Cafe 3

I get talking to three men at the bar (when I say 'bar', I don't mean that alcohol is on sale. I am drinking coca cola and thick Arabic black coffee). One of them Mahmed, works for Jawwal which is the main Palestinian mobile company here. He is in his twenties, dressed very neatly in white shirt and tie. He works very hard, as everbody seems to here just to put food on their tables. In his case he has got a good job, but he has to show his commitment by doing two days of unpaid overtime a week. This is not in his contract but is somehow expected. He studied electronics at university, then got a job in a call centre run by Jawwal. He was picked out to work directly for them because of his enthusiasm. He lives in Abu Dis, but his job is in Ramallah. He leaves his house at six, drives to work getting to Ramallah by seven, that is if there are no extra delays at checkpoints. He works for twelve hours and then drives back. Now he is in the cafe. It is gone 10.00 pm. He will have to get up again in less than eight hours. 'How many hours sleep do you get at night? I ask. 'About five', he replies. I wonder how he can take it. He doesn't look particularly tired. 'I am in my twenties, I can do it at the moment'.

The other man's name is Abid. Both he and Mahmed speak very good English. Mosa is there behind the bar and we talk. The conversation gets intense, political. 'Do you think there will be another intifada?' I ask. 'Not for the moment', one of them replies, 'We have been through this last one since 2001 (officially the Intifada, the uprising of Palestinians against Israel, is still going on - Intifada means 'shaking off'). We talk about Sharon, the former Israeli prime minister who has been in a coma for several years since suffering a stroke. They tell me the Arabic for coma, which means something like 'half death'. They hate him of course, because of Sabra and Shatila, Cana, Jenin etc. I asks them whether they think there will ever be peace with Israel. 'Never', Mosa says, 'because their culture and our culture, their way of life and our way of life are completely different'. I am quite saddened by this because this attitude seems to leave no room for change or compromise. I don't know whether they think that Israel will one day go away, will be defeated or wiped out that all the Israelis will just leave or be driven out. It seems like an apolcalyptic vision which is the other side of the coin from an acceptance of the inevitability of things. They all of them have have green ids, even Mahmed who otherwise has a very good job with good prospects for the future, and they are as a result, like caged beasts within this small area.

I ask them whether Israelis, apart from soldiers, ever come to Abu Dis (thinking maybe then some human contact is possible). Abid says, 'No. They are afraid of us. They think we are all terrorists'.

It is eleven o'clock and I decide to go home. I leave with Abid. Outside, there are still people about, and shops are open including the very large general store on our corner, run by the man whose son is in Finland. I tell Abid I am amazed how hard people work here. He tells me that that shop is usually open until one in the morning. I tell him, how kind hospitable and caring people are here. 'It is the hard life we have', he replies, 'we have to be'. And then he says something that sticks in my mind so strongly. 'If we are not for each other, then who is going to be for us?'

Because without realising it, he is quoting the first century Jewish rabbi Hillel: 'If I am not for myself then who is for me? And if I am only for myself then what am I? And if not now, when?'