I never caught his name, the bloke at the Alhambra Palace Hotel in Ramallah. He was really sweet, very friendly, very good-looking, spoke good English. Thick, slick hair. George Michael stubble. Red shirt, jeans. It was the day before his birthday, when he was going to turn 36.
“Be careful, my friend”, I said to him. “I got married when I was 36”.
“No way, not for me. Not yet”, he laughed. “I’ll get married but not yet. I’ve got too much to do”.
Nadal v Del Porto in the US Open was on his computer screen and it was clear Nadal was in trouble. It was fine. Two blokes chatting. He’s Palestinian, I’m Jewish. Well, he’s Palestinian and I’m an English bloke with his ear wrapped up in a plaster.
“People are people, so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully”. It’s always a bit of a cliché to say things like “But we’re just people” or “If it was just up to the people everything would be OK. It’s the politicians who get in the way”. But you know the thing with clichés, that they’re just oft-repeated truths.
On so many levels we were just chatting, He was super helpful, got me drinks, wanted me to have a good time. I took time out to go and get us some coffees from across the road.
“Black coffee, please”
“You want it strong?”
“Please”
Strong. The coffee here redefines the word strong. It’s nuclear strong. Sci-fi strong. I’d long passed the point of worrying about going out, of feeling uneasy. Stroll across the road, hold up the traffic, gesticulate at the cars, laugh with the kid selling the coffee. I can do all that. Little things you pick up, like not taking a lighter out so you’ve got to ask for a light.
Sometimes it leads to a chat when they hear you’re English. It’s easy to feel a bit embarrassed about feeling uneasy. It’s just a place, they’re just people, but it’s interesting how you can get caught up in the stories, in the presumed narrative. These people, they’re not just Arabs, they’re Palestinians. The people I’ve heard about for so long. The enemy. Heads wrapped up in schmutters, throwing molotovs, wanting us out, wanting us dead. They’re also the kid selling me the coffee and the bloke in the hotel who wants to live a life before getting married.
Back at the hotel, it was only ever going to be a question of when not if we started to talk politics.
“You know Abbas?” he said
“Yeah, sure. You like him? You think he’s doing a good job here?”
“You know his full name?”
“Mahmoud” (It pays to do your research first)
“No, that’s not it. His full name is Abbas Motherfucker. (pause) Motherfucker…. Abbas Motherfucker is a criminal. Corrupt. He’s in the pocket of the Israelis…. Sure. He doesn’t care about us. Motherfucker”.
Someone once said something about the Palestinians being the worst led people ever, the people who had been most badly let down by their leaders. He liked that.
I asked him about the future.
“Let’s not keep looking to the past, we’ve got to look to the future because it can’t keep going on like this. Do you have hope? Do you see a way forward?”
“What’s the future? I’ll tell you what the future is. Blow everything up. Everything. Start again because this is never going to get better. How can it get better? You think Israel will just walk away (from the settlements)? You know how much money they’ve spent, you know how they get people to go and live there? They’re not going to give that up”.
Hotel bloke was noticeably getting more het up, angrier. You could see it, you could feel it. But for me this is cool. I wanted to talk to Palestinians and I was talking to a Palestinian and as long as the plaster didn’t fall off my earring…
The more we talk, the more it comes out. What the Israelis are like. How the Palestinians are hemmed in, how they can’t travel anywhere, how they’re in prison, the Jews, why it’s all the fault of the British – “They gave our country away. It was our country”. He paints a picture of how Palestinians are the victims of what is effectively an international conspiracy. No one helps, no one supports.
“What about the other Arabs countries? What about Jordan, Lebabnon, Syria?”
“They’re also controlled by other countries. You think they are free? You think they can do what they like?”
Does what’s happening in Gaza help? The rockets, the fire, the bombs. Does it help to fight back?
“Hamas are motherfuckers. The same. They don’t care about us”
Interestingly, he had no kinship with the Palestinians in Gaza, they weren’t the same as him, they weren’t brothers. They were different. And their leaders were different. But they were also motherfuckers.
“But what’s going to happen? There must be a some hope?”
“Every time some kid gets killed, his whole family dies. What have they got left? What have they got? I’m very lucky. I’ve got a big family. Four brothers, sisters, everyone’s well, no one’s been hurt. I’m fine”.
“But you could get hurt. They could get hurt”.
“If anything happened to my family, would I press the button? Of course! Why not? What would I have to live for? I’d have nothing to live for. Nothing. That’s what they make us do. That’s what we become”.