The Ambassador and the 'Arab -lover' go to Biliin
After touring the country, Martin falls for a blonde and attends an anti-security fence demonstration. NB recruits a friend and feels like Don Quixote. Not because of the windmills but because the falafel tasted like an old horse
The words "Ramallah," "fence," and "protest" made me feel faint: I am suspicious of that entire area east of the Ayalon highway. I've also learned over the years that Arabs, settlers, extreme-left activists, irritable soldiers, and international solidarity movements are not good for my complexion
"Okay," I started negotiating, "but I'm not going alone. If we're going we must take Yasur along." For the interested reader's benefit, I will explain that Yasur has been my friend since the days he was driving a dust-covered armored personnel carrier with young soldiers' – whose only sin was that they were his subordinates - scalps dangling from his belt.
Since that time Yasur progressed to become a chamomile-blancher, tree-hugger, Arab-lover, pale intellectual
Not the place for Lebanese hashish
I still don't understand how I got myself involved in this mess. "You must help me," NB Simon said, and told me about his Canadian cousin's irresistible urge to fill his lungs with some tear gas before going back to the Diaspora.
NB, I must admit, is not the ideal partner for a spring Friday morning. His pothead's humor – as his readers must know – is tedious. When it is combined with a strange French-accented guy and a fair chance of a getting hit by a rubber bullet, it is even less appealing.
Biliin: "A demonstration on Friday" (Photo: Hanna Calderon)
Yet, he sounded so miserable, scared, and helpless, that I found myself agreeing. So, after I made sure NB understood that Biliin was not the place to get Lebanese hash; we boarded the old bus and sailed to a different land.
"The road we're on is for Jews only," I explained to Martin. "Thousands of drivers use it every day as if under a spell – their field of vision shrinks so it includes nothing but the road. They don't see the Arab villages on both sides, the concrete structures that block the passages, or Ramallah that is less than half a mile away. Tens of thousands of Palestinians are surrounded by the fence, that was built so we save 20 minutes of traffic on the way to Jerusalem. The fence in Biliin, on the other hand, cuts off about a half of village's lands, which were confiscated for a new settlement
It seemed Martin wasn't listening to my non-Zionist admonishing speech. He seemed sleepy and his occasional annoying French-accented "Aha" were always in the wrong places. I noticed he was staring at the cute British girl. NB explained that was the girl who got us into it in the first place.
Martin was not the only one ignoring Yasur's tirades. I too was busy thinking about a totally different issue: Disoriented by the early wakeup call, I forgot to pack lunch.
So, here I was with plunging blood-sugar levels on a bus filled with tofu-loving leftists. I also assumed we will not be greeted with lamb dishes at Biliin. I realized the extent of my problem the minute the bus stopped and the doors opened: We were not at the village yet. We needed to proceed the rest of the way by foot.
We have falafel
We climbed off the bus and started walking uphill. NB was nowhere to be seen. "No one told me we'll have to walk," he hissed when he finally caught up with me, sweating. "Falafel," I said. "What?" he managed to reply. "Ten more minutes and we arrive at the village's center where there's a falafel stand. NIS 3 per portion." His face lit up and he picked up his pace.
What we saw at the village seemed like a well-orchestrated operation: Protesters of all nationalities gathered on the main road and started marching towards the fence carrying signs and chanting. Martin and Yasur were among them. I stayed behind as a cover
A company of soldiers and border guards approached from the other side of the fence. They seemed cheerful and eager. The photographers took aim. At that moment I thought about Don Quixote. Not because protesting against the fence resembles battling windmills but because the falafel tasted like an old horse.
Before I could say 'Jack Robinson'
As expected, NB was nowhere to be found. I gave Martin the onion I prepared in advance. "It helps with the tear gas," I said. "Are you sure we're going to need it?" he asked. "Isn't this a non-violent demonstration?" The guy must be higher than his cousin…
"Isn't this a non-violent demonstration?" (Photo: Amir Cohen)
"Well, you better stay close to me," I said and pointed at the dirt pile in the background. But then the blonde girl smiled at him and before I could say "Jack Robinson" (or, alternately "what-do-you-think-you're-doing-you-stupid-Canadian"), I saw him standing next to her in the first row of protesters.
Some demonstrators climbed the roadblock and started dancing in front of the soldiers chanting "Fascist soldiers!" The soldiers remained in their places; apparently, the English-speaking one was on kitchen duty. The blonde's turn has quickly arrived. She climbed up and called – guess who? – to follow.
I couldn't remember if Martin liked his falafel spicy or not so I called him. He didn't pick up. Instead I started hearing screams and gun fire.
I saw it happen as if in slow motion: Martin dancing with the blonde until the ring of the mobile phone in his pants pocket caused him to lose his balance and crash down over the nearest soldier. The soldiers, whose only goal was to make it back to base before the schnitzels run out, saw this as a provocation.
The s.. hit the fan: Tear gas on one side, a barrage of stones from the other. Rubber bullets can not be far behind. I tried to locate Martin in the mayhem but couldn't. So I did what any other man would do in my place – I inhaled the onion and ran back to the village.
Window wars
I saw Yasur holding half an onion running towards me. I hoped he was planning to clean some barbeque with it but then I noticed something was missing. "Martin?" Yasur pointed at the jeeps driving away. "But I bought a falafel for him!" I said. "And he catches a ride with the soldiers?" Yasur said he believed Martin was arrested.Terror stricken I pictured Martin tortured in the GSS' basement, an angry interrogator giving him a manicure with chainsaw, and a shameful expulsion from Israel. As much as I enjoyed the last idea, I couldn't help myself from feeling sorry for the innocent Canadian.
Back at the bus, as all the activists were arguing about who gets a window seat, and making reservations at Café Noir, Martin arrived. He said the soldiers came to arrest him but a huge Danish guy managed to get him back to the village.
"So," I tried to cheer him up, "did you at least get lucky?" Martin looked at me disapprovingly. "I won't let you talk about her this way. I feel we have a unique bond between us. She might be the one."
I can't believe it. In four hours he turned into a leftist and a girl.
