by Michael Thomson
After work on an unusually quiet night, as I walk to my Palestinian host family’s residence nestled in the middle of the anarchic web of limestone buildings that make up Hebron’s Old City, I listen for any sign of life. I’m apprehensive in the eerie silence, but know better than to look up at the soldiers watching me from above. Searching for signs of life would have been difficult anyway through the netting that hangs above the street and prevents objects from being thrown down on passersby.
Even when the temperatures dip below freezing on the January nights in Hebron’s Old City, I never put my hands in my pockets. During the day, I guiltily recognize that my white skin, brown hair, and, crucially, navy blue U.S. passport can get me out of trouble with the Israeli soldiers patrolling the H2 military zone —one of two zones that has divided Hebron since 1997— or watching me from their olive green outposts. At night, however, the staleness of my silhouette against the dull city lights provides no such guarantee.
As I approach the end of my brisk walk, I hear the patter of boots on the stones behind me. I turn to see three columns of Israeli soldiers, approximately 15 in total, marching towards me. All of us tense as we see each other. I clench my arms, legs, neck, and hands, and they close grip on their Tavor assault rifles. Black cloth masks hide the bottom half of their faces, so I can only see their eyes, all of which drill me to the wall I had backed into to let them pass.
“What do you want?” one of the soldiers close to me demands in a brusque tone that cuts the air like a pickaxe through an ice cube. I remain mute, holding a steady gaze. The soldier does not wait for an answer.
It was only then that I notice another figure in their midst. These three columns of soldiers encircle a Palestinian boy who looks no older than 13 and gazes at me with no less resentment than the soldiers. His eyes mock my evident alarm, which reflect my ignorance. For all of them know what I do not: that evening raids are a routine element of life for Palestinian children in this part of the city. In a few moments, the soldiers pass me and turn the corner, exiting my view as quickly as they had entered it. I stare emptily at the decrepit wall in front of me for a few minutes, feeling numb and somehow ashamed, before finishing my walk home.
“Good Evening,” my host father says to me in Arabic as I walk in. Switching to English, he asks, “How was your day?”
“Thanks be to God,” I say quickly in Arabic. I leave the rest out not because it would be disturbing, but because he would find this encounter utterly unremarkable. I then walk through the kitchen, out the side door, and up the stairs that lead to my room. Before entering my room at the top of the compound, I turn to face the outpost about 20 feet away. It sits on the roof of the settlement across from my host family’s house, and it’s blinding light shines into my room all night.
“What do you want?” I whisper to the outpost, before lowering my head and entering my room.