From the Hills to Hebron In the morning I had witnessed Israeli soldiers intimidating the Palestinian shepherds in Bir al ‘Idd. Come lunchtime, I was sat in the back of a beat-up old Peugeot 203, missing half of its dashboard, as we raced across dirt-tracks between farmland. Bound for Yatta, I was to catch the servees from Yatta to Hebron: there was a demonstration there that day for the re-opening of Shuhada Street, and I had wanted to be there ever since I had visited the city two weeks previously. The young, Palestinian driver was forced to take this road because his car was unregistered and police would be on the road. His foot was to the floor, an aspiring rally driver. Bouncing over rocks, the engine suddenly cut-out and I could smell petrol. Fearing that the fuel tank had been punctured, I thought that we would have to forsake hopes of getting to Hebron. Mohammed fiddled under the car and reconnected the fuel pipe. We were quickly on our way again. Hamdu lillah.

From the Hills to Hebron

In the morning I had witnessed Israeli soldiers intimidating the Palestinian shepherds in Bir al ‘Idd. Come lunchtime, I was sat in the back of a beat-up old Peugeot 203, missing half of its dashboard, as we raced across dirt-tracks between farmland. Bound for Yatta, I was to catch the servees from Yatta to Hebron: there was a demonstration there that day for the re-opening of Shuhada Street, and I had wanted to be there ever since I had visited the city two weeks previously.

The young, Palestinian driver was forced to take this road because his car was unregistered and police would be on the road. His foot was to the floor, an aspiring rally driver. Bouncing over rocks, the engine suddenly cut-out and I could smell petrol. Fearing that the fuel tank had been punctured, I thought that we would have to forsake hopes of getting to Hebron. Mohammed fiddled under the car and reconnected the fuel pipe. We were quickly on our way again. Hamdu lillah.