We walked with the Palestinians. Then another barricade was set up, and this time the army was not going to move. We stood on one side, they stood on the other. A soldier and a Palestinian man got into an argument. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, only a few isolated words: no right, stop, move back, freedom. The man’s rage grew, his frustration grew, and he kicked the soldier with his soft, dusty shoe, a sad black shoe, and the soldier pushed him with the but of his ri e so that he fel backward. A child, possibly his son, picked up a stone and threw it at the soldier. A soldier who a few days earlier may have been someone I had photographed on the beach, stretched out on a towel, asleep, and whose trembling lips may have fil ed me with pity.
Panic and disorder tend to break out without warning, and the rst moment is always terrifying, because we react instinctively with fear when we see or hear a large crowd running. Everyone was trying to escape the tear gas. Across the street a man carrying a young woman in his arms was looking frantical y for a car: the woman was having some sort of seizure. I took a photo of the two of them, even though I couldn’t see very wel because my eyes were burning. I needed to nd shelter as wel . I was standing near a half-built warehouse, and I saw that people were running up a wooden ramp that led to the upper story of the building. I ran up the ramp with them, hoping it wasn’t a mistake, hoping it wouldn’t be worse up there: what if we were trapped inside with the tear gas? Luckily, there were two open sides on the upper story, one facing the sidewalk and the other facing the army barricade. There were also two window openings in back. Every few seconds I took a break from taking photographs to hold an onion crescent to my nose; it seemed to help. A boy in his mother’s arms was shrieking with terror. He wore shorts covered with tiny yel ow and red and navy blue hearts. His smal hand lay on his mother’s black hair, which fel in waves against her white blouse. The wal s were made of rough cement blocks, and here too there were bits of wire coming out of the cement; a strand of the mother’s hair was caught on one of them.
A stun grenade exploded and there was more crying, not only the boy now but also two other children, a girl of about seven and her older sister. I huddled with them in the corner. I knew the stun grenades weren’t real grenades, but the sound was frightening al the same and it made you cower. The Palestinians were more afraid than I was, because they weren’t entirely certain the army would hold back even if we were there, and they feared for their lives.
From below a soldier began to shout. He pointed his weapon at us and ordered us to come down. I saw the soldier’s face. He was young and he was the sort who didn’t want to be there, I could tel . Some soldiers were keen, they liked what they were doing and believed in it.
Others wanted to be with their girlfriend on the beach, or surfing with a friend.
And then, as if out of nowhere, a demonstrator emerged from the darkness, walked over to the edge of the warehouse, to the side where there was no wal , where down below the soldier was pointing his submachine gun at us. I was sickened by the weapon, a weapon I had once held myself, but which was now pointed at me. The demonstrator looked down at the soldier near the barricade and shouted, Enough, already, enough! Five stun grenades had exploded by then, one after the other, and several more tear gas canisters. And now the soldier was threatening us.
The words of the demonstrator, there in the dim crowded shelter, amidst the crying and fear, brushed against me like peacock feathers, the kind I used to play with when I was a child, and I wanted to shut my eyes and enjoy the sensation. Even after he’d spoken I felt the words moving softly around me, and I almost forgot to photograph him. I focused my lens: red basebal cap on a short black afro, white T-shirt, jeans, running shoes. His sign in one hand, his onion in the other. Enough, already, enough—
Wel then, come down, the soldier shouted back. It unnerved the soldier, that there were people up there; he felt exposed, afraid. He might have shot at us to get us to come down to the street, where the air was sharp and heavy with tear gas, but he couldn’t risk hit ing someone from his own side, and in this way we protected the Palestinians with our bodies.
The demonstrator turned to me and said, “Let’s go.” We made our way down the ramp and out onto the sidewalk, and the others fol owed us. The air stung my throat and I pressed the onion to my nose again. The street was deserted; everyone had run for shelter.
“Are you al right?” he asked me.
“Yes, are you?”
“Fucking assholes …Your eyes are red.”
“Fucking assholes …Your eyes are red.”
“They don’t bother me.”
“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You always come, I’ve seen you many times.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
“You’re too busy taking photographs.”
I smiled, and when I smiled he said, “You’re in bad shape.”
I didn’t answer. I stared past him. People were slowly coming out of their hiding places, tired and upset.
“You wrote me a let er when I was in jail,” he said.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Rafi Atias. And you’re Dana Hil man.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. But how do you know me?”
“I’m clairvoyant.”
It was a stupid question: we al knew one another, we were the same people who showed up at these things, again and again. Apart from that, I was famous. Once a year, on the anniversary of Daniel’s disappearance, I placed a ful -page advertisement in the newspaper, which read, I wil never ever ever ever ever stop waiting for you, with the word ever multiplied so that it l ed the entire page, and I was known for this annual plea. It cost me an entire romance novel, but I didn’t care. I had also been interviewed several times on radio and television, and I gave those interviews in the hope that Daniel would hear or see them and believe me and come back. I had recently placed my eleventh ad.
I tried to remember what I’d writ en Ra when he was in jail. Your courage … gratitude … refusing to ght … example to others—the usual cliches.
