A Conversation

The rain has finally stopped. From the grounds of the Augusta Victoria Hospital, high on the Mount of Olives, where our guesthouse is, we can see the Dead Sea beyond the desert hills to the east of Jerusalem, and watch the sun rise from behind the mountains of Jordan.

It is still cold, but the crisp morning air is pleasant, and the blue sky inviting, as we set off for our regular early morning visit to Ash Shayyah Street, winding our way down the hill. On the way we pass the familiar sight of a demolished Palestinian home. The red childrens slide which I noticed the other morning on the rubble is no longer there. When we reach the boundary wall of the monastery of the Passionista community we notice that the wire-netting on top of the 6-7’ wall has been cut in places, and people are jumping down into the street, far from the view of the soldiers posted further down the hill.

We are apprehensive as we approach the usual place where people cross the barrier and the soldiers stand, as there was an incident here on Monday, involving a man with a broken leg, who collapsed after being denied access to Jerusalem four times. Eventually an ambulance was called to him. Soldiers had been bad-tempered and aggressive.

This morning things are quiet; no jeeps, just three young soldiers, one man and two women, checking passes as people come around the barrier and jump down from the garden wall. Meanwhile, nobody checks those coming through the grounds of the monastery. The soldier is saying “Bo’ker Tov” as people come across – “ What does that mean?” my colleague Osten asks me. “It’s good morning in Hebrew”, I reply. We are reassured.

After a while the soldiers leave their place and walk up to the church in the grounds of the monastery, and reach the other passing place behind the barrier. Osten and I split. He goes around the barrier and I follow the soldiers, at a distance. I sit on a large stone among the trees and watch them as, some 30 metres further down, they continue their random checking of identity passes. I take out my Hebrew phrase book and look up some new words.

Some 15 minutes later the three young soldiers walk up towards me. “Can I help you?” asks one of the young women.

“No, thank you.” The man does not speak English. He asks his colleague to ask: “What are you doing here?”

“I watch what happens, I learn a little Hebrew.”

“Are you watching us?”

“I watch everything that happens around here.”

“How did we do?”

“You seemed kind. I did not hear you shout. You do not seem aggressive.”

“Are we good people then”?

“Yes, of course you are good people. But what you do here is wrong.”

“I know”, comes the unexpected reply, “We have a job to do, we try to do it as best we can.”

“I know you are doing your best. I understand it is not your decision. But what happens here is not good for you, it is not good for your future.”

The young woman translates. The young man says something in Hebrew, and she translates back: “You are right.”

They prepare to leave. “Happy Channuka” I say. “Happy Christmas” they reply, and walk away.