On Choosing the Right Taxi Driver, Part 2

As our day in Bethlehem began to wind down, our driver, Al'a, happily obliged us with a couple of "extra" stops to places he'd mentioned to us during the day: An olive wood carving factory, a spice shop (where he purchased each of us a packet of seasoning to make chicken schwarma at home) and the Palestinian border wall.

Looking at that wall, I couldn't help but reflect on another wall I've seen of the same sort, perhaps you've heard of it, The Berlin Wall. Berlin's wall is now "fallen," it's remnants now serve as a reminder, a piece of painful history.

Perhaps the Israeli/Palestinian border wall IS the best option for now. I couldn't say with any kind of authority, or even a well-educated guess. But my gut tells me that any wall of the type isn't good. It made my soul weep to see it. And as we sat there, parked on a street looking down at the wall from the West Bank side, Al'a pretty much summed up what I was feeling:

“This is not the way to make peace,” he motioned to the wall in front of us. “This killing of children and families and making a wall."

Only several hours before, a Palestinian family in Gaza had been brutally killed. Al'a pulled up news photos of the bodies on his phone and showed them to us, photos we would never see in Western media.


We stared somberly at the wall, thinking, reflecting, mourning for that family and suddenly gunfire rang out. Staccatto machine gun shots pierced the silence. We looked to our driver, "It is the protests. Over the killings."

"We need to leave, now." I replied, nodding my head at Al'a in acknowledgement of both the killings and the danger of us staying any longer.

We zipped precisely around the hilly streets and came to a sudden halt at a military blockade that had been erected in the past hour, blocking our route to the bus stop. We three travelers watched as Al'a looked questioningly at the soldiers, all young men and women, so very young! One soldier standing in the middle of the street, brandishing a large gun motioned us nearer and when we were within earshot, he began screaming at us in his native tongue. Al'a's healthy brown complexion paled and he reversed the car quickly and turned us around, taking us back the way we'd come, having to traverse up and around mountainside to circle back to the bus stop.

"If you tourists had not been in my car," said he, "the soldier would have killed me. He screamed at me, 'why are you so stupid? Can't you see the way is closed?' These soldiers are crazy!"

One of our group asked, "Why would our being with you make such a difference?"

"Because you are Westerners. No one wants this. Our situation is bad enough already. If you were to be harmed, it would be very bad for the news, very bad for Israel."

When we arrived at the bus stop, there was no bus to be seen, but large groups of angry people were beginning to form, and soldiers and police had taken up positions opposite them.

Instead of waiting for the bus, Al'a turned the car around and drove us up the street, stopping in front of a pastry shoppe. "This is a very famous palestinian sweet shop. During busy times of year, people line up out of the door for these things. It is very good!" Several shopkeepers ushered us in and seated us, and Al'a ordered us each several things, honey-drenched flaky pastries filled with nuts and cheeses. One dish, Knaffa was the house special.

As I looked anxiously at the door, Al'a said, “Don't worry. If there is problem, I will take you home. My wife will feed you more sweet.”

We ate until we could eat nothing else, and then Al'a received the "all clear" from a boy who had been standing outside, watching for the bus.

We said our goodbyes in a hurry and boarded the bus. As we drove away through the city streets, we could better see the extent of the gathering crowds and soldiers. We left Bethlehem unscathed, we were very lucky, very blessed to have found the driver we did. I will always remember the kind heart and the goodness of Al'a.