From the Desk of Pat Greene
An Intifada Christmas by Pat Greene
Turkish tobacco smoke fi lled the bus . The wind and the temperature picked up as we descended to the Dead Sea from Jerusalem . Sand blew in through the open windows , stinging my face and creating a fi lm over my exposed extremities and clothing . The drone of the Arab music became a meditation of repetition adding to what felt like a hallucination .
Gate in the Old City . When we got to the rooftop where several bunk beds sat in the open air — covered by weather-faded , green , corrugated fi berglass awnings — we separated after seeing our friends had crashed for the night . We acknowledged our unspoken discretion by going back to the hallway leading to the stairs and kissing each other goodnight , and then went to separate beds , more like buddies than lovers .
Stephanie held onto my hand . I thought about kissing her . It was just a thought , and I knew that it should just remain that way . We were getting stares . She was the only woman on the bus . It seemed like every dark eye unabashedly stared in her direction through the smoky , dusty haze . I knew she was scared , and it would be a very bad idea to kiss her for many reasons , but I couldn ’ t stop thinking about it .
I had thought about kissing her for the past few months since I arrived on the kibbutz in the Galilee near the Jordan River .
The night before , several of us had taken a short bus ride from Jerusalem to Bethlehem for Christmas Eve midnight mass . Following mass , we went to a club in Jerusalem ’ s New City that felt like it was somewhere in Europe , and we fi nally kissed to the unsolicited soundtrack of the The Smiths ’ song that has the chorus “ Hang the DJ .” We were drunk . I would have been alright without a soundtrack , but I probably needed to be drunk .
The two Aussie guys that were volunteers from the kibbutz left for another bar just before our embrace . The juxtaposition of the two events was not an accident . West bank map , Image courtesy of the CIA The story of her running away from one of the Aussies ’ advances was now a part of an ignominious , anecdotal archive of our group . By all accounts , there was nothing untoward , just unwanted . I was happy being a part of a secret history . I was also self-conscious about being caught by the Aussie , because he would likely be hurt .
We kissed for a while . I don ’ t remember who initiated it . We held hands all the way back to the Arab hostel on the other side of Damascus
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A few hours later , prayer call woke me as the sounds of the scratchy record played through the tinny speakers set up all over the Arab section of the Old City . Prayer call always caught me off guard , especially when I went to sleep inebriated . I was probably inebriated every night I ever spent in Jerusalem .
Nobody was stirring . Snow fl urries fell . The temperature had dropped quite a bit . I eventually fell asleep , alone , my night nearly restless .
As we pulled into Jericho , the music continued to hypnotize me . My memory suggests that it was Ryuichi Sakamoto ’ s Sheltering Sky soundtrack . I know it wasn ’ t that soundtrack . That fi lm didn ’ t come out until 1990 . This was 1988 .
Secondhand smoke consumed me ; sand continued to sting my face . Stephanie ’ s grip seemed more urgent than affectionate . The unknown surrounded me . I was in a culture that was a mystery to me . I was with someone who was a mystery to me .
Stinkpots lined the road . Throngs of IDF ( Israeli Defense Forces ) patrolled the edge of town . The mood was very High Plains Drifter . I joked about Clint Eastwood riding in from the hills with a stogie and a poncho . Stephanie understood my spaghetti western reference .
Jericho was , up until fairly recently , believed to be the oldest town in civilization . It may be the oldest in Western civilization . It looks like the location Sergio Leone would pick to shoot a fi lm . Maybe the pop culture comparison helped to delude us from the reality that we were in one of the most politically charged areas of Israel during the
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