Last night I was informed that Israel has announced while the UN deliberation is still going on that it will build one thousand new settlements in East Jerusalem. Today is the first day of Rosh Hashanah and since we have the next four days off, many people have left to visit Israeli families for the holidays. Walking outside, I notice that all the color has drained from the sky. The air is hot and tight. All of the high-rise, white-washed apartment buildings seem to blend together in this thick cloud. I sniff the air, but no one else seems bothered. The streets are sparsely populated. I walk up to the Promenade to see the Jerusalem skyline by myself, but it’s also cloaked in this ashen whiteness. The little apartments around the partition wall look like lines of skulls. The entire Old City is hidden and it occurs to me that the color of death is white, not black.
I sit down to write on one of the stone benches that overlook Jerusalem when suddenly three boys, about ages 14 or 15, run in front of me. Two begin whipping each other with some kind of electrical wire and the sun starts to break through above. They eye me and move closer. I can’t tell whether they’re speaking Hebrew or Arabic, my music is turned up loud. They’re trying to get my attention. I think to go, but I refuse to give up my spot. I will not give in to my discomfort and be pushed out because I look like an outsider, because I am a woman. I’ve been told that this is my home. I’ve come here to write. One boy takes a drink from the fountain less than two feet away from me. I keep my head down and continue writing. Another one walks up, “Shalom,” he says.
Glancing up, I read the black letters across his baby-blue shirt: Palestin. He has a closed-lip smile that somehow reveals two crooked teeth.
“Hello,” I say, taking out my earbuds.
“Beseder, okay” he says. The boy from the fountain is now standing right next to me.
“Do you speak English?” I ask.
‘ “No,” the boy with the blue shirt says.
“Well I don’t speak Hebrew.” I squint my eyes and don’t smile. I’m wearing a dress and the boy looks at my leg.
“My name is Moshe,” says the boy to my right as he grins and eagerly sticks out his hand.
I shake it. The boy in blue tells me his Arabic name.
“Nice to meet you. Ma nishma, how are you?” I ask.
The boy looks confused and speaks in Arabic and Moshe repeats the Hebrew word with a different accent.
“Beseder. Shalom.” the boy nods and begins to walk away.
Moshe offers his hand again, and I make sure my handshake is strong and hard. They leave and I put my music back on. After a couple of minutes I take out my earbuds.
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