We’re driving along the Gaza strip. At night. He’s sick; down with sunstroke from showing off all day. She’s pissed off. I was along for the ride, the day out. Now I’m driving someone else’s C Class Mercedes, shifting gears with my right hand and driving on the wrong side of the road. Pitch black on either side. Halos of car lights the only warning of the approach of kamikaze Israelis who seem hell bent on driving me off the road. And all I can think is “Don’t break down, don’t break down. That’s the fucking Gaza strip, Dolce. Mines, snipers and barbed wire, oh my”.
I don’t know why this moment sticks in my head. A 15 year old memory, but still visceral with light and dark and movement and emotion. I think I keep it to remind myself that I’m capable. That when there is no choice, I hike up my skirts and do what needs to be done. Because if I can drive a strange car in a strange land alongside the goddamn Gaza strip, in the dark, then really, a little daily domestic fear is nothing.
On the upside. The sunrise at Masada was worth it.
Masada image from here.