Traveling back from the village of Bil’in, our car passed through the checkpoint in Ramallah where we noticed dozens of men lined up on one side of the road. Each of them was looking across the road to where a group of Palestinian boys stood facing three Israeli jeeps. Each of the boys, whose ages ranged from five to fifteen, had a rock in his hand. And each of the soldiers had his finger on a trigger. One rock was thrown, and then several more followed. My driver stepped on the accelerator as the firing started.
The four other people in the car with me, including two university professors, resumed their conversation but I didn’t hear them, nor did I clearly see the road in front of me. I thought about why a child would look down the barrel of a gun when he knew his weapon was inferior. It must be that he just had something that needed to be said. And then the soldier, who has no choice but to serve. What if it was his bullet that struck one of them? Can he sleep at night? I can’t, not tonight anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment