Seatbelts of freedom

Absurdities rule the roost here in the Holy Land. I guess it’s not surprising.

Hopping onto a public-run minibus in a Palestinian area does not come with an automatic clicking of seatbelts. We ride freely. 

Israeli roads cut through Palestinian land, connecting Israeli settlements with each other and the Israeli mainland. They have their own laws: Israeli laws. One must wear a seatbelt. Large fines and excuses for harassment lie in wait. Palestinian run areas - signified with large red ‘warning’ signs - have no such law. As the junction to the Israeli-run road approaches, we reach for our belts. *clickclickclickclick*.

Suddenly, I feel restricted. Unable to breathe. I know logically, reasonably, actually, belts are good. They make us safer. But here, between the ancient, terraced hills; amongst the grape vines and olive trees, it is yet another reminder of the foreign power forcing its will upon us. We pass tall, austere concrete watchtowers surrounded by large cement blocks and barbed wire, CCTV cameras pointing in all directions. Large Israeli flags wave at us victoriously. On the hill tops, Israeli settler apartment blocks cluster defensively together as if they know their annexation will be assailed. White immobile trailers continue the trajectory of the colony down the hill. Staking their claim to more privately-owned Palestinian land. They crowd in on us. Stifling. Constricting. Enraging.

The power dynamic is clear. We have none. So we search for freedom in little things. In ways you may think non-sensical. But in this land of the absurd, non-sense seems the only sensible way to go. 

As we finally come off the Israeli road, past the big red signs. *clickclickclickclick*. We free ourselves.