The Hole in the Wall
Written for the Challenge #12, "Cultures," at writers_ball
Challenge Name: Cultures
Title: The Hole in the Wall
Rating: PG
Word Count (optional): 1115
Author's Notes (optional): This story is based on my recent trip to Israel. It is idealized, to be sure, but I find it difficult to describe it now that I’ve seen it. The pictures in my head don’t match up somehow. I apologize if the jumping back and forth is confusing, and if there are too many details. Oh, and an ibex is a mountain goat native to Israel.
I walk by him every afternoon. The olive green of the Israeli army uniform sets off his dark features well and makes all the rippling muscle hidden underneath that much more intriguing. On his hips hang pants that disappear into boots far too worn to have only stood all day. His eyes are cold when they meet mine. I never shy away from his gaze; but I drop my eyes as is appropriate before going through the revolving metal gate to get back home. That rusted, angry gate is one of the only entrances into the city. It’s the least secured; usually there’s only two soldiers there. It is lucky for me that I do not have to drive out of Ramallah to work. The process of getting through the checkpoint with a car is tedious. You would think, since this is the headquarters of the Palestinian National Authority, that it wouldn’t be so difficult. The wall the Israelis have built around and through my city is oppressive. The M-16 he holds lightly in his left hand is just another reminder of what I have lost, of what we have lost as a people. He always leans his shoulder against the wall as if he were lazy. It is not so. He reminds me of a tiger, pacing on the inside, ready to vault into action instantly. I am not afraid of him, and I believe he knows that. I will never allow myself to be afraid.
____
She walks by me every afternoon. The vibrant colors of her dresses and headscarves make her a welcome sight next to the gray wall. I cannot tell what color her hair is under the covering, but I imagine it is chocolate, like her eyes. Her eyes are quiet when they meet mine. I know she is not afraid of me. Her face blends with the faces of the other Palestinians trudging through the checkpoint in the wall. No one comes out at this time of day; no one attempts to. Security is tight, though it can never be tight enough. My brother lost his right leg to a suicide bomber only last year. This wall is a beautiful thing. She always averts her eyes before pushing the rusty gate, just as her culture commands. I do not believe she feels she has to. She reminds me of an ibex, steady on the inside, ready to leap up mountains instantly. I am impressed by her.
____
Today he points at me with his gun, and I step to the side so he can check my bag. It is a pretense. Only I see the balled up bit of paper fall inside; only I catch the tiny twist of his mouth as he hands my bag back to me. His eyes are still cold. The metal of the gate is cold too, colder than yesterday. The wall looms, mocking as usual. The note is written in English, a language native to neither of us. It reads simply “I see you - Yair.” He sees me; this I already knew. He sees me in every sense of the word. Without speaking a word he understands my soul. The blood of my fathers, the land of my brothers, the countless, endless loss - these he senses. His name, Yair, means “He will light.” To him, “He” is Yahweh, a name he would never utter. To me, “He” is Allah. How can there be such understanding between two so different? I am full of unrest.
____
Today I pull her out of the line. There is nothing in her bag, and I did not expect there to be. She sees the note fall and understands. With no flicker in her face or eyes, she pushes through the gate, disappearing behind the towering fence. Today her face does not blend in with the others. The other faces are tired, angry, hurt, and bitter. Her face is quiet, like the desert. I wonder that she does not hate me like so many of her people do. I stand with a gun, taking her freedom so that mine is protected, yet there is sympathy between us. My soul warms at her glance.
____
I sit, watching the sunset dance into the cracks of the hills. It is late, and will be later still by the time I get back to the wall. These few free breaths are worth the danger of being outside at night. His footsteps sound behind me, a methodical crunch on chalky rock. I know it is him before he drops to the ground next to me, sprawling his lean length out carelessly, but with precision. We watch the sky together; I do not look at him. He asks me my name in English and I tell him. He repeats it softly, his voice a smooth rumble against the painted desert. I am surprised that he knows its meaning. It would be best for me to leave now; the shadows are creeping in and it is a mile’s walk back to the wall, but he touches my hair and my heart burns. My culture demands I be angry with him for being so forward. Strangely, I am not. I stay, tucked under his arm, until the darkness is complete. The walk back to Ramallah is silent, and he leaves before the wall is in sight. To be seen together would only cause problems. The ominous wall does not oppress me tonight - a kiss has torn it down in my heart. I am peaceful.
____
I see her, curled on a rock, watching the sunset. Her hair is free from its scarf, flowing chocolate in the wind, just as I imagined. It is dangerous for her to be here at this time. She is not afraid. We don’t look at each other, and she doesn’t even blink until I ask her name. It’s Aasia, Arabic for “hope.” She seems surprised that I know its meaning. There is too much she does not know, too much that I don’t. I should leave, but instead my finger touches her dark waves. It is forward and uncalled for, yet her only answer is a smile. Her voice is like the honey of a wild bee, sweet, but with an edge of danger. When the shadows finally chase the light over the hills, she stands. Before the wall is in sight I turn away; if we came to the checkpoint together it would be assumed I had caught her doing something wrong. I watch her until she disappears, fingering my gun lightly. The wall oppresses me tonight - a kiss has made it insurmountable in my heart. I am restless.
Challenge Name: Cultures
Title: The Hole in the Wall
Rating: PG
Word Count (optional): 1115
Author's Notes (optional): This story is based on my recent trip to Israel. It is idealized, to be sure, but I find it difficult to describe it now that I’ve seen it. The pictures in my head don’t match up somehow. I apologize if the jumping back and forth is confusing, and if there are too many details. Oh, and an ibex is a mountain goat native to Israel.
I walk by him every afternoon. The olive green of the Israeli army uniform sets off his dark features well and makes all the rippling muscle hidden underneath that much more intriguing. On his hips hang pants that disappear into boots far too worn to have only stood all day. His eyes are cold when they meet mine. I never shy away from his gaze; but I drop my eyes as is appropriate before going through the revolving metal gate to get back home. That rusted, angry gate is one of the only entrances into the city. It’s the least secured; usually there’s only two soldiers there. It is lucky for me that I do not have to drive out of Ramallah to work. The process of getting through the checkpoint with a car is tedious. You would think, since this is the headquarters of the Palestinian National Authority, that it wouldn’t be so difficult. The wall the Israelis have built around and through my city is oppressive. The M-16 he holds lightly in his left hand is just another reminder of what I have lost, of what we have lost as a people. He always leans his shoulder against the wall as if he were lazy. It is not so. He reminds me of a tiger, pacing on the inside, ready to vault into action instantly. I am not afraid of him, and I believe he knows that. I will never allow myself to be afraid.
____
She walks by me every afternoon. The vibrant colors of her dresses and headscarves make her a welcome sight next to the gray wall. I cannot tell what color her hair is under the covering, but I imagine it is chocolate, like her eyes. Her eyes are quiet when they meet mine. I know she is not afraid of me. Her face blends with the faces of the other Palestinians trudging through the checkpoint in the wall. No one comes out at this time of day; no one attempts to. Security is tight, though it can never be tight enough. My brother lost his right leg to a suicide bomber only last year. This wall is a beautiful thing. She always averts her eyes before pushing the rusty gate, just as her culture commands. I do not believe she feels she has to. She reminds me of an ibex, steady on the inside, ready to leap up mountains instantly. I am impressed by her.
____
Today he points at me with his gun, and I step to the side so he can check my bag. It is a pretense. Only I see the balled up bit of paper fall inside; only I catch the tiny twist of his mouth as he hands my bag back to me. His eyes are still cold. The metal of the gate is cold too, colder than yesterday. The wall looms, mocking as usual. The note is written in English, a language native to neither of us. It reads simply “I see you - Yair.” He sees me; this I already knew. He sees me in every sense of the word. Without speaking a word he understands my soul. The blood of my fathers, the land of my brothers, the countless, endless loss - these he senses. His name, Yair, means “He will light.” To him, “He” is Yahweh, a name he would never utter. To me, “He” is Allah. How can there be such understanding between two so different? I am full of unrest.
____
Today I pull her out of the line. There is nothing in her bag, and I did not expect there to be. She sees the note fall and understands. With no flicker in her face or eyes, she pushes through the gate, disappearing behind the towering fence. Today her face does not blend in with the others. The other faces are tired, angry, hurt, and bitter. Her face is quiet, like the desert. I wonder that she does not hate me like so many of her people do. I stand with a gun, taking her freedom so that mine is protected, yet there is sympathy between us. My soul warms at her glance.
____
I sit, watching the sunset dance into the cracks of the hills. It is late, and will be later still by the time I get back to the wall. These few free breaths are worth the danger of being outside at night. His footsteps sound behind me, a methodical crunch on chalky rock. I know it is him before he drops to the ground next to me, sprawling his lean length out carelessly, but with precision. We watch the sky together; I do not look at him. He asks me my name in English and I tell him. He repeats it softly, his voice a smooth rumble against the painted desert. I am surprised that he knows its meaning. It would be best for me to leave now; the shadows are creeping in and it is a mile’s walk back to the wall, but he touches my hair and my heart burns. My culture demands I be angry with him for being so forward. Strangely, I am not. I stay, tucked under his arm, until the darkness is complete. The walk back to Ramallah is silent, and he leaves before the wall is in sight. To be seen together would only cause problems. The ominous wall does not oppress me tonight - a kiss has torn it down in my heart. I am peaceful.
____
I see her, curled on a rock, watching the sunset. Her hair is free from its scarf, flowing chocolate in the wind, just as I imagined. It is dangerous for her to be here at this time. She is not afraid. We don’t look at each other, and she doesn’t even blink until I ask her name. It’s Aasia, Arabic for “hope.” She seems surprised that I know its meaning. There is too much she does not know, too much that I don’t. I should leave, but instead my finger touches her dark waves. It is forward and uncalled for, yet her only answer is a smile. Her voice is like the honey of a wild bee, sweet, but with an edge of danger. When the shadows finally chase the light over the hills, she stands. Before the wall is in sight I turn away; if we came to the checkpoint together it would be assumed I had caught her doing something wrong. I watch her until she disappears, fingering my gun lightly. The wall oppresses me tonight - a kiss has made it insurmountable in my heart. I am restless.