It was past midnight, and I needed to head to Tel Aviv from Jerusalem, where I had just spoken at the Jerusalem Cinemateque for a panel about a film on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict called One Rock: Three Religions. In the movie, my interview about my confrontation with terror was juxtaposed with a morally confused, young Palestinian lawyer who basically said that terror was the only way for the “helpless” Palestinian people to fight against an organized army. Sorry, bitch. There is no justification for the murder of the defenseless.
On the way out of Jerusalem, I noticed I needed gas, and the closest station was off the road, in East Jerusalem, where many of the recent stabbers had emanated. What’s a girl to do when she’s running on empty?
So I started pumping and noticed my windshields were really dirty. I lifted the wipers, and started cleaning the windows. When I flipped the wipers back, a wiper cap came off. I found it on the ground and tried to put it back, in the darkness, but it fell under the hood. While I was trying to lift the hood, without luck, a car of three very masculine Arabs parked to get gas. They were watching me. I was alone. They saw me struggle.
“Can you help me?” I asked, ever so sweetly. I really was a damsel in distress.
A chubby man got out, and I explained the problem. He too struggled to open the hood, but he managed. We looked for the wiper cap, but we couldn’t see in the dark.
“Don’t worry,” Chubby said, as he used his phone as a flashlight as we kept looking, our heads inches away from each other. The cap was lost.
“Wait one second,” he said.
He approached his friends, and another man got out and started fiddling with his own windshield, until Chubby came back with the cap. He kept stabbing it on the end of the wiper, until finally it locked into place.
How to Stab a Windshield Wiper
“No way!” I enthused. “Thank you so much! I can’t believe it.”
He couldn’t stop giggling. “But my friend wants a kiss.”
“Don’t overdo it,” I said. He was helpful, but not that helpful. They drove away, my heroes for the night.
I got back in the car and drove off, until I heard a thump. Oh no! Did they sabotage my car, keep me stuck here, near a dark, cold, Jerusalem alley?
I noticed, in my flurry about the wiper, I forgot to remove the gas nozzle. I had unhinged it from the pump and dragged it along with me. I stopped, and two more cars with Arab men pulled up. One of the drivers looked like a Hamas-nik, with a scary beard. The other had gray, distinguished hair and was quite handsome.
“Don’t worry,” they both said, simultaneously.
“They could put it back?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” they assured me.
The gas attendant came and took the nozzle, probably thinking I was an idiot.
“Will you sue me?” I asked him. The Arab men laughed. We laughed together.
Then I remember what happened about an hour earlier, when I was sitting near Jaffa Gate, contemplating how beautiful Jerusalem is, especially on Hannukah. I was feeling completely safe, even while there alone, until two men came up to me. One looked preppy in a scarf and leather jacket; the other wore jeans and a suspicious grin. I knew Preppy was Arab when he asked: “At mi’boh?” – “You from here,” – since Arabs say “b” instead of “p.”
“No, from Tel Aviv.”
“You want to get some coffee?” Am I really going to have coffee in the middle of the night? Had he offered me beer, I might have considered it, but that’s not the Muslim thing.
“No thanks, I have to drive back.”
“Okay,” Preppy said as he walked away, adding: “My friend doesn’t like Jewish women, but I do.”
I nodded. I should have added: “He doesn’t have to like us, just not kill us.”
There are several morals to this story: First, Arabs and Jews really could get along if what drives us is only our desire to get home safely, to find love (or even a kiss). Second, with a strong, largely Jewish police force in a united Jerusalem, women could roam the streets alone in overall safety. Third, if we live in a world in which that Palestinian bitch lawyer in the film could get away justifying what I feared those men might do to me, we will never, ever see peace. Fourth, Jerusalem is an amazing place.
But the fundamental moral of the story is this: Orit, stick to full service at the gas station.
