Wanderlusting

Exiting the steely fortress of Israel and walking through the gates to Palestine was a full cultural slap in the face. The landscape bustled with cars, taxis, minibuses, baklava sellers, chai wallahs and dodgy Casio hawkers. Arabic writing scrawled everywhere, mullahs hummed and chanted, crescent moons and minarets loomed out of the sky and thousands of Palestinian flags blew triumphantly, burning red, white, green and black. We were here.

We had travelled here from Jerusalem and at Bethlehem been accosted by a dashing young taxi driver ready to rev his engines to take us wherever we pleased. I wasn't sure who was more pleased to be in each other's company that day.

During our journey we exchanged pleasantries; our happiness at graduating, the shininess of the real world, the sweet taste of a new chapter. The taxi driver spoke of lost homeland, lost villages, lost people, lost chances. A bitter swallow.

Later on, exhausted and slightly sunburnt we found ourselves on Friends Street in Ramallah. Nestled into the ramshackle capital was a tiny, air-conditioned place of respite. Pushing open the glass door we were greeted with mountains of fill pastry pieces capped with glaciers of syrup. Row upon row of gem green, pinky rose and honeyed yellow morsels stacked neatly, glistening in front of hungry eyes. The owner and his son beckoned us forward. Overwhelmed with choice we let the taxi driver to take the lead.

He offered us our first piece of baklava this side of the wall. His favourite, he told us. And, my, what a mouthful. In the midst of a war zone, poverty, destitution and catastrophe something sweet lightens the pain. History, tradition, people meld into one sublime, saccarine mouthful. On the back of crushed pistachios rests hope. Hope for fluid borders, reunited families, new futures.

As we scoffed more of our sugar treats we stared at the graffiti adorning the omnipresent wall. Mirroring the painting Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix the image showed keffiyeh cladded soldiers gripping the Palestinian flag clambering over a mound fallen men and torn down buildings.
I think it’s there to show that hope still lingers here. Hope resting on the back of crushed pistachios.

With one last piece of heavenly baklava we walked through the border overwhelmed with the taste of Palestine. An orange glow from the setting sun extinguished the day and cast calm and light over the divided land, uniting the two sides for a couple of seconds.