Tasting the Sky: A Palestinian Childhood

I’m midway from Birzeit to Ramallah, at the Israeli army checkpoint at Surda. No one knows how long our bus will stay here. An army jeep is parked sideways to block the road. Soldiers in another jeep look on with their guns. They are ready to shoot. A barrier that punctures tires stands near the stop sign. I regret that I chose to sit up front.
The window of the bus frames the roadblock like a postcard that I wish I could send to all my faraway pen pals. They ask me to describe a day in my life. But I do not dare. If I told them of the fear that hides under my feet like a landmine, would they write back?
A soldier leaps into the bus. He stands on the top step. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, dark like midnight. “To where?” He throws the question like a rock. I pull my head toward my body like a tortoise. If I don’t see him, perhaps he won’t see me.
He asks again. I stay silent. I don’t think a high school girl like me is visible enough, exists enough for a soldier with a rifle, a pistol, a club, a helmet, and high boots to notice. He must be talking to the man sitting behind me.
But he leans closer. His khaki uniform and the back of his rifle touch my knee. My flesh freezes. “To where?” He bends close to my face. I feel everyone on the bus nudging me with their anxious silence.
“Ramallah,” I stutter.
“Ramallah?” he repeats as if astonished. “Khalas. Ma feesh Ramallah. Kullha rahat,” he says in broken Arabic. The words sound like they have been beaten up, bruised so blue they can hardly speak their meaning. But I gather them. “There is no Ramallah anymore,” he says. “It all should be gone by now.”
I search for the soldier’s eyes, but his sunglasses are walls that keep me from seeing. I search for anything in his face to tell me more than the words he’s just said about Ramallah. What does he mean? Are the homes all bulldozed down? And the people? My father and my family, will I find them? Will they wait for me? Fear is a blizzard inside me. A thousand questions clamor in my mind.
It was less than an hour ago that I took the bus from Ramallah to Birzeit. Now I am returning. How could everything disappear in less than one hour? Something must be wrong with me. Perhaps I do not know how to think, how to understand my world. Today I chose to sit up front when I should have chosen to hide in the back. I should have known a front seat lets one see more of what lies ahead.
I want to open my mouth and let my feelings escape like birds, let them migrate forever. I am waiting for the soldier to step off the bus. But he doesn’t.
He counts us, then takes out a radio and speaks. I don’t understand, and I am somehow content that I do not. I do not want to know what he says about me or the bus, or what he plans to do.
He switches back to Arabic, takes the driver’s ID, tells the driver to transport us all-the old passengers, the young, the mothers, students, everyone-to the Military Rule Center. He means the prison-court military compound on the way to Ramallah. I know where that is. It sits on the ground like a curse: large, grim, shrouded in mystery. In ten minutes our bus will be there.
New soldiers wait for us at the entrance to the compound. One walks to our driver’s window, tells him to let all the passengers off, then turn around and leave. The driver apologizes to us. He says if it weren’t for the order, he would wait for us no matter how long it took. I wonder if he is afraid to continue on to Ramallah, to be alone when he finds out whether it’s really in ruins.
“Wait a moment,” he says. “I will return your fare.” But no one can wait. “Yallah! Yallah!” a soldier goads. “Hurry!”
After a second head count, at gunpoint, we form a line and walk to a waiting area. We stand against a wall that faces the main door. The compound feels like the carcass of a giant animal that died a long time ago. Its exterior is drab, bonelike, and hostile.
We take out our IDs. Two soldiers collect them to determine if any of us had been caught in previous confrontations with the army. Our IDs inform on us. The orange-colored plastic covers, indicating that we all are Palestinian, pile up on the table like orange peels.
Two college students, with thick books in their hands, are quickly separated from the group. For a moment, my dream of going to college feels frightening.
“Hands up!” someone says, and one of the two soldiers now chooses the people he wants and inspects their bags, pockets, bodies. He skips the girls and women. All is quiet until he raises his hand to search a teenage boy standing next to me.
Even before the soldier touches him, the boy starts to giggle. The sound breaking the anxious silence is shocking. At first, the giggles are faint, then they grow so loud that soldiers from outside the yard hear and come to see. The boy’s laughter is dry and trembling. Worried. I know what he feels. He wants to cry, but in spite of himself, in spite of the soldiers and the guns, all he can do is giggle.
Angered, the search soldier punches the boy, but like a broken cup that cannot hold its contents, the boy continues to laugh. The soldier punches him again. The boy’s laughter now zigzags up and down like a mouse trying to flee and not knowing which way to turn. But a kick on the knee from the soldier’s boot finally makes the boy cry. He folds down in pain and then is led inside the building.
We stand still like trees – no talking, no looking at one another, no asking questions, no requesting water or trips to the bathroom, no sitting or squatting. We do not know what we are waiting for or why we are waiting.
The hours stretch like rubber bands that break and snap against our skins, measured by the ticking of boots, going and coming across the yard, in and out of the building.
I keep my eyes on our main guard, who now sits by the door. Lighting a cigarette from the dying ember of the one he has just finished and filling his chest with the flavor of fire, he makes frog cheeks and blows smoke rings that widen like binoculars as he glances at us through the smoky panel. He looks at us as though we are only suitcases in his custody.
I want to ask him if I can take out a pen and paper. If he lets me, I will empty myself of what I feel. I will distract myself from my hunger, for I have not eaten all day. And I will record details to give to my mother in order to avoid her wrath-if Ramallah is not really gone.
But something in my mind wags a warning finger not to ask, not to do the wrong thing. It’s a finger like Mother’s, telling me to get home in a hurry, not ever to be late. But I am already many hours late.