A few weeks before Becca and I left Palestine, we spent a Saturday spinning around the countryside with two of our best friends, both named Muath. This was a rare treat. Escaping the confines of Nablus is no small feat since checkpoints block every exit, and a checkerboard of militarized Zionist settlements looms on the other side, but today we had the use of Muath’s father’s car (a real game changer), and as we left Nablus behind, we reveled in the freedom of the open road.
We drove for about an hour and a half (almost as far as one can possibly drive in Palestine before encountering an impenetrable border). Indie Arab rap and cigarette smoke filled the air. Villages whizzed by, separated by stretches of near desolate waste, punctuated only by the occasional Israeli sniper tower. As we passed each one, a bored Israeli soldier would invariably look up from his phone and track our progress through the sights of his machine gun. By the time we crunched to a stop at the end of a nondescript dirt road, we were all eager to abandon the cramped car for the fresh air.
Setting off down a trail, we hiked through brush clad hills under a clear sky. For a time we strolled along a ridgeline, taking in the rugged expanse around us, until the trail turned sharply downhill. Upon reaching the floor of the valley, we found a trickle of a stream which we followed to its source, a spring at the bottom of a broad square pool, made of hefty blocks of rough-hewn stone. We sat on the edge of the pool and listened to the steady patter of water making its way through the rocks until a local man approached and asked us what we were doing there, a note of apprehension in his voice.
Muath soon set him at ease, and he then informed us that this little pool had recently been the site of bitter violence. Some settlers had stormed down and shot a villager. They liked to come bathe in the spring, and they didn’t want to be disturbed by the people who lived there. This was a recurring issue. Sometimes the villagers drain the pool to forestall any contention, but they want to benefit from its waters too, so the problem remains.
We scrambled up a nearby escarpment and busted out the snacks (an essential part of any Palestinian outing worth its salt). Muath took his oud from its case and began to tune as he downed an energy drink. We spent the next few hours relishing the fecund Springtime smell of the earth and the warmth of the sun on our faces. Muath played ancient songs, rich with the kind of emotional subtlety that only comes from prayer.
Becca and I knew we would be leaving soon. My hair was falling out in ragged clumps, and both of us were flirting with kidney failure, so the afternoon was bitter-sweet. We didn’t talk much. After a year of lessons, my oud skills had developed enough to contribute to the ambiance in some small way. I played all the songs I knew, but I soon ran out of material. I passed the oud back, but instead of playing it, Muath returned it to its case, and we sat in companionable silence. Once all the snacks had been consumed we rose and left.
As night fell, we adjourned to a coffee shop in a hip district of Ramallah. Amid the hookah smoke and soft lighting, we chatted about this and that, Muath’s old girlfriend, the unreal expectations at our jobs, concerts we’d been to. Muath told a story about rolling a tire down a steep hill, only to watch in horror as it careened towards an old man struggling up the slope. At the last possible second, the tire hit a rock and bounced clean over the guy. This happened years ago, during one of the Intifadas when Israeli tanks blocked the gates of Muath’s school.
In a slight pause Becca suddenly said, “What do y’all think is going to happen to Palestine.” This question hung in the air, heavier than any apple flavored exhalation.
“It’s not going to be good.” Muath set his coffee down and lit another cigarette. “I expect some sort of cataclysm within our lifetime.” The other Muath nodded his head in agreement. “You know, that was the same year that my mom tried to cut my hair, and it looked so bad. I was too embarrassed to go out.” And with that non sequitur, the topic was dropped. But as we returned to Nablus, speeding through a darkness that could almost be felt, I couldn’t stop thinking about this brief exchange. Checkpoint floodlights provided the only illumination on our drive home. In their momentary glare I saw both Muaths sitting upright looking straight ahead into the night.
I pray the tire will bounce.
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