A news item tonight caught my attention:
An Israeli man was lightly wounded when a Molotov cocktail was thrown at his car near the West Bank city of Qalqilya. He received medical treatment at the scene of the incident and was then evacuated.
IDF forces are currently patrolling the area in a search for the culprit.
Elie has been home for the last few days; he goes back tomorrow. He’s in his room now, all packed. When I saw the news item, I called to him and showed him. This is his turf; his friends out searching at this moment. I wondered what he felt about it, was he worried about his friends (not at all). Did he feel left out of the “excitement.”
“This happens all the time. What it means is that tomorrow, the area will be quiet.”
He’s told us so many stories of his life at the checkpoint. He told us of one Israeli who decided it was cheaper to buy a sheep from the Arabs and smuggle the meat back home, rather than purchase from a supermarket near his home.
He bought a sheep. Slaughtered it. Cut it to pieces and packed it into his car and tried to go through the checkpoint.
“How did they find it?” I asked.
“Do you know what it smelled like?” Elie said with a laugh.
“What did they do?”
“They confiscated the meat…and the car.”
“The car?” I asked, feeling sympathy for the smuggler. Take the meat, but the car?
“He used it to smuggle.” So what would happen, I asked Elie. They’ll fine him and return the car. That was clearly one very expensive meat purchase, and he won’t even end up with the meat.