A different kind of commute.

Driving home through the shtachim (territories) from Jerusalem tonight was an eerie experience. Usually I like to look out at the hills, or notice the lights, or, in daylight, watch the Arab residents traveling along the highway, in ‘their’ cabs, with ‘their’ license plates. I like to imagine sometimes the only reason we don’t mingle with them on the morning commute is because of the language barrier.

But after a terrorist attack in Jerusalem, it’s a lot different. Army trucks patrolling; I spotted a new one every kilometer or so. Husan, a village with a bit of a notorious reputation, was completely dark, shut in. The machsom – or checkpoint – was buzzing with hard-helmeted boys and a long, slow line into Jerusalem, every car being reviewed, fancy or not.

There are things I am more afraid of these days than rocks or bullets hitting the panels of my car. The things I fear include my offspring and visions of bleak futures.

In that, I know that if we tried – language barrier or not – the Arab people and my own would unilaterally agree.