It was less than half an hour before sunset. I’d already snapped a picture or two of the group of girls mooching about the old Roman theatre at Sebastia. The incomparably knowledgeable and insightful George Rishmawi had been guiding non-stop since breakfast time at the other end of Palestine. I didn’t want to drop the pace. I was desperate to put my eyes in the way of Sebastia before the light went altogether.
The girls clocked us, the guide and the camera-toting tourist. “No, no! No pictures!”
I pointed at the wall, showing I wasn’t photographing them. It was a lie. I’ve lied like this many times. As if my photographs matter.
They hopped down off the old stones. I was listening to George as they stalked past. No photos.
They sauntered up the hill. I was listening to George as they picked flowers. No photos.
The last metre-and-a-half of the sunset caught them laughing against a golden olive tree, with a column drum beside and the hills beyond. I chewed my lip. George invited me to declaim “To be” at the old stones.
The girls were young enough to be interested, old enough to radiate contempt. George said hello, then, leaning back against a flaming sunset panorama, spent ten minutes in rapid-fire simultaneous translation. (A guide makes or breaks. George made.)
Why should anyone come here? asked the English journalist.
“Palestine is an Arab Islamic country,” offered one.
“And Christian,” said another.
“Nablus is a very ancient area. There are many historic places to see.”
“We have three religions in Palestine.”
But then, from a girl hanging back, with the face of a widow: “This is our country and we are proud of it.” The others had pre-teen body language. She was tenser.
I asked her how she would tell someone in England about Palestine. I don’t remember exactly, but I think she stamped the ground.
That’s when I realised she was shaking.
She turned and stormed away, then stormed back, her friends caught like little children in her whirlwind.
She raged at me. “You don’t understand what occupation is like.” Raged. Furious. Almost spitting, she was. “Palestinians are under occupation and we want you to help us.” She hated me. It was hate at first sight. Half turning, she untied any connection, eyes down as a raging underling but with fists jabbing by her sides. She was shouting. “You have no idea.”
I don’t, I said, wondering what on earth had happened to her. People in England have no idea, I said. That’s why I came, I said, to help try and show them – I was talking like an excuse, defending my self-proclaimed role as a puny reporter in a land of pain.
Fists still jabbing. Tears now, too. “You don’t understand.” She turned towards me, full face. “An Israeli can come here, right now, and shoot us.” I think she stamped the ground again.
Then her friend took her away. She was rigid, like a matriarch. They were not floods of tears. There was no submission.
I talked to the other girls, but they didn’t say much. I took some photos – and realised she had marched back to lead them away. I asked her name. She told me twice. She was 13, she said.
Could I write it in my notebook? Yes. Could I take her picture? OK – and she wiped her cheeks with her palms.