I got off the bus in Jerusalem feeling lost, literally and symbolically. I didn’t know where I was going and I felt silly walking around in circles so instead of exploring, I decided to just take off toward the main road near the bus station and take a taxi straight to the hotel.  As I stood on the sidewalk, a young Orthodox Jewish man walked up and stopped a few feet ahead of me. A taxi came and I flagged it down, but it stopped right in front of him. I thought, “Is this guy stealing my taxi?” But I didn’t have to worry; the man bent down and looked in the window, but did not get in the car. When I got in and saw that the driver was Arab, I immediately knew why the young man did not get in the car. I wondered what he was so scared of.

The next day, I decided to join a tour to the Old City. The group consisted of a couple from Massachusetts, a couple from the Netherlands, our leader, Josef, and me.  After touring various religious sites like the Pater Nostre and Mount of Olives, we finally entered the Old City through the Lions’ Gate.  By then we were tired and hungry, so we stopped next to the toilets adjacent to a playground. I was the only one who had to go, so the rest waited for me outside. When I came out, I saw our guide, Josef, yelling at two little Palestinian boys. They were climbing on a railing next to a small tree. The ground was strewn with garbage, including lots of broken glass bottles. One of the boys—he looked about 3 or 4—suddenly fell.  He was screaming. The cut must have been bad; big, fat drops of blood fell quickly from his hand.  Suddenly a man (Brother? Cousin?)  came and scooped him up and carried him away. The couple from Boston watched the whole incident almost stone faced; their lack of reaction confused me. Then the wife said “I was standing under the tree and felt something wet falling on me. Those two boys were spitting on me and saying ‘Jew, Jew.’”  I realized then what their silence meant: “serves him right.” Perhaps punishment is swift in one of the holiest places on earth.

Little boys fighting, violently kicking and hitting each other until someone tells them to knock it off—little boys playing with fake handguns—toy semi-automatic rifles for sale during the Eid holiday—little boys sent into the street alone to sell candy or other wares—little boys riding donkeys bareback galloping down the street in the middle of heavy, Old City traffic. Palestinian boys grow up quickly.