CONQUISTADOREE

I tuck my blond hair even deeper into the scarf draped over my head. This is my feeble attempt to stand out a little less in this holiest of Holy Lands. Even traveling with three male friends, the constant presence of militiamen (and women) creates a sense of apprehension and desire to blend in.

We eagerly exit the mandatory checkpoint. Crisp, December wind whips through the eight-foot-high steel-bar fences on either side of us. Cigarette butts litter the concrete below as artificial light glints off razor-sharp barbed wire above. The eight-meter-high concrete Israeli West Bank Barrier Wall opposite the fence represents a canvas reminiscent of the Berlin Wall. We follow alongside, stopping periodically to survey the cries for peace and equality splashed across it in a hundred languages. I can already tell that this “little town” has come a long way from a stable and manger.

Upon exiting, two-dozen Palestinian taxi drivers voraciously compete for the emerging tourists. “I’ll drive all day for five,” proposes someone behind me, his English almost accent-less. Shocked by this low offer, equivalent to $1.20, I turn to a man no older than thirty, wearing jeans and a black hoodie. His olive skin is smooth but for dimpled cheeks that immediately communicate amicability. His smiling eyes ask, “What are you waiting for?” as he turns to his car, our taxi.

Having tea at your taxi driver’s home probably isn’t recommended in countries plagued by terrorism, but here we are, only hours after entering Palestine. Our driver, Ahmed, won us over with his honesty, charm and conversation and after a tourism-filled day, invited us to his home. It was impossible to pass up.

Ahmed’s modest house, situated atop a hill, overlooks the rise and fall of this ancient town’s landscape. Ice-cream-scoop clouds hang calmly beside the setting sun as our host situates pastel-colored plastic chairs on the patio. His mother, wearing a long abaya and rose-pink slippers, shuffles by quietly carrying a silver tray lined with glasses of honey-colored tea, snow-white sugar, and fresh spearmint. Although her gaze is low, she radiates the same gracious aura as her son.

Ahmed speaks of life as a Muslim Arab in Palestine. He talks matter-of-factly about Palestinians’ lack of education, jobs, and freedom. “We don’t care if you’re Jewish, Christian, whatever. We want peace.” He relays his dream to one-day see Paris and I cringe; I was recently there. I’m ashamed of the luxuries I take for granted: my opportunities, freedom, passport.

I remove my scarf, letting my hair flutter freely as the late afternoon breeze cools our steaming chai. I gaze upon this truly historic city and realize that my perception of the world shifted in the past few hours. Palestine isn’t some real-life Narnia, nor is it solely a war-zone. It’s home to families who crave basic human freedoms. I reach for my chai and smile sympathetically at Ahmed, reminding myself to give him much more than five shekels and to keep his story alive.