Wadi a-Nar: internal checkpoint at Qidron crossing, east of Abu Dis, between western and southern West Bank, established 1994
Cheryl Markosky
Ahmad nudges ahead. Hands at 10 to 2 on steering wheel, music off, steadies prayer beads clacking off mirror. No sudden movements. Jacket folded on back seat. Orderly, so the soldier can eyeball everything easily. Wave him on. Possibly.
Five cars tick over ahead of him.
Sunya worries if he's home late. Ahmad's hungry. Can smell her Maftoul with squash, fennel and cinnamon; summer oranges gathering to her honeyed touch.
Once a local man sold salted sunflower seeds and drinks in a container on this dusty road. Now a soldier, gun slung across his chest, watches. Watches Ahmad thirst in his tarnished Jeep. Watches Ahmad negotiate access roads, traffic lanes, two sets of road spikes. Watches to remind Ahmad who's in charge.
Ahmad sees beyond the turnstiles, metal detectors and scanners. He sees Sunya lay out fresh falafel with sea salt and slice flatbread in two, like the Occupied Territories divide when the army shuts the Wadi a-Nar crossing.
Ahmad usually avoids this checkpoint at dusk. Where possibly they wave you through, possibly pull you over and spreadeagle you against your Jeep, possibly thrust guns at your groin, possibly hogtie you by the roadside, possibly slam you into administrative detention.
Ahmad edges along. Sees the young soldier who's about the same age as his daughter Amna when she was hit by a bullet and stuck in an ambulance in these lanes. Was denied access roads.
The soldier watches Ahmad, who possibly has a large stone like one that split apart the skull of his sister Liba while she was buying Shoko milk outside her school.
The soldier, for just an instant, holds Ahmad's eye. Ahmad shares a slight smile. The soldier taps the side of the Jeep. Safe home, brother, he calls softly.
Ahmad offers a hesitant wave to the soldier swallowed by ash-scattered sand in the mirror, prayer beads once again clacking. Ahmad turns toward the valley walls and sees Sunya's unbound hair lying loose and dark like the colour of smoke, sees her waiting through a window full of stars.
Cheryl Markosky, a Polish/Italian Canadian, splits her time between the UK and the Caribbean. Her work can be found in EllipsisZine, Retreat West, New Flash Fiction Review, Janus Literary, The Molotov Cocktail, and National Flash Fiction Day and Flash Fiction Festival anthologies. @cherylmarkosky www.cherylmarkosky.com