Bobbi Lerman found kindness in the last place she expected it.
September, 1973. I was almost twenty, living in the Galilee on a kibbutz four miles from the Lebanese border. Mornings I learned Hebrew, afternoons I worked within the community alongside Israelis and volunteers from all over the world.
This particular Friday began like every other. I overslept, then rushed up to the dining room for breakfast and to complain to friends about my boring work assignment: washing towers of dishes. Luckily for me, one of my breakfast mates offered to take my shift so I could head down to Tel Aviv to celebrate the end of a long heat wave.
After lunch, two girlfriends and I hitched to the city. The party turned out not quite as exciting as anticipated, though the details escape me. Most probable reasons: A boy I liked didn’t pay attention to me, boredom, lack of money, or a quarrel with a girlfriend over said boy not paying enough attention to me. Whatever the impetus, I decided to leave early and hitchhike back to the kibbutz on my own.
Within minutes, an Israeli family driving a smallish four-door sedan pulled over. I folded myself into the back seat with three tween-age girls who alternated between bickering, asking how I got my jeans faded to that particular shade of blue, and where I bought my Dylan T-shirt. The family took me halfway of the two-plus-hour drive back to the kibbutz, dropping me off at a junction along Highway 90, where two roads surrounded by fields of high grasses diverged in opposite directions.
After twenty minutes of waiting on the roadside, my stomach growled. I was wondering what my friends in Tel Aviv were up to, contemplating whether I should have stayed, when a van skidded to a stop thirty yards from where I stood. Five men wearing dark tunic robes over pants and patterned traditional Palestinian headscarves stepped out. They approached, walking in slow motion, and in one terrifying instant, I understood their intent was not good.
I had nowhere to run except out into the empty, barren landscape, where I knew for certain they would outrun me. My stomach somersaulted violently. Sweat ran down my neck. If someone asked me today what the men looked like, the color of their robes, if they wore shoes or sandals, I could not recall. What I do remember is what I felt at the sight of them stalking toward me, like a pack of wolves ready to pounce on their next meal. I felt like prey.
Then, in a whirl of dust, a beat-up station wagon screeched within inches of me. The back door was thrown open. Two men sat in the front seat wearing similar dress to those coming at me, and in the back, a veiled woman with two small children. I jumped in, pulling the door shut as the driver peeled out in another spray of gravel and rock.
I gulped down waves of deep, body-wracking sobs for several long moments before I gained a semblance of control. Small, warm fingers curled around my own and I felt a gentle squeeze, I looked down at a dark-haired little girl with long black braids, and eyes the color of chocolate. At my grateful smile, she climbed onto my lap. A little boy with equally dark hair and eyes sat beside his mother. He studied me with open curiosity. All I could see of the veiled woman were her eyes, a matching friendly chocolate-brown as those of her two children. Though she didn’t speak, I knew she understood my anxiety when she reached over to gently pat my back.
Eventually, I gathered my courage and looked at the driver. My gaze met his in the rear-view mirror. Unlike the expressions of his wife and children, his held little sympathy. His stern, paternal visage gave me the feeling that he had been waiting for me to make eye contact. After a few beats of silent staring, he began to shake his head at me and then one finger waved back and forth in a reprehending manner. His words came in rapid-fire quickness. Though I did not understand what he was saying, I understood his tone. He sounded just like my father when he went into lecture mode, usually after I had done something that scared the hell out him. “Stupid, reckless, crazy American girl. Your parents should not allow you out of the house on your own … ever!” I could be wrong about the translation, but I doubt it.
Over the course of a half-hour my rescuer alternated between a vigorous, loud repetition of his rant and a much-displeased shaking of either his head or finger, often both. The man in the passenger seat uttered not a word, though he nodded his head in agreement from time to time. The woman beside me kept a reassuring hand on my back. Her daughter’s fingers remained laced with mine. I didn’t know where we were headed, but despite a lifetime of listening to my conservative Jewish family espouse the view that Israelis were the good guys in white hats and the Palestinians were the bad guys in black hats, I felt certain this Palestinian man and his family had no intention to cause me harm.
Ten minutes later, we came to a village. Small stone houses were laid out along a curvy gravel road. Smoke curled out of openings in the many roofs. Sheep and several chickens wandered about the streets. Pulling up to the front of one house that looked identical to all the others, the man turned off the ignition and everyone but me tumbled out. The woman gestured for me to follow her and the children inside.
I found myself in one large room with two smaller rooms off the end. After conveying what I needed through hand gestures and crossing my legs, I discovered the bathroom was outhouse-style at the back of the house. The woman began to cook on a combination of hot plates jury-rigged together. Unsure what to do, I tried to help her, but was shooed away. I played with the children while trying to figure out how to get back to the kibbutz. At the same time, I offered supreme gratitude to all the powers in the universe for not being back on the road with those men.
Through gestures, smiles, and laughter, the three of us managed to communicate and exchange names. The little girl was called Laila; her brother, Makhi; and the mother’s name was Hana. Pointing to the two men now sitting on stools right outside the door, smoking, I learned from Laila that her father’s name was Yusuf. The other man’s name I don’t recall, and his relationship to the family was not given.
I decided to teach the kids one of my favorite childhood songs, “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” I wasn’t able to get them to say the words but they followed along as I sang, learning the finger motions after two passes through the song. Eventually the men came in and we ate—in silence.
The lamb and rice were delicious, though I could not shake the feeling they normally did not eat this well or have as much food on their table.
The remainder of the evening passed quietly, ending around nine, with me sharing a bed on the floor with Leila and Makhi.
I woke to the wonderful scents of more food cooked by Hana. Yusuf was there, sitting with another man. He motioned me forward and once I had settled myself at the wooden table, he nodded to the other guy, who spoke in halting English. Relief nearly overwhelmed me at being able to communicate, to be understood, and at the realization that I would be able to figure out where I was and how to get back to the kibbutz. Not to mention I could now thank Yusuf for saving my life.
The English speaker was Rashad, Yusuf’s brother. I explained who I was, how and why I happened to be on the crossroads, and where I was going. Yusuf began to shake his head again. I asked his brother to tell Yusuf I understood how reckless and stupid I had been, and how grateful I was for what Yusuf had done. My words took Yusuf off guard. He did not resume his lecture. Instead, he gave me an almost-smile and a nod, and began to eat.
Right after breakfast, Yusef, Rashad, and the rest of his family all piled back into the station wagon. I didn’t want to go back to the crossroads, even though it was daylight and the logical part of me felt it would be safe for me to hitch a ride. but before I could reassure myself that I would be fine, Rashad turned to inform me they were driving me all the way back to my kibbutz, an hour’s drive from Yusuf’s home. As much as I wanted to be polite, to tell them it wasn’t necessary, that I would be fine being dropped where they had found me, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. The terror I’d felt was still with me. I didn’t want to stand and wait for a ride on the empty road again. I gave Rashad and Yusuf a grateful smile and nodded my agreement.
We reached the gates of the kibbutz after an hour, as promised. Hana and the children gave me many hugs and kisses goodbye before I got out of the car. Rashad stayed in his seat as well, turning to look at me with a friendly smile. Yusuf walked me to the gate. I knew he wanted to give me his lecture one more time. He did and with a tearful smile on my face, I was happy to let him. Before going in I grasped his hand in mine and squeezed, speaking the word Shukran (“thank you” in Arabic) over and over. Yusuf’s wide smile told me I had pleased him with my attempt to speak his language. He then shrugged as if he had done nothing remarkable and turned back toward the idling car. I watched the family drive away.
I’m not sure I could find Yusuf’s village now, or if it’s even still there. I don’t know if Yusuf or Hana are still alive. I often wonder, did they get to raise their children into adulthood? Did they get to see them married and have children of their own? I hope so. What I do know is that in the middle of long-lasting and violent conflict, this honorable Palestinian man did not give in to hate, a hate he must have been raised with, against the Israelis and any person of Jewish descent. Instead, he saw a human being who needed help. He chose to risk his own life and those of his family to do the right thing. Those five men could have been armed. I am convinced they could have easily found out where Yusuf lived and taken retribution for his interference. Even now, I’m not sure they didn’t. Seeing me on the road that day, Yusuf knew I was not a Muslim woman. He probably knew from my dark Mediterranean complexion and outfit of faded, patched jeans and T-shirt that I was from the West. Not to mention the Star of David hanging around my neck. Yet he still chose to intervene.
It was a lesson in seeing people as individuals, not as one homogenous group who all feel and think the same way. There is little in this world that is black and white. Most times, all you have are varying shades of gray. And sometimes, gray turns out to be the best shade of all.
Author's Note: The names and places in this story have been changed.
Bobbi Lerman first began crafting short stories in her early teens and has since developed a passion for writing that spans multiple genres. Her current work includes travel and personal essays, as well as historical romance novels with a touch of the paranormal. Bobbi is the founder of Scribbler’s Ink, an active online community and website that offers author interviews, writing tips, daily prompts, and workshops for writers at all levels. She lives in a small town north of Boston with her husband and their cat, Skye.
Images:
Red road sign by Levi Meir Clancy
Aerial view of desert from Getty Images
Yellow road sign by Itay Peer
Thank you for sharing this poignant tale of humanity at its finest