anathemas anathema: [act of] curse, condemnation, disapproval

I get up and have breakfast composed of the food I broI get up and have breakfast composed of the food I brought with me. I hear the sound of an engine and go to see what it is. Two men, one on foot and another one on a tractor, are spreading seeds on the fields around the village.

I make a point of keeping an eye on them specially when they work on the land close to the Israeli road I had to cross to come here.

After a few minutes an Israeli military jeep comes down the road and stops. Before any of the occupants can get off the jeep the Palestinian men get away from the road. This year that patch of land will not grow anything.

I go round the village and I get yet another invitation for tea from H. and her parents. Then we go and clean the cave where they keep the sheep in the cold weather. We gather all the sheep manure and H. puts it in bags, then puts it away for storage. Roots come down from the ceiling of the cave, covered with spider nets.

When we finish, I begin to pack my luggage because today should be the last day I am here. We start eating and I receive a call from my replacement. He’s only on his way, so I have time to finish and say my goodbyes before repeating the scene of the taxi leaving one person and taking up another, only this time it is me who leaves.

I am not setting to replace anyone from here. I am going to Jerusalem, ready to get on a plane. Not before going through the checkpoints, of course.

In the taxi that I get in Yatta there are other three passengers but we travel in silence. As we approach a flying checkpoint, however, the passenger sitting next to me looks nervous. “I need to ask you a favour”, he says to me in a low voice. “It is possible that they ask us for identification. I do have identification, but I left it at home. But if I don’t show it to them they will arrest me, take me away. Will you tell them that I am with you?” I say, “Sure. I’ll tell them I have employed you as my guide”.

Luckily when we get to the checkpoint, the soldier in charge does not make us get out of the taxi. He bends to look through the passenger window, sees my western face and says “go” with his hand. They have not checked our passports or identifications. The guy looks relieved.

At the first stop of this taxi, well before Jerusalem, he gets off. I don’t understand the words he speaks with the taxi driver but from the way he looks at me while talking to him, and the quick glance of the driver, I guess he is going to pay for my fare. I begin to protest but the guy leaves quickly. “He has paid for your fare”, says the taxi driver to me. I look at him through the rear window and I see his lips saying, “Thank you”. Right.
ught with me. I hear the sound of an engine and go to see what it is. Two men, one on foot and another one on a tractor, are spreading seeds on the fields around the village.

I make a point of keeping an eye on them specially when they work on the land close to the Israeli road I had to cross to come here.

After a few minutes an Israeli military jeep comes down the road and stops. Before any of the occupants can get off the jeep the Palestinian men get away from the road. This year that patch of land will not grow anything.

I go round the village and I get yet another invitation for tea from H. and her parents. Then we go and clean the cave where they keep the sheep in the cold weather. We gather all the sheep manure and H. puts it in bags, then puts it away for storage. Roots come down from the ceiling of the cave, covered with spider nets.

When we finish, I begin to pack my luggage because today should be the last day I am here. We start eating and I receive a call from my replacement. He’s only on his way, so I have time to finish and say my goodbyes before repeating the scene of the taxi leaving one person and taking up another, only this time it is me who leaves.

I am not setting to replace anyone from here. I am going to Jerusalem, ready to get on a plane. Not before going through the checkpoints, of course.

In the taxi that I get in Yatta there are other three passengers but we travel in silence. As we approach a flying checkpoint, however, the passenger sitting next to me looks nervous. “I need to ask you a favour”, he says to me in a low voice. “It is possible that they ask us for identification. I do have identification, but I left it at home. But if I don’t show it to them they will arrest me, take me away. Will you tell them that I am with you?” I say, “Sure. I’ll tell them I have employed you as my guide”.

Luckily when we get to the checkpoint, the soldier in charge does not make us get out of the taxi. He bends to look through the passenger window, sees my western face and says “go” with his hand. They have not checked our passports or identifications. The guy looks relieved.

At the first stop of this taxi, well before Jerusalem, he gets off. I don’t understand the words he speaks with the taxi driver but from the way he looks at me while talking to him, and the quick glance of the driver, I guess he is going to pay for my fare. I begin to protest but the guy leaves quickly. “He has paid for your fare”, says the taxi driver to me. I look at him through the rear window and I see his lips saying, “Thank you”. Right.