Crossing Allenby Bridge

by Michael Looft

  “Excuse, me. Harry?” Alex turned to me, and I glanced over at him. The driver was looking at me in anticipation. “He’s asking for forty dollars to Jerusalem. He’ll drop us off at the gate.”

  “That’s fine. The gate?”

  “Yes, he’s Palestinian. Not allowed to leave the West Bank. So, he can only take us to the Damascus Gate.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to Jerusalem?”

  “Yes, just for the weekend.”

  Alex said something to the driver and I told him I’d lucked out having an Arabic speaker with me, otherwise I would have been lost. The car rolled away, and I breathed a sigh of relief, glancing back once to see the throng of people leaving the terminal and doing their best to get their lives back to together and onto a bus. I reached into my pocket and pulled out what was left of the mushy dates, shoveling them into my mouth and licking my fingers. I played around with the hard pits in my mouth, wondering if I should spit them out the window, but deciding to play it safe and shove them back into my pocket. Alex was texting someone on his cell phone, letting out a sigh of his own. We were passing over a well-paved road, and in the distance I could see little towns, which made me curious.

  “What’s Ramallah like?” I asked when I guessed Alex wasn’t preoccupied. He turned to me with a smile.

  “It’s amazing.”

  “Yeah? How long you been there?”

  “Going on three years now.”

  “What’s so great about it?”

  “Well, the people and the food. Best hummus in the world, and there’s something about the Palestinians. No matter what happens to them that light in their eyes doesn’t go out.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “What brought you out here? To the West Bank? Are you part Palestinian?”

  “No, my dad’s Israeli, actually.”

  “You’re Jewish?”

  “Yep,” he said with a laugh, “I got interested in Arabic and Islam in college. Came out here for a school trip and fell in love with the culture. Now, half my family won’t speak to me because I’m working with the Palestinians.”

  “That’s gotta be tough.”

  “Yeah, but most of those relatives I wouldn’t want to talk to anyway. So, it’s alright.” He said this with a carefree laugh.

  “What are you doing here, exactly? In Ramallah?”

  “Microfinance. In fact, I was just at a conference in Amman.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating!” I couldn’t help thinking of Zach’s philosophy around people of the same frequency finding one another as they walked their path.

  “Yeah, I love it. The NGO I work for does a lot of different things–microfinance is just one of them.”

  “I spent some time in East Asia recently doing a little of that. I was just in Indonesia.”

  “That’s really cool. Indonesia is predominantly Muslim. Did you get involved in Islamic microfinance?”

  “Islamic microfinance? I heard some mention of it on Java. So, there is such a thing?”

  “Oh yeah. See, in Islam you can’t charge interest. It’s usury.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “The Qur’an forbids it.”

  “Bummer.” I didn’t know what to say as a flood of confusion washed over me.

  “The Old Testament does as well. Jews were forbidden to make loans to other Jews at interest.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “Yeah. For a while Christians were not allowed to make loans at interest either. In fact, that’s why Jews were pushed into banking hundreds of years ago. I guess the Christians figured we were going to hell anyway, so we may as well be the bankers. Of course, that all changed over time. For Islam it’s still restricted.”

  “That seems so backward.”

  “Maybe, but when you think about it, it’s meant to protect vulnerable people from being exploited by predators.”

  “I guess so, but how do they get around this prohibition? Somebody’s got to take a loan sometime.”

  “That’s the interesting part. Many loan products are asset-based. If someone needs a rickshaw or something the bank buys it and sells it to them at a markup. There are also joint ventures. See, the prophet and his followers were traders and merchants. Basically, loans need to conform to the same ways they did business.”

  “It all sounds cumbersome and very costly. Doesn’t it?”

  “A bit, but it spreads the risk around. It also gives people the opportunity to agree on a price that is fair on both sides. Not sure if you noticed this in Jordan, but people in the Middle East like to haggle. It feels better knowing both sides have come to an agreement.”

  “That’s cool. Can’t they just game their way around the whole interest thing?”

  “Not really. In some parts of the Middle East they’ll charge a fee that mimics the interest rates. To be legitimate, the bank or NGO should get a fatwa, or a religious opinion from an Islamic scholar. The reputable ones wouldn’t approve a simple workaround, especially one that doesn’t capture the spirit of the law. If the risk isn’t shared in some way, it’s no good.”

  “That’s interesting. I didn’t know about this fatwa–though I’ve heard that term before.”

  “Probably in the news.”

  “Yeah, that must be where I heard it.”

  “Most people don’t know this, but Islam is a scholar’s religion with a lot of disagreement. In theory, it should be a fluid, evolving one as scholars discuss rules regarding morality.”

  “Yeah, but why do people need all those rules? Sounds painful.”

  “I guess you can look at it that way, but don’t most people just want the pill?”

  “You’re probably right. Better to have someone else do the critical thinking. Anyway, that’s meaningful work you do. Super cool!”

  We had been driving for about an hour and all the while I was talking to Alex about his work. It all made me want to go to Ramallah. At some point, maybe. The trip was pleasant along the highway, and as we got closer to Jerusalem I noticed more signs of a larger civilization. At one point, we approached a small line of cars and when I asked Alex about it he said it was a checkpoint and that I should get my passport ready. I counted seven cars ahead of us, and each one took about five minutes to pass the checkpoint. Buses were passing by, and it seemed that only cars were being stopped. When it was our turn I realized this was a makeshift checkpoint set up on the side of the road with a few simple concrete barriers, so cars had to zigzag when passing through. It reminded me a bit of the truck weigh stations I’d seen often on the highways back home.

  An older man in uniform approached the driver’s side with a halting hand, and I could tell our driver was trying to hide a slight nervousness. A young woman with a machine gun approached Alex’s window on the other side, peering in, helmeted and ready to shoot us. The driver rolled down his window and spoke to the man in what could have been Hebrew, but I wasn’t sure as it sounded like mumbling to me. He twisted his head in my direction, giving me a stern, scrutinizing look. I had my finger on my passport, ready to pull it out when asked. Alex seemed calm as though this were a regular occurrence. I stayed as calm as I could since I had nothing to hide. It had been a long day and I was bushed, which made me nervous since I knew I got punchy when tired and hungry. Eventually, the officer twirled his hand and I followed Alex’s lead of passing my passport up to the driver, who handed them over, along with what looked like a driver’s license. I noticed that Alex’s passport was a blue one with the United States eagle. This made sense because as he’d told me during the drive that he didn’t have an Israeli passport, which would have made it very difficult for him to travel in the West Bank. Other than the settlers, Israelis weren’t supposed to do that, or so he told me.

  The officer looked at Alex and me while thumbing through our passports. His eyes reminded me of the way a small dog looks just before it bites someone–petty fear masquerading as power. After a few mo
ments, he spun around and went to a small kiosk, where he fiddled with our books while looking down at something I couldn’t quite make out. Maybe it was a computer or machine. The woman remained beside Alex’s window, eying us with curiosity. All of us knew not to say anything, as if we were hiding out, waiting for a drunken stepfather to stumble past us–and just like that, five minutes later he handed back our documents and waved us on through.

  CHAPTER 4 | jerusalem

  Sensing my curiosity, Alex turned to me and said we would soon arrive at the last checkpoint that led to Jerusalem. I was so tired I almost didn’t notice the tall wall with barbed wire, graffiti, and old, creaking turnstiles with peeling green paint. As I stepped out of the taxi and looked around, I saw rubble and burned-out buildings on the West Bank side. It reminded me of post-war pictures of Europe. I paid the driver and followed Alex through one of the turnstiles, which seemed designated for non-Arabs because everyone else who looked Middle Eastern was going through a different one. I expected another long dressing down, but surprised when the guard standing in a doorway looked me up and down, flipped through my passport, sent me and my bags through a metal detector, and nodded for me to enter. That was it. I guess by then they’d grown used to my face. Alex was behind me, and received the same treatment. He helped me get into another taxi and told the driver to take me to a budget hotel he knew in East Jerusalem. As it turned out, we both had nothing to do the next morning, so he gave me directions to a restaurant in the old city and we agreed to meet there at ten.

  The hotel was cheap and located near the walled city of Jerusalem. A busload of tourists crammed the tiny lobby just as I had checked-in and started making my way up the steps to my room. Most of the people were in their sixties and seventies and overweight with rolls of fat hanging out of their shorts and tank tops. They didn’t say much, but it sounded like Russian. I could tell they were relieved to get off the bus. I unlocked the door to my room, glanced around before tossing my bags on the bed, and shut the door again. The room was the size of a jail cell, but that would do fine as I planned to stay no more than three days and needed just a bed and a bathroom. After Java most accommodations, no matter how sparse, seemed luxurious.

  It was Friday night and the wedding wasn’t until Sunday. Plenty of time to take in a few sites. Sarah’s parents were hosting a cocktail reception for friends and family late afternoon on Saturday, and I looked forward to reconnecting with everyone as I had a feeling they’d invited a few of the people I’d encountered when I was with them. If they’d invited me, who knows what other characters might be included in the roundup. So, I set out and grabbed some street food before coming back for an early sleep to maximize my Saturday.

  I woke up at first light and went down for the free breakfast buffet in the basement of the hotel. Even though it was 7:00 a.m., the place was full of tourists, and I took a few elbows as I made my way through the chow line. Cucumber, hummus, and a boiled egg were all I could muster before the entire place was cleaned out of food. That was enough to get my energy level up, and I gulped my breakfast down at one of the long tables since the entire group of people seemed to know each other and wasn’t interested in knowing me. It felt like being one of the new fish during a prison movie, without a veteran con sitting down to strike up a conversation. No matter; I finished my plate and set out on foot to cross over the stone bridge at the Damascus Gate and into the old city.

  With its high stone walls and cobbled streets, the old city resembled a castle. I had a map from the hotel, but wasn’t prepared for the sheer size of it and the cloistered streets and winding paths that seemed to lead me in circles. Lots of small shops and Israeli soldiers greeted me at every turn. I made it to the Western Wall, which I was told I should not miss. The first thing I noticed when I entered the open courtyard opposite the towering wall of stone slabs were the various forms of odd dress. Of course, there were the tourists and their usual indiscreet clothes. What struck me were the distinctive clothes of many of the Israelis. I asked Alex about this later when we were eating brunch of falafels and hummus.

  “You mean the Orthodox Jews?” he responded.

  “I guess so. Men, and even some boys, wearing big round furry caps. It must be eighty degrees out and they’re wearing some thick gear. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it just seems odd to me–almost out of place. Though, so far from what I’ve seen I’m not sure what is in place in Jerusalem.”

  “You do know you’re basically at the center of many religious traditions?” He shot me a playful wink. “I’m not sure the answer to your question. I heard some of the garb harkens back to seventeenth and eighteenth century noble dress from Eastern Europe–Poland and such, but don’t quote me on it.”

  “Interesting. Well, I guess I won’t be signing up for that sect. Are you Jewish, by the way? Can I ask you that? We are in Jerusalem, so I guess I have license to ask religious questions that would be inappropriate elsewhere.”

  “No worries. I mean, I was raised Jewish, but after studying world religions I’m pretty sure most of them are way off the mark.”

  “Which one comes closest to the mark, do you think?”

  “Have you heard the joke about the agnostics who die and when they find out there actually is a God they start freaking out? St. Peter’s leading them down a hall and telling them not to worry, their transition won’t be so difficult. As they’re passing by a closed door he begins whispering. When the agnostics ask him why he’s whispering he says, ‘I don’t want to disturb the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Their transition is going to be much harder, so we take it slower with them.’” I chuckled, and he shrugged his shoulders. “How would I know which religion is closest to the truth? But I’d say I’d have to put my money on the Taoists.”

  “So, are you a Taoist?”

  “Nah. Not for me, but I do like one of their expressions.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Shit happens.”

  “I like that!”

  “We all have our own bridges to cross. I’m just trying to keep things as simple as possible. Just doing the best I can to be a good person.” He looked out over the crowd for a moment and then turned back to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Harry, you said you’d done microfinance before. You want to see my work in action? I have a few clients to see for this small organization I’m helping. It’s in the Arab quarter.”

  “Sure.”

  And like that we were off walking through twisting alleys, even passing by a church that Alex told me was supposed to hold Jesus’ tomb. “I thought he flew up into the sky and disappeared?” I asked, which made him chortle. He moved faster than anyone else I’d walked with before, even faster than Fr. Jack. A man on a mission and no time to waste. I thought I would lose him a few times as he slid past humans, animals, and all sorts of stuff cramming the streets, which were at times a mere five feet wide. At one point, we were stopped by an Israeli soldier leaning against a corner wall. He’d been chit-chatting with someone as if on break, but suddenly peered up at us and threw his massive arm out to block the way. I looked at him and the alley beyond his arm, which had much less foot traffic than the ones we’d been cruising around. He and Alex spoke a few words of Arabic, and the soldier gave me a scrutinizing once over, then nodded, letting his arm down. As we walked passed him, I looked back to see the soldier watching me, then shrugging and going back to his conversation.

  “What was that all about?”

  “This is the Arab quarter. Tourists aren’t allowed. He thought you were a tourist. Said you couldn’t pass, but I told him you were working with me and we had to go see some clients.”

  “Interesting.” I said, considering myself lucky to be going to a place prohibiting tourists. After we were well away from the soldier, I asked Alex about him. “He looked a bit different than the other soldiers I’ve seen.”

  “Didn’t look Jewish?”

  “That’s right. He also looked bigger.”

  “Yeah, he’s Druze.”
/>   “What’s that?”

  “They’re from the north, near Lebanon. They broke away from the main Muslim sects a long time ago.”

  “So, they’re Muslim?”

  “I guess it depends on who you are talking to. They’re interesting, actually. They incorporate aspects of many different religions, including Judaism and even Hinduism. They’re Neo-Platonist too.”

  “That’s cool. Never met a Neo-Platonist.”

  “We’re here. This is one of my clients.”

  We were standing in front of a black metal door that was propped open to reveal a small beauty salon with a single chair. In the chair, a woman sat with all kinds of crumpled-up aluminum foil in her hair. The hairdresser stood beside her, and gave Alex a warm smile as he waved and entered with the Arabic greeting salaam. She was a young woman, close to thirty years old. The shop was quite small, lined with white tile and a mirror opposite the front door. So, I could see the patron’s face, a woman in her forties. To the right of the front door I noticed a stone stairwell and two children, a boy and a girl of about seven or eight years old sitting down on the steps, staring up at us. As Alex spoke to the woman, the children began a quiet inspection of me, unsure what to make of this strange man in their house. The hairdresser seemed reserved, but I could tell by her tone quite comfortable with Alex.

  “Harry, this is Fatima.”

  “Salaam,” I said to her with a nod, and she repeated my greeting, mimicking my gesture. It was odd that as a hairdresser she herself wore a hijab, albeit an elegant pink one. She had strong facial features and a prominent face that said, Look out world, here I come! Her shop was simple, but one glance at the satisfied face of her one customer spoke volumes about how much care she took in her work. As she and Alex conversed in Arabic, he was thumbing through a small notebook and talking to her about something. She also stepped up to a wall calendar and it dawned on me that they were comparing dates. Sensing my curiosity, Alex explained that he was setting up a business training session with her.