North to Nablus, south to Amman

My last day in Palestine. I knew it would be a rough day because of all the bus and taxi transfers I would have to make just to get back to Amman. It is a complicated process getting to Amman from Jerusalem because the King Hussein Bridge that I used to come in does not issue Jordanian entry visas so I cannot use it to leave. I am still not sure why that is but I imagine it has something to do with the fact that the bridge is in the occupied territories rather than Israel proper. So instead I had to go north into Israel and then east to the Sheikh Hussein Bridge that issues visas to Jordan. Before I left in the morning I was trying to count the number of buses and cabs I would have to take to get home. After I got to seven I stopped counting. What made everything worse was my heavy pack, now even heavier since I filled it with the Taybeh beer. I lugged it out of the hostel and looked for a cab. I knew my haggling game would be weak since I was carrying such a huge bag. I felt like a wounded animal and the cab drivers knew that I would give in and pay whatever they asked to take me on a ten-minute drive. This was Shabbat, which apparently made the cab rides twice as expensive as they should have been. When I finally got to the buses, which are cheap by any measure, I was told that there were no buses to Nablus, my main destination for the day. Instead I would have to take a bus to Ramallah and then one to Nablus, which did not take much time. The drive to Nablus was beautiful. There were harsh deserts but also rolling hills dotted with olive trees. 

I had no clue what to do once I got to Nablus. I was planning on finding a cab driver who would give me a good deal and drive me to a couple places around the city before heading north. I wanted to go to Al-Aqsa, the best place for kunafeh in all of Palestine, and find some of Nablus's famous olive oil soap but mainly I just wanted to see another Palestinian city. As soon as I got off the bus, a driver honked at me and I got in, asking him how much he would want to take me to the old city.

“However much you want to pay.”
“OK, but what’s fair? I don’t want to get there and you say 30 and I say 10.”
“You know, not everything’s about money.”
“True, but I still want to be in agreement before we go any further.”
“You pay what you want. Why are you so worried?”

I told him I am just used to everyone trying to rip me off so I need to ask about the price of everything. We introduced ourselves. His name was Zaher.

“Not everything’s about money, Hannah.”

“I know that. Tell it to the people in Jerusalem.”

We parked the cab under an overpass near the old city. He decided to come with me to show me where Al-Aqsa was. We wound our way through the old city, which was more elaborate than I expected. Every few turns we ran into a friend or relative of his (Picture: Zaher and his uncle in the souq) and slowly the story of his life unraveled. He brought me to an open area of the old city that had large, framed photos of some of the soldiers that were killed (martyred) while they were serving in the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades (the military wing of Hamas) during the Second Intifada. Zaher was a member of al-Qassam and was fighting the Israelis with his brother and friends. When the Israelis were approaching and firing a bullet grazed Zaher’s head, which still bears a large scar. He escaped but his brother was arrested and is serving the remaining half of his 24-year sentence in Israel. His friend is the one pictured (could not do much about the horrible lighting).

We then found the kunafeh shop which was so packed that we had to stand and eat. It was delicious and freshly baked. We walked towards the spice markets which filled the air with smells of camphor and ginger.

We went into one of the shops and I got some of Nablus’s famous olive oil soap. After all the wandering around it was getting a bit late. I still had four hours until the Sheikh Hussein border crossing closed at 7pm, but I desperately needed that time to get there and make it through all the security. I told Zaher that but he seemed to want to show me around the city more. He put on some horrible electronic Arabic pop music featuring Pitbull and we drove around. I was getting more and more uncomfortable, partly because he had been paying for everything--the kunafeh, the soap, drinks for me, and he was even saying he did not want to take any money from me for the cab ride. When I insisted on paying for anything he explained that this was just the Palestinian way. It is true that Palestinians are world-renowned hosts and incredibly generous, but not even allowing someone to pay for their own bar of soap is a bit over-the-top. I told him to take me back to the bus station so I could catch a bus to Beit She’an and get to the border crossing. On the road to the bus station was the martyr’s graveyard, where all of his friends were buried after the Second Intifada. He wanted to stop there and show me their graves. It would have been hard to say “No, I don’t want to see your best friend’s grave” so I said we could stop for couple minutes. It was a beautiful graveyard with winding paths full of trees, but I have no pictures since I assumed that would be disrespectful. Every grave along the path we walked belonged to a Hamas soldier. The granite coffins above the ground bore the Hamas insignia, a picture of the martyr, and various engravings. He told me a little bit about each one that was killed. For years after the Intifada he could not bring himself to visit the old city because it reminded him of playing with these friends as children.

“I don’t know why God let me live. I remember being hit by the bullet and bleeding, thinking I was dying. I was ready to be martyred. I just wanted to die with my friends.”

We returned to the cab which was still running and blasting dance music out of the open windows. We were finally heading to the bus station. There were no buses to where I needed to be. I was considering going to Jenin first and then taking a cab a shorter distance to the border, but everyone was telling me that there would be no cabs there, or that they would be just as expensive. Cabs from Nablus to Beit She’an were 300 shekels, about $85. If there was bus if would have cost about $3. I had no idea what to do and I was worried that all of these cabbies were just trying to rip me off, but we asked ten different people and they all agreed it would cost 300 NIS. Zaher said he would take me there for 250, so I agreed. Before leaving Nablus he said he wanted to stop and buy me some juice. I was ready to just get on the road and get to the border. I was also sick of him buying me stuff, so I told him if he wanted juice he should go ahead and get some but I did not want any.

“Why not?”
“I’m not thirsty. I have my water, that’s all I want.”
“What do want? A coke, some juice?
“No, nothing. I don’t want anything.”
“Why do you keep saying no?! No, no, no, no! That’s all you say!”

At this point he seemed genuinely angry and it was disturbing. There was no way I wanted to drive for an hour in the middle of nowhere with this guy but at the same time I did not want to get out on a blistering hot day and lug my bag around just to look for a more expensive cab. I told him I was getting out anyways and that I would find another taxi. He did not seem to understand, and seemed even more upset and hurt. I tried to couch it in terms of cultural differences:

“Most Americans don’t like it when someone else buys everything for them. I know you’re being a good host and I appreciate that, but it makes me feel guilty to have you pay for everything. I just need to get to the border and I don’t want to be stopping all the time.”

“OK, let’s just go.”

So I stayed in the cab. Sometimes convenience trumps comfort. We drove without stopping any more and in a few minutes we began seeing beautiful valleys and oases with streams and palm trees. There was even a surreal amusement park that was tucked away in an oasis with roller coasters and merry-go-rounds. Again, I wanted pictures, but I was not about to ask him to stop at this point. Most of the drive was without conversation. He was blasting his music and singing along, so he did not seem that upset anymore. 

“I just want you to be happy, Hannah. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

He showed me where the battle was during the Second Intifada. We were driving into some pretty stark desert when we started seeing Israeli flags and signs for Beit She’an. Then I remembered what he had told me earlier-- he could never go into Israel. He would likely be arrested and put in prison like his brother. I told him I wanted to be dropped off before the border but he refused, saying he was worried about me and wanted to make sure I got through OK. As we approached the border crossing there was a stop sign 50 yards from the actual inspection point, but Zaher kept going past it. A guard urgently gestured for us to stop and grabbed his assault rifle.

“They want you to stop!” Luckily, he did. The guards started walking towards the cab.

“You’re scared of them, aren’t you?” Zaher asked me.
“Yes.”
“They don't scare me at all. Us Palestinians are never scared of them and we're not scared of death.”

I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. We were at the Israeli border and with all the security measures they have it would make sense for the area to also be bugged. The guard walked up to the cab and Zaher spoke to him in fluent Hebrew. He wanted us to wait there for his supervisor. Ninety percent of the time spent at Israeli security checkpoints is just waiting. Waiting in the sun, waiting in the security line, waiting in your car. We gave our IDs/passport to the supervisor and were told where to park for inspection. Since Zaher was not taking me across the border I did not understand why they were inspecting his car. All he was going to do was turn around. They popped open the hood and trunk and all of the doors and had us take our bags inside for inspection. It was all pretty routine. 

We had to wait outside for Zaher’s cab to be cleared. Zaher sat down on a bench and told me to sit next to him and drink some water. I did but then he told me to not sit there because there was too much sun on me, I needed to sit on the other side. I told him there was no difference but finally I moved over. Meanwhile five Israeli soldiers are watching us bicker in Arabic like an old married couple and looking at us like we’re aliens. Zaher was finally cleared to leave. I ended up giving him 300 since he took what I saw to be a pretty significant risk just to make sure I crossed the border safely. We said our goodbyes.

There were no cabs or buses at the border like I had expected. One of guards asked me if I wanted him to call a cab for me and I said yes. A minute later a Palestinian family in a white Kia pulled into the checkpoint and the guard said I should ask them to give me a ride to the border. I did, and without blinking an eye the man said yes, he could give me a ride. I asked him how much he would want. He looked surprised and said he wanted nothing. I felt bad for asking but I told him I would have to pay him. Just then I look over and see his wife and three kids getting out of the car. I ask if there will be enough space, especially since I have such a big bag. “It’s no problem” he said.

I waited for them to go through the same security process and when they were finally done I helped load all of their bags back in the car. I really didn’t see how my massive camping backpack would fit anywhere. When we were all piling in the car the mother took my pack from me and put it on her lap, without a word of complaint. I got in the back with their three kids Maryam, Hamza, and Ali, between the ages of 3 and 8. They were the most adorable kids you could ever hope to meet, two of them wearing little t-shirts that read, “We are all Gaza.”

We talked a lot about my experience in Palestine and the Middle East in general. They told me about their trips to Dubai and their family in Jerusalem and Hebron. Maryam showed me pictures from their trip and all of their family. They live in Amman and told me about the places I need to visit in Jordan. 

Without going into all the details of the four checkpoints and border crossings that we went through I will just say it was a huge hassle. Exit fees from Israel, entrance fees for Jordan (both of which the father offered to pay for me), car permits and different receipts, again nagging everyone to not stamp my passport. When we finally made it through and were in Jordan I told them I would look for a cab. They insisted that I ride with them to Amman but only after offering to take me to the duty free if I wanted to get anything. We stopped along the way to buy snacks and water. After a few hours on the road I felt like one of their kids-- laughing and eating candy in the back seat and tickling the baby brother. They drove me and my luggage all the way from the West Bank checkpoint, through Israel into Jordan, south to Amman and to my front door. I spent four or five hours with them and they saved me well over $100. They asked me to join them for dinner that same night when we got back to Amman but I was just too exhausted. They refused to take any money and each got out of the car to say goodbye in front of my apartment, kisses on the cheek from the mother and a handshake from the father.

I hate to get sappy and even a bit political with how I describe this family, but what follows is what I wrote immediately after they dropped me off, so I feel an obligation to include it. So much effort is made by pro-Palestinians to humanize those that are being killed in Gaza, but to little avail. Sometimes it takes just a few hours spent with a family to illustrate a very basic point that so often escapes Westerners--that Palestinians are real people.


These are real people that kiss their small children on the cheek and buy them too much candy and laugh with their wife when their youngest son is being especially silly. The sister that looks adoringly at her little brother and plays with him on her lap for the whole car ride. The mother and daughter that tease the dad for being afraid of snorkeling while the dad says his daughter would be a good Arabic teacher for me because she talks all the time. They are no different from the families in Gaza, they are no different from the Israelis, and they are no different from the family you love.