1998, Tel Aviv, Israel

By Gabriel Constans

In the middle of modern, bustling, downtown Tel Aviv, a man in worn clothes meanders along on the back of a long, horse-drawn cart, yelling out in broken Arabic German, “Old stuff. Anybody got old stuff?” Behind his tall, dark body, with the stubble face, is a pile of books that look as if they’ve been in someone’s basement since Moses parted the Red Sea.

The gentlemen sitting next me at the sidewalk cafe, in his meticulous three-piece suit and tie, explains, “He’ll get whatever used stuff he can find and sell it at the flea market in Jaffa.” He takes a breath, lifts his nose and chin skyward and says, “Scavengers. Human scavengers.”

It seems as if every third person walking by has a cellular phone stuck to their ear in some private, yet public, conversation with a friend, business partner, alien or God. Who knows what lurks on the infinite satellite waves pouring into their heads?

Four out of every five women seem to have gone to identical fashion and fitness training with shapely bodies, tight black pants, one-inch high heels, dark black hair, and eyes to match. The other most popular outfit is army fatigues, with coordinating boots, cap and automatic weapon.

Across the street, under the Hebrew letters for The Grand Hotel, a life-sized wooden cutout of Barney leans happily against the wall, waving merrily with his outstretched purple clubbed hand, inviting all within sight to enter the small boutique at the corner of Ben Yehuda and Fischman.

A tall man, wearing dusty, worn-out clothes, approaches three smartly dressed elderly women sitting on the other side of me and asks for change. One of the women scrounges in her purse, as the others look away, and hands him some Shekels. Without a word he moves on. The women move closer and whisper with raised eyebrows as he walks down the street, shuffling from one person to the next.

I get up quickly, follow him down a side street, hand him the equivalent of about $10, and say “Shalom.” His eyes come to life and a smile adorns his face from ear to ear.

He tries to hand the money back and says, “Too much. Too much.” I insist and tell him to keep it. As I’m trying to figure out if he’s Arab, Jewish, or some other nationality, he says, “Come. Come with me.” I hesitate, then follow him around the corner.

As we turn the bend a woman in a long robe and a child meet him. He says something in Arabic and turns my way. “This is my wife Jehan and my son Ahmad.” He rubs the boys head lovingly. “Come,” he says, motioning for me to follow. “Come to our home.”

“No.” I say, sure they have little for themselves as is. “I couldn’t impose, but thank you.”

I turn and start to walk away, but he grabs me gently by the arm and turns me around. “It will be our blessing to have you as our guest.” He bows slightly. “Please.”

We make four turns through a maze of narrow alleys and enter a small hovel with a worn rug on the floor. Jehan boils some water on what looks like a small propane stove, fills two cups with tea, and hands them to Omar and me. She sits at his side, with her own cup next to her son Ahmad.

After a lot of grinning and nodding of heads Omar explains in broken English that my gift (which is actually been leftover bills I don’t want to exchange) would buy books for their son. When I left he said something that sounded like a blessing.

I could have stayed put at the sidewalk cafe, ordered a big meal and sat watching the crowds, but then I would never have met Omar and his family. Meeting them was a vast improvement to staring at women in tight black pants, soldiers with guns, and people talking grimly into their cell phones, looking at those who passed with suspicion and fear.

Gabriel Constans has written for numerous magazines, journals and newspapers in North America, Europe, Africa, and Asia. His latest book, Saint Catherine’s Baby, will be released this year by Rockway Press. His website is: www.gogabriel.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, February 7th, 2007 | Email This Post

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