A House Divided

The McDonald’s in central Jerusalem might not be the best place to meet a Palestinian in a gold Mercedes. After all, the Golden Arches are a prime terrorist target. As I wait, Israeli security forces are standing in front of the restaurant, frisking and unzipping the bags and clothes of breakfast customers. Surely my driver, the Mysterious Mustafa, will be eyed suspiciously.

I do my best Jean-Paul Belmondo. It’s a survival technique I’ve picked up the past few days in Jerusalem. Leaning against a post, smoking nonchalantly, following the curve of lips with thumb, I try not to let my terror get the best of me. Mustafa will take me to the Qalandia checkpoint to meet Samer, a Palestinian cameraman from Ramallah. The Israelis won’t let Samer leave the West Bank for “reasons of security.” I have never met Samer, nor Mustafa, though I did talk to Samer on his mobile yesterday evening. I asked him to give me a “tour of Palestinian life” to get a sense of daily life in the West Bank. “A crash course,” I explained, “on the realities of the occupation.”

Go to the McDonald’s near Ben-Yehuda. Wait outside discreetly. At 10 a.m. a gold Mercedes will arrive to take you to the checkpoint.

At 9:59 a.m. a black Mercedes rolls to a stop in front of my black sandals. The black window rolls down—beautiful, tinted, electric.

“Mustafa?” I ask.

“No,” says the driver. “I am Mohammad.” He wears black tinted sunglasses. I think my mind is becoming tinted.

“Get in the car.”

“But what about—”

“Get in.”

I comply. Mohammad puts his foot to the floor, and we careen down the street, screeching around tight city corners. I want to know what happened to Mustafa and the gold Mercedes, but Mohammad is too busy talking in rapid-fire Arabic on his cellphone.