Kingdom of Olives and Ash: Writers Confront the Occupation. Colm Toibin

that I was not only taking an individual risk but also one on behalf of Sami, because both of us are not Israeli citizens, and a driver trying to smuggle someone who doesn’t qualify would also be guilty of an offence.

      Now we had to figure out how to find a different access point to get on the main road. Sami began dialing to find another driver who might have an idea where we could find this when a taxi drove by. He saw that the road was closed and began turning back. Sami flashed his lights. The taxi stopped.

      The two drivers consulted, and Sami learned that the other driver knew another way we could take to get to the settlers’ road. We proceeded to follow him. I have always admired the camaraderie among taxi drivers, who look after each other and try their best to help one another endure these tiresome and frustrating times.

      We drove through narrow roads, passing many more Palestinian villages along the way. They all seemed crammed in contrast to the settlements, which were spread out, with lots of green areas between the rows of mostly red-tile-roofed houses. A wall or a barbed wire fence surrounded each settlement, and the entry was through a well-guarded gate. I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn’t driving. I would not have been able to find my way. I confessed to Sami that I was totally lost.

      Kind Sami said: “You’re not the only one who gets confused by the new roads and changes to the land. During the last al-Adha feast I was driving a man who finally got a permit to visit Jerusalem. It was the first time after an absence of many years that he was allowed into the city, though he lives just fifteen kilometers away. When he saw the new road grid and the settlements surrounding East Jerusalem he turned to me and confessed that ‘except for the white sculpture [which the Israelis erected as a symbol for peace] I would not have realized we were in the Jerusalem I thought I knew.’”

      We continued driving for another forty-five minutes, wandering from one Palestinian village to another. We finally found an opening on the side of the road that had not been blocked by the army. It was not a proper entry to the main road, which meant that we had to drive over unpaved ground, then risk being hit by speeding cars coming the other way.

      How I wish I were fatalistic, someone who tells himself I did all I could, and now will leave my destiny to fate. But I’m not like that. I start eating myself up, even blaming myself for the occupation and the bad behavior of its soldiers. I tried to assure myself that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t get on the flight. I was only going on a short trip to London to do a series of talks on human rights. Was it worth it to go through all this for just one week? Perhaps I should not have accepted this invitation. Perhaps I should stay put in my house and give up on traveling altogether, rather than subject myself to this agony. But though of short duration, my schedule at my destination was utterly packed. Every single day—almost every hour—was filled with meetings and events at which I was speaking. So much had gone into the planning of this week, so many people were involved. I had to do my very best and take every risk in order not to disappoint my hosts by failing to arrive at the airport on time. The more I thought in these terms, the more anxious and fretful I became. Would they understand if I didn’t make it? I would assure them that I had allowed enough time for getting to the airport. But would they appreciate the complications of our life under occupation? I know it is not easy for those who are used to roads being accessible to appreciate that passage on the roads of my country is a privilege that is not afforded to everyone. I hate to have to keep excusing myself because of the occupation, and yet this is the reality I live under and that I’ve had to endure now for half a century.

      Pondering the possibility of having to go back home in defeat and emptying the bag that I had so carefully packed made me realize how the occupation has rid me of the most simple joys. There were times when I felt excitement about traveling abroad. Now all the fun is gone. I no longer find pleasure in driving through our lovely hills, not even in springtime when they look their best.

      The occupation has been like a dark, heavy cloud hovering over the land, a lump in the throat. Sometimes it descends and threatens to completely asphyxiate. Then it lifts temporarily but never entirely. No one living under its shadow ever forgets the oppressive occupation.

      Once, when we were stopped for hours waiting at a checkpoint to be allowed through, I heard Sami say: “Sometimes I cannot endure it, but I have a family to feed. If I stop, who will take care of them? This is the only thing that keeps me going.”

      The closer we got to Rantis, the more anxious I felt. Much as I tried to relax, it was no use. I know myself and know that I cannot help fretting over passing through checkpoints. Fretting, in turn, makes me look guilty, as though I were smuggling a bomb or going on a violent mission. Just thinking of how I look when I fret made me more anxious and more likely to be stopped.

      I kept on telling myself I had to try to relax: otherwise, by the time we got to Rantis, I would be in such a state that would alarm the soldiers at the checkpoint, then we would surely be stopped and I’d be found out as someone crossing at a checkpoint reserved only for Israeli citizens. Yet how could I relax? The next half hour or so, I knew, was going to be a real challenge.

      After having driven me for so long, Sami knew me well. He could read my mood. He could see how tense I was. But he was too polite to refer to my agitated state and tell me to take it easy. Instead, as he drove, he tried to distract me and help me pass the time by telling me one story after another. He was a good raconteur; still, most of the stories he told me were about checkpoints, a Palestinian vein of narrative that is almost inescapable. The more I heard from him, the more anxious I became.

      Usually when Sami drives me, we talk for a bit and then drive on in silence. He knows how much I like silence, how I try to enjoy looking around at the landscape and dreaming. Most often I think about how much I’d rather be walking in the hills we are passing than driving by them. But this time Sami was going from one story to another, hardly stopping. Could he also be tense, I wondered? Sami was and is the calmest man I know.

      “Imagine this,” he said. “Once, I was going to the Allenby Bridge. It was very hot and there was a long wait at a checkpoint. When my turn finally came, an Israeli soldier came over and asked whether I often came this way. I answered that I did.

      “‘Will you be coming back this way?’ he asked.

      “I said I would.

      “‘Don’t stand in line. Come straight through, because I want to speak to you.’

      “‘On the way back I didn’t jump the long queue as he had told me to do. When I got to where he was standing he asked me, ‘Why didn’t you do as I told you?’ I said I always wait in line. He then asked for my telephone number, saying he wanted to talk to me. I gave him a number. He called it immediately and heard no ring tone. ‘You gave me a wrong number,’ he said. I explained that I have two numbers, one for work and one for use on Fridays, my day off. ‘Then give me your work number,’ he demanded. I had to give it to him. He tried it, and it rang. Satisfied, he said: ‘I’ll call you later.’

      “And indeed, when I got home he called and proposed that I meet with him. I knew what he wanted and told him I was not that sort of man. He said he could help me so I wouldn’t have to wait in line anymore, but would be able to go straight through. In return, he wanted me to tell him who the troublemakers were in the Jerusalem neighborhood where I live, and he’d reward me. I told him I didn’t need his help and hung up.”

      Sami’s storytelling was often interrupted by phone calls from his customers, which he promptly answered. What a huge difference the mobile phone has made for drivers like him. For many years, Israel would not allow car phones. Now the phone made it possible for drivers to check on the state of the roads and checkpoints. There is even a special app that updates drivers about the roads and congestion at the checkpoints. Sami’s car was like his office. He handled his schedule so competently.

      I had always wondered why intelligent Sami had not pursued his studies. Once, when I asked him, he told me that in school, he was good at science and his teacher had great hopes for him. He applied and was accepted to a university in Jordan and was preparing to go to start his studies when his older brother Majid was killed by an American settler. Posing as a passenger, the settler asked to