A Battle of Race, Creed and Color

By Mary Barrett

May 30, 1988, almost five months after the outbreak of the intifada, is a full strike day in the occupied territories. East Jerusalem is very quiet. Shutters are locked on all the markets. There are no taxis and few cars in the street. The Arab buses are lined up like cows in a barn at the central bus station, dark and empty. I decide to try and locate a friend from the States. I heard she came into town last week with a delegation of some sort. I finally discover her in a hotel in West Jerusalem. With no strike there to inhibit travel, she takes a taxi to the Arab east side and we go for a walk in the Old City.

We wander through the Muslim quarter, munching falafel. I take her to the street where less than a week ago I had run with the shebab when soldiers charged a demonstration on the 40th day of remembrance for slain leader Abu Jihad. Friends are in the street, but they don't speak to me. They mistrust my companion. Symbolism is never overlooked here, and Linda's shirt is red, white and blue.

But suddenly my network goes into action. A little girl of seven runs up to me and points down the stone lane. Vaish," she cautions, Vayeen min howneek. " (They will come from there.) People lounge about casually, but word is flying with the children. We lean back against a wall, feet crossed, and open some chewing gum. "I'll have to learn not to sweat," Linda says. It will be her first view of the Israeli military interacting with a civilian population. Not surprisingly, she is a little tense.

Abruptly, soldiers round the corner with long, confident strides. No one flinches. There are about a dozen of them, well-armed, wearing helmets, affirming authority with tear gas canisters and M16s. In their company is a determined and fight-lipped man wearing a yarmalke. They whip up the street and turn out of sight. We dash after them, just in time to see them enter a narrow alley which can only mean they have business in private homes.

They reemerge empty-handed. The civilian is ready for more and tries to talk them into exploring another group of homes near which dangles a black flag honoring Abu Jihad. But the soldiers have had enough and talk him out of it.

Looking For Colors

As soon as these "hikers" have disappeared, we slip into the cul de sac and are embraced by the outraged occupants of its several abodes. They explain that somewhere in the Old City, the man in the yarmulke thought he had seen a little boy whose shirt bore the colors of the Palestinian flag—a crime under Israeli law. He had rounded up the army and decided on this area as a likely hideout for the young nationalist.

We are taken on a tour of one home. In the aftermath of the soldiers' visit all the cupboards are empty. Crumpled garments lie scattered everywhere, kicked about and walked on. Mattresses and pillows have been dumped off beds, chairs are overturned. A coffee table has been knocked over, scattering plates of homos and dishes of zaatar. A pool of olive oil darkens the rug.

The cheeks of a little boy are streaked with tears. He runs behind his mother, sure that we, with our Western faces, will make him again endure the insult of having his shirt pulled off by strangers.

One woman in the group, Um Samir, has taken a great liking to Linda. Soon we are sitting in a cool, dark living room drinking Royal Crown Cola from tea glasses, bouncing children on our laps. Linda opens her notebook to page one.

There is anger here, but as always it is mixed with humor. What the soldiers do is so ridiculous, Um Samir says, it's hard not to laugh. Surely they too have lost control of their lives. How absurd to strip babies to look for colors.

Mary Barrett is a writer based in Boston. This article is adapted from a chapter entitled "Colors" in her forthcoming book, View From Below: Palestinian Stories of Occupation and Rebellion.