For all the talk about the Gaza and Lebanon wars, it's these small, everyday humiliations that really define Israel as a state. All nations behave terribly in war; very few create racially-segregated parking lots. And people wonder why comparisons are made with South Africa...
I thought this comment was so spot on. It's not the dramatic, seen-in-the-headlines actions here that get to you - it's the quietly pathological inequities, the constant inconveniences, the daily-life difficulties that make simple acts of being an adult human in the modern world near impossible - things like having a data plan on your phone, or visiting family in another city, or owning a home. Or getting your car fixed. Even for me, this is the reality, and I have it so good, comparatively.
Here's the story.
Last night, I went into Jerusalem to run some errands with a friend. As he and I were driving in, my dashboard lights started going on, and the car acting a bit funny. Knowing that my car is a total POS, this did not surprise me, but it also pissed me off, as I had taken it to the garage to be fixed the day before.
As we drove into Jerusalem, the car acted weirder and weirder. We finally got to the parking garage I always park at in (Jewish) West Jerusalem, and my car quit right as we pulled up to the entry gate. I.freaked.out. Not only was my car broken down, it was inside Israel - where I know no one, where I have no tow trucks or mechanics numbers, and, most importantly, where my mechanic, who is Palestinian and from Ramallah, can't come help me because he can't get in! For the Bostonians who read this, this is like being broken down in Brookline and being unable to call your mechanic in Boston. For the New Yorkers, it's as if your mechanic on the Upper West Side can't get to the Upper East Side to help you. From where I was, Ramallah is a fifteen minute drive.
I was also nervous for another, even sadder reason. The Israeli police terrify me. I know if they came, they would ask me where I lived, what my reasons were for being in Israel. That's it - the game would be up. I could be deported, or worse. Just for living 15 minutes away. My first and only thought was, please God, do not let the police come.
Thankfully, the men who worked at the garage were Palestinian - this means the golden Arab rule kicked in: help people out, especially women. They pushed my car into a spot. They took a look inside the hood. They told me I had no fan belt. They called my mechanic, called him a donkey, made me coffee, and tried to help me figure out a plan. Thanks to a flurry of phone calls between my new best friends, my beloved and trusted taxi driver who is Palestinian but lives in Jerusalem, and my (now hated) mechanic, it was decided my best strategy would be to attempt to drive back to the checkpoint after they charged my battery, without any headlights on. I would then stop immediately once inside into Palestine-land, call my mechanic and he would come get my car. All this, for a 15 minute drive and a fan belt.
Obviously, my mechanic is as skilled in battery projections as he is in other mechanic-y things, so my car died again about 5 minutes later, right next to a terrifying Israeli settlement, on the main highway. For three hours my friend and I sat there, waiting for my mechanic to somehow sneak in to fix my car on the side of the highway (as he promised he would), fearing every siren that went buy, as my phone slowly died and I wondered how, exactly, my Palestinian mechanic was going to pull this off. Finally he pulled up in a broken down, Israeli-plated minivan, saying nothing about how he had crossed over, changed my battery, and we drove back to the checkpoint, his hazard lights flashing up until we got through - at which point he turned them off and took off like a maniac down the road through the refugee camp back up into Ramallah. I followed, grin on my face.
I cannot tell you how absolutely amazing it felt to be back in Palestine - only 15 minutes but a world away. Ramallah's lights looked beautiful atop the hills. My car was safe. My identity was safe. We pulled into my mechanic's garage, parked my car inside it, and shook hands, shaking our heads at the absurdity of it all.
Why I chose to own my first car in an occupied land, I'll never know.
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