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
“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 distorted face in the silvery lenses.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.”
“He does. He real y does.”
“What the hel is he doing living in a Palestinian city?”
“Hiding.”
“What did you do to him?” he joked.
“It isn’t funny.”
“He must be a bit wrong in the head. What do you need that for? You’re bet er of without him, believe me. Smoke?”
“No thanks.”
He lit a cigaret e and looked at me, or at least I assumed he was looking at me; I couldn’t be sure because of his glasses. He smiled cynical y. “So, Dana, Dana. What are we going to do with you, Dana?”
“I’m not leaving.”
“We’l just have to take you back, then. It may take a while, though.”
“Fine. Then I’l come back another time and I’l just sneak in and I’l get shot and it wil be your fault,” I said. “Because nothing is going to stop me. I’ve waited eleven years and if I can’t see my husband I don’t care if I live or die. And it’s going to be your fault, yours personal y.
