In Hebron, West Bank, a volunteer befriends an anarchist rebel named Javier, who, tempted by beautiful women, engages in behaviour that defies the moral code of the Palestinian Authority. This story was selected as a finalist in our “A Human Moment” travel writing competition sponsored by Travel Lemming.
It was, and has remained, one of my greatest regrets that I did not keep in contact with Javier. I met him in Hebron, in the West Bank. We were both volunteering for an organisation that helped young Palestinians learn English and business skills to improve their job prospects. I was there for three months, and Javier for two of those three. He was one of the most frustrating people I have ever met, yet, at the same time, one of the best humans I had the privilege of spending time with.
Javier was a lively, passionate Spaniard who fancied himself a ladies’ man, of which the evidence supported his claim. He was also a dedicated anarcho-Marxist. In my mind, this meant he had not quite figured out his preferred style of rebellion against the State, other than that he was determined to rebel against the State in some way. We spent many evenings watching the light fade over Hebron from the rooftop of our apartment, discussing this topic along with many others.
He was intelligent and capable of holding deep discussions, though any conversation with him was always a mix of seriousness, frivolity, and humour. As one would expect, we often discussed Hebron and the broader conflict between Israel and the Palestinians. Despite the gravity of the topic, he still somehow managed to approach it with equal measures of seriousness and humour. This I particularly enjoyed.
Hebron has always been a flashpoint in the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians. In Judaism, Hebron holds a sacred place. It was the first capital of Israel under King David before Jerusalem and is the site of the Cave of Machpelah and the Ibrahami Mosque, where the Abrahamic faiths believe the patriarchs of the Old Testament are buried. Given its sacred nature, the city has attracted a certain type of deeply religious Jewish settler while also being one of the more conservative Islamic Palestinian cities. Hebron is predominantly governed by the Palestinian Authority, but just beyond the Old City, a significant IDF presence exists to protect the Jewish settlers. While the Israeli presence has certainly left its mark on the city, the Palestinians living there have nevertheless forged their own rhythm, one shaped by conflict but not defined by it. Javier could sense this, and he admired the Palestinians for doing so, as we all did. But when we discussed it, his attention often turned to whether the conservative nature of the city would preclude him from meeting a girl.
Javier was also the kind of young man whose qualities, when not appropriately tempered, risked getting him–and others–into trouble. This occurred twice during our stay together.
The first incident involved a Palestinian girl from Hebron who had decided not to constrain herself to the conservative moral code of the Islamic faith as commonly practiced by Palestinians in the city. She had instead taken a job in Tel Aviv in advertising and had little interest in politics beyond wanting everybody to get along. When she wasn’t working, she wanted to have a good time—sex, alcohol, and all of that. She was also very beautiful.
On the first night of meeting her at a party in Bethlehem, Javier seduced her into coming back to our apartment in Hebron, where Owen—a stocky Englishman equally comfortable reciting philosophy and getting into trouble at pubs—and I were relegated to the spare room while these two loved-up young people did what loved-up young people do.
The issue with this situation was that in Hebron, such liaisons outside of marriage were not tolerated. Someone had seen and reported Javier bringing this beautiful, uncovered girl to our apartment, for what they had rightly concluded was to engage in conduct unbecoming of Islamic law. The next day at work, Javier, Owen, and I were told to attend the manager’s office, where we were promptly read the riot act by our boss and the Sheikh who lived next door to us. The Sheikh, we were told, had spent the morning calming some very angry members of the community as word had spread about the immorality that had transpired in this holy city.
This was certainly not a good experience. I felt like I had let these men down, and I respected them both immensely. Javier, I concluded, was obviously the most guilty, but Owen and I had been guilty of not putting a stop to his lustful endeavours. As our boss and the Sheikh reminded us, respecting your host community’s way of life was of eminent importance, and we had not done so in this instance. Their forgiveness meant a lot, and I still think about it often.
The second incident occurred on the Day of Rage. The Palestinian Authority held sway in the West Bank, though its leader was not well-liked amongst many Palestinians. The people’s favourite was a man currently in an Israeli jail. At the time, there had been rumblings against the Authority. To remind both Palestinians and the Authority that their man in jail was still a force to be reckoned with, he called on his comrades to protest the Israeli presence in the West Bank, which many in Hebron agreed to join.
On the Day of Rage, Javier had another moment. As we were attempting to make our way back to our accommodation, a group of Israeli soldiers loitered at the bottom of the main street near the Old Town. One of them was a very beautiful woman, and Javier had locked sights on her.
I, however, was not focused on the beautiful Israeli soldier. I had already begun to walk toward the petrol station with my brother and up that street to cut across through one of the alleys that connected to the main road, and then back to our apartment and out of harm’s way. As I headed that way, I noticed Javier walking toward the Israeli soldier, and knowing instantly what he was doing, I ran to intercept him.
I was too late.
He had reached the beautiful soldier, who was clearly preparing to join the fray further up the main road. I don’t know what Javier said, but she immediately stared daggers at him. The much bigger Israeli soldier behind her immediately positioned himself between them, grabbed Javier by the shoulder, and started shouting in Hebrew. I arrived and grabbed Javier’s other shoulder and told the soldier we were sorry and were leaving.
For a moment, we were engaged in a tug-of-war for Javier, who now looked shocked and confused—evidence that he genuinely thought he had a chance with the beautiful soldier, despite logic and reason suggesting such confidence was severely misplaced. Eventually, the soldier let go. I did not. Like a parent scolding a child, I dragged him up the road I had decided we would take and proceeded to read him the riot act. My language, however, was far more colourful than that used by our hosts.
Javier was remorseful, but with his beautiful Spanish grin said, “My God, she was beautiful.” In his defence, he was not wrong.
Given these two instances, it would have been easy to conclude that Javier was an inconsiderate and entitled male with not much else on his mind other than pursuing the satisfaction of his own desires. During the incident with the beautiful soldier, I had nearly come to this conclusion myself. The Day of Rage was just that: tear gas, rock throwing, burnt tyres, water cannons—the works. It was not a day to be gleefully strolling around Hebron looking for one’s next hook up, especially with a soldier.
Once we had reached our apartment, and after a group of soldiers had searched it looking for Palestinians who had used our roof as a vantage point to throw rocks, my anger towards Javier subsided. This was in part because I finally had a cigarette, but also because it was impossible to stay angry at him. He was, to put it bluntly, just so damn likable, and this was despite nearly getting us kicked out of Hebron and then being tossed into an Israeli jail.
Though his decision-making abilities left a lot to be desired, it was easy to appreciate, with a degree of patience, just how good a person he was. While he seemed to bumble along from one stupid decision to another, he, at the same time, was capable of great intellectual depth and was universally loved by our hosts, the volunteers, and the students he taught. He was, in the fullest sense of the phrase, a walking contradiction, and it was these contradictions that made him who he was.
There are parts of a person’s identity that just are. I hate soccer and will never call it football, I am a terrible person pre-coffee, and I love to travel. These are important aspects of my character. But what I think defines a person is the sense of becoming we all embody in one way or another—a becoming that exists within the contradictions we negotiate daily. Javier was a prime example of this. His contradictions were on full display, where others may exist below the surface, because he was such a passionate person–a person who loved people and loved living.
It is not just a person’s identity that is formed this way, but a city as well. As I would discuss with Javier often on the rooftop of our apartment, Hebron and the Palestinians who lived there were defined in many ways by their conflict with Israel. The conflict was not only etched into the fabric of the city by protests, checkpoints, and outbursts of violence, but by the prominence of organisations such as the Christian Peacemakers, the International Solidarity Mission, and others whose task was to assist the Palestinians in their struggle. Yet Hebron was also a city that had forged its own identity and rhythm of life. The smell of coffee and sweets would caress the air around certain shops, young boys played soccer in the streets, and pop-up festivals and musical shows entertained locals and travellers alike. And, despite the often-tumultuous outbursts of protest that would occur, the Palestinians living there were some of the happiest and most hospitable people I had ever met. If it were not for the presence of the soldiers, one could have been forgiven for thinking all was well in this city.
I left Hebron, and Javier, having concluded that to travel well is not so much about understanding the immutable characteristics of a people and a place, as important as they are, but to embrace and explore the contradictions they live out each day.
Javier taught me this.
