For a Few Shekels More...

I was a loser as soon as I saw the bracelet, made of beads in green, white, black, and red: the Palestinian flag. I already had two stretchy bracelets, strung together with the same material that makes cheap socks fit. Because this was Hebron, I managed to get these at a deal: two for fifteen shekels. This guy ‘had’ me. With no one-pieces in my bag, I could not pay him the twelve shekels he had worked me to—down from fifteen but still more than the ten I asked. I took off a bracelet and handed it over...

...I had been in the country for just a few weeks...

* * *

My love for tea does not help me. Once, on my way through Bethlehem I was taken aside by a shop-keeper. It was their tradition of hospitality, he said. So, I sat and spoke with him and his neighbor. This time, he was the one who got a two-for-one deal. For the next fifteen minutes, he lamented the way that tourists are funneled into the Nativity Church without visiting the market. He also told me how lucky I was to be American, inflicting soft but persistent waves of guilt upon me. I bought a mug...

* * *

The parents know enough to send the children after you. They are professionals, as Zoughbi warned me, and that starts at a young age. There is nothing unethical about it here, either, which is why I had such a hard time as I left Hebron. “La, shukraan—I already have bracelets...”. A boy of about seven followed me for more than half the market-- and watched me make the deal for the Palestinian bracelet.

* * *

“Look,” he says and closes his fingers together, like he’s grabbing a gnat from the air. It means wait a minute. “Look what you are about to do,” he says and reaches for his calculator. It’s the calculator trick, something to lend credibility to the process of haggling, something to show me he is a professional. He must be just out of high school—or not—offering me jewelry for my mother that costs upwards of 600 shekels, after bringing him down from 800. I reiterated, “why don’t you show me something else—I like these shawls...” He kept making offers on the jewelry... adding and subtracting ear-rings, offering a different pendant of the same price...

* * *

“Because I know you love Palestinians... look what you are about to do...”

* * *

Maybe it is just the lack of service in the United States. In the US, it is not culturally acceptable to intercept a customer on the street. You generally do not tell them “welcome” and shake their hand. In America, a young man does not take a kofiah off the shelf and place it, gingerly, on the top of your head without asking. He usually does not tell you where it was made and point to the hand-stitching. He does not accept a mix of currencies that, you realize later, add-up to a little more than you had agreed. He probably also does not forget who you are by the next week...

“Welcome, my brother! From where are you?”

* * *

He placed an olive branch in my hand as I entered the garden at Gethsemane. After a day of wandering Jerusalem’s Old City, I was so blessed to reach a place of rest. The spirit of contemplation hung thickly on the centuries-old olive trees.

“Here is a branch, pruned from the same olive trees that Jesus prayed at...”

“Shukraan...”

“It is very Holy to us, here, would you please give ten shekels? It is very Holy.”

I felt obligated to give ten shekels. Could I hand back this olive branch, from these sanctified trees, as if it were not worth just ten shekels? As I dug in my change purse, he saw I had another five shekels. “Please, five more shekels. It is very Holy to us here.”

It was very Holy to me too. I was left with no choice. At the same time, I felt offended – as if I had to pay for it to be Holy to me. As if I could only take part in the Holiness because of my money.

* * *

The Hebron Old City is much more of a gauntlet than Bethlehem. It is not as long as the Muslim Quarter in Jerusalem but they see far less tourists, so that there was an atmosphere of urgency. Everyone was catching our eye. An older man had me pegged. “Old keys! Old keys to doors in Hebron!” I spun in my tracks. This is the kind of souvenir I want: something old, authentic, and symbolic. A key unlocks a door. A key means the ‘right to return’ to your home. In other words, I was a loser all over again—having bought the bracelet a minute before. I am embarrassed by what happened next. I eventually came home with the key and an old coin, seventy shekels down. At one point, he took the fifty right out of my hand and said “just a little more”. My fifty was gone, so I did give him twenty more, then took my merchandise and left. All the way home, I retold the story to myself until I felt like I had gained something precious and given an old vendor much-needed cash.

...the sweet scent of delusion...

* * *

*singing to the tune of ‘You Had me at Hello’* Yoooooou lost me at SHALOM ... you should have said Salaaaaaaam; I don’t want to shop at your Israeli store (no no no): it was over from the start... occupation breaks my HEART. You never even had a chance, you know: you lost me at Shalom.”

* * *

“This is a very detailed map but it is all in Arabic.”

“You want to learn Arabic, so maybe you practice,” said the college student who went all the way through the Zoughbi complex, up the stairs, and knocked at my door. I was caught off-guard.

“Naam, indeed. How much do you and your colleagues charge?”

“People usually pay fifty shekels for something like this. It supports our tuition and look how high quality it is.” It was very high quality, indeed. I wanted it shwaya. Yonni: kinda.

“I was only recently a student myself. Could you accept twenty shekels?”

“This is a very detailed map.”

“I know! I really appreciate the quality of this map. Perhaps thirty shekels, then?”
“Yes, I could accept that.”

I reached for my little change-bag. I knew how much was inside, this time. I dumped the whole thing out on the table in front of him.

“It looks like I only have 23 shekels”

“That’s fine, he said,” hiding his disappointment. When he had left, I tossed my empty change-bag aside I gazed with pride at my map—which I could not read, at that point—and reached into my back pocket. There was my wallet, with 140 shekels in it.

“I think I have tricks, too...” I said, chuckling.

* * *

I finally convinced that young guy to sell me a shawl for my mother. Afterwards, he welcomed me to join he and his cousin for tea in the neighboring shop. The post-purchase tea promised to be more authentic, or so I thought. My tea was extremely hot and taking a long time to cool. As it was cooling, his cousin began to talk to me about his collegiate aspirations. In fact, we even talked a little about marriage – missed chances, hopeful prospects. As he finished his tea, he rose and asked me if he could just show me a silk rug.

“Just see how beautiful it is.” It was indeed beautiful. “This is a brand new store—this store has never been here before.” It occurred to me that I had tripped over two young men who had made a significant investment in a business start-up with their uncle. He made me some great offers on those silk rugs.

“How much would you pay for it?”

“I could never give you a fair price because I am too poor. I appreciate your offer, but I have no need for it.”

“For a rich person, I would not lower the price so much...”

“I know, and I appreciate that...”. After a while, he relented and we talked for a while longer. Then, the original dealer came back and they started to tag-team.

Where would I put a silk rug?

* * *

At Al Waleja the Israeli soldiers took a photograph of me in my sunglasses. Brazen as I am, I gave them a thumbs-up and a big smile. I’ve grown a shaggy mop and a scruffy beard, since then, as insurance policies against photo-recognition software. A month ago, I thought getting some nice, wide Palestinian cheap-Os could not hurt. I decided in advance that my goal was ten shekels. My strategy was to scan the market, first, then ask several merchants and haggle with the one who was already closest to ten.

At the end of my scan, I turned around and came to the last shop I had passed. I started examining the sunglass wrack with a shrewd but curious look, or so I imagined. He made his approach. I was braced for anything but what happened.

“Kadesh hatha?”

“Ashera shekel – ten.”

“Ten? Ten shekels?”
“Yes. I charge everyone the same price. It does not matter who you are, to me; everyone is a brother...”

Sold. I was stunned, my expectations defied by this man who chose to play it straight with me just like he would with his own people. I scolded myself, in fact. How could I doubt?

...of course, now the sunglasses are broken...