The kidnapping of three Israeli teens started a chain of events that has affected people of all stripes, Jewish and Palestinian, and in different places. A reflective diary of the kidnappings, as they touch others.
By Leanne Gale
Wednesday, June 11, 2014, 2:00 p.m.
“I’m parked in front of the market.”
I have no idea what Manal is talking about.
“Do you mean, on the way to Kufr Aqab?”
“No, I live in Kufr Aqab. I am parked in front of the market.”
Alright then. Manal is waiting for me in front of some market somewhere. I hazard a guess that it is indeed on the way to Kufr Aqab, and start walking in the direction of Ramallah from Qalandia checkpoint. We stay on the phone as I describe my surroundings.
“Now I’m passing a café. There are only men inside. There is a gas station on the other side of the road. It looks closed. Wait, no, it’s open.”
Soon enough, I run into a parked car with a woman on her cell phone, smiling in my direction.
“Ahlan! So sorry I was confused!”
“Not to worry, not to worry. Today, you are my guest.”
I shake Manal’s hand and hop into her car, chuckling a bit to myself. I thought I was coming for work. Now I am certain that I will be invited to dinner. What did I expect?
“I don’t want my children to see what I have seen, to experience what I have experienced.”
Manal was a young woman, about my age, at the time of the Second Intifada. As she speaks, I am shocked to hear her memory of the ordeal. It feels so familiar.
“When the jets would fly over Ramallah, the sound was awful. And then we would know, when the jet stopped in the sky, that it was going to release a bomb. We would all run and take cover, stay away from the windows.”
“Did you have shelters?”
“What is that?”
“You know, in Hebrew it’s called...Read More