“I won’t leave until you let me through.”

“You wil leave.”

“No I won’t.” I sat down on the ground.

The o cer bent down and lifted me. “You’re quite light,” he said. He slung me over his shoulders, carried me to a closed army van, and came inside with me. The van smel ed of rust, sweat, and rancid food; its oor and wal s were lthy and the seats were covered with sticky black dirt. The man seemed much too big for the smal compartment. Fe fo fum, I thought. I smel the blood of an Englishman. My father used to read me that story.

“Please let me through. Please. I want to see my husband. I haven’t seen him in eleven years.” I stared at his sunglasses, at my own