Israel: Borderlands

In front of us were the white cliffs of Rosh Ha Nikra. Between us and the blue, blue Mediterranean, a stretch of white sand that stretch for 10 kilometres up to the Israeli-Lebanese border. Beneath us, bicycles we had stumbled and hopped on just moments before, and had ridden to get away from the unbearable traffic and din of the city.

We cruised down the beach, smiles on our faces. There is something about a bike, and the freedom that comes with it, that makes me so happy. It makes me so happy, that my friend noticed it, and how it made me smile like I have not done for a long, long time. It makes me happy to feel the breeze in my hair, to know that, for a few precious moments in life, I can be in total control of the way, and speed, to get to a place I want to go. For a person whose life is basically rudderless and going with the flow of things, that is a precious experience... just as precious as the beauty of the calm waves, the clarity and freedom of the mind and soul mixing with the humming sound of tires echoing on the path below.

All that water before me, silent, vast, and endless... Somehow it all connected with the all waters of the Pacific that wave so peacefully below the mountains where my late dad now rests. Like many moments in the past few days, moments in which I experience profound beauty and awe, I again could not but prevent myself thinking of him. Once more, I was reminded of how dad was missing all this, how he could never have a chance to experience and enjoy what I could, and still can... A gull called, and brought me back to the silent waves, to the whispering winds. My friend too seemed deep in thought.

On an empty stretch of beach we sat. If you just stared out to sea, if you just listened to the slight whisper of the warm wind next to your ears, you could not begin to imagine how surreal it is that less than two years ago, rockets were raining down on the very towns of Haifa and Nahariya (among others) that we had just passed by on the train journey northward. We were close to the borderlands, the area which three successive wars, and countless little scuffles, had left behind carcasses of rusty tanks and a deep entrenched scar made of barbed wire and outposts that ran on the top of the hills separating Lebanon and Israel. All it would take is a bullet, or some mad soldier, from either side and the would once again become the firing range triggered by deep-seated animosity and distrust. A sail boat, a fishing boat... and look closer, and you would see an Reshef-class rocketship waltzing around and keeping the peace in Israeli waters.


But further we did go. After doing the must-see Rosh HaNikra grottoes, pushing our way through the underground caves and past loud families with obnoxious children, we ventured toward the border. For us international lawyers, it seemed like the 'right' thing to do, even though I deep down I knew it was really risking a lot. Signs along the border constantly remind the wandering and daring tourist not to go any further. But we went further, as if they were not there. An Israeli army jeep stopped at a gate, where we stood and pretended to admire the sea that lay beneath our feet. The soldiers seemed to be aware of us, and did not leave the area until we made our way down the slopes again.

We did not return to the beach like 'normal' tourist would. Instead, we took a dirt path that lead to an area that was overgrown with wild shrubs, and that had picknick tables that seemed to have been out of use for a long, long time. Again, another sign warned us (with three exclamation marks) that the border was ahead, and told us to stop. But stop we did not, and instead seemed to taunt the warnings by going further. The lost boot of an unfortunate soldier randomly lay in the middle of the track, the skin dusty, torn and eroded in the blazing sun. Memorials rested on either side, dedicated to the pioneers who had laid the founding blocks of the towns and kibbutz in the area. A crème-coloured tank slept camouflaged in the bushes, its belly webbed over with cobwebs, the metal peeling with rust, the turret pointing out to the rocketship still leisurely sailing on the Mediterranean.

"Let's go up the hill," my friend said. I hesitated, because it looked steep, and to be honest I was a little afraid. Standing there in my bright blue swimming trunks was not exactly the best form of camouflage in an area notorious for kidnappings by Hezbollah fighters who would not flinch to snipe you from afar. And I knew, beyond that ridge, up there, we would be able to see Lebanon... and Lebanon would be able to see us.

I was still unsure, but this is when my own sense of insecurity contrasted greatly with my friend's feel for adventure. She was someone who relied on her natural instincts, who loved her freedom, and who acted on the whim of her feelings. She was one who would never let anyone tie her down or restrict her dreams or wishes. And for that I admired her... but to be honest sometimes was a little afraid of, for compared to her, I was a tame city-boy, afraid of a slight cut or a bruise.

She leapt ahead, and starting to climb. Rocks rolled under her feet, and triggered a little avalanche as loose pebbles slightly crumbled and tumbled down the hill. I followed, carefully, trailing the path that she had created before me. A sudden pain I felt through my shorts, and I turned to see that sharp needle-like thorns had poked themselves into my skin and made a number of scratches. I moved on up, regreting that perhaps my Birkenstocks may not have been the most clever climbing gear on this hill that was getting steeper. Looking up at the ridge above, at what lay beyond that corner, and at what may lie before us if we could make it up there, I silently wished we would make it up there without being noticed.

Then I slipped and fell, smashing to the ground on my side, and as I would later discover, smashing the camera I had stupidly put in my pocket. The pain was instant, as I had scraped my palm as I tried to stabilise and prevent myself from falling further. The camera struck my upper thigh, and I was sure I would bruise later. I did not want to continue any more, and momentarily started to shake from the fall, but I told my friend to go ahead, as I sat in the blazing heat and waited for her return.

Sitting there, halfway up the hill, surrounded by thorny bushes and shrubs, I felt like vulnerable. I tried to cover myself by pulling my shirt over my head, but it felt ridiculous. I looked around, and explored the land below... the town with well-maintained groves and green lawns, the stretch of white sands that shimmered in the hot afternoon sun, the gorgeous blue, blue hue of the sea that spread into the horizon. And here I was, alone in no-man's land, while my friend had gone on an adventure without me. Perhaps I was even being watched... by some bearded and hidden Hezbollah soldier... or by some wild creature hiding in the bushes nearby, that had earlier given us quite a scare. The melodramatic mind of mine wondered whether I would have to wait here until nightfall...

My pocket trembled. A text message from my friend. I turned around, to see her waving at me from the top of a large boulder on the hilltop. I waved back, relieved to see her, and mostly, to see her still alive and well. I made my way downhill, as agreed, and loitered around the bushes next to the defunct tank, and waited for her to appear. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then another ten... but still there was no sign of her. I started to wander, and wonder where she had gone, and in my mind I recalled the terrible things I had read in the news what they do to kidnapped tourists or foreigners... terrible things. Ahead was the barbed high fence that cordoned off the abandoned picknick area, and which reminded me again that we should not have been there. A white fertiliser bag floated like a fallen balloon down the hill, and landed not far away. I picked it up, and started to wave it around, hoping it would get some attention, especially that of my friend, who seemed to have simply vanished. I dared not call or sms her, for fear that might trigger unwanted attention on her part. The rocketship still circled the bay, keeping a close watch, and in the distance I could hear the gentle rumble of jeep engines as they climbed the military road up toward the hill.

"Davvvvid...! Daviiiid!"

I walked up to her, and gave her a big hug, , excited to hear the sound of my friends voice, and relieved to see her image appear from behind the bushes. "You're alive!"

Of course she was. She has gone through so much adventure, so much more in her life, and come out strong and unscathed, if not stronger and more thick-skinned. And this little venture into one of the most potentially volatile places on Earth seemed no exception. Her smile, bravery and sense of personal accomplishment brushed away whatever fear or hesitation that was there, if ever they were there. Behind us, the border stretched, unmarked, still, and still deadly as ever.


We sat in the pool, our own private pool, and felt the sea weed tickle our feet. The water was colder than expected, the current strong, and I had difficulties standing on my feet. Waves washed again and again in my direction, trying to push me down, and make me stumble and fall. More than once I stubbed my toe, and felt the salt seep into the wounds and cuts from the jagged, potholed rocks. Below me was a world of fish and serene green, waiting to be explored, waiting to be visited, but choking on the sea water I could not but go up to the surface again, and feel the waves push me back ashore. I sat there, for a while, watched the waves brush by, watched the setting sun dance and sparkle on the surface of the sea. The same sea that connected with everything else half way around the world.

Behind us, the border stretched, the dangers, the warning signs, and the potential for an outbreak of war and raining rockets, far, far away.