Samer’s Land Rover is equipped with white armour and bulletproof glass windows. In blue, he has pasted the word “TV” half a dozen times around the vehicle. I feel at once reassured and nervous.
“Are we expecting snipers?” I half joke as he opens the
door for me. He doesn’t smile. “This place is hell, my friend. Welcome. Can I smoke?”
I pull out a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes and offer him one.
“Finally. A fucking Canadian who smokes. Today is already full of miracles.”
I don’t tell him I am new to the habit, that I only started smoking my first night in Jerusalem three days ago. Cigarettes keep you sane, keep you breathing in the here and now.
Samer pulls the Land Rover out of the chaos that is Qalandia checkpoint. Soon enough the tour begins. “This is the refugee camp,” he says, pointing to the ramshackle concrete disasters on our immediate right, “and this is the settlement.” He points farther up the road toward a hill. The buildings are replicated row upon row; white stucco facades, cookie-cutter windows, red-shingled roofing. There is an eeriness to their architecture. The quiet suburbs of North America have been transplanted into an occupied war zone.
“This road is the one the army uses to go from the settlement to start their shooting in the camp,” Samer says, pointing up a hillside.
“When does this happen?”
“Whenever they feel like it.”
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