Security

Abstract

Security Bret Lott (bio) The front passenger door on the silver Suburban weighs what feels a good three hundred pounds, and I have to pull with both hands to open it. The vehicle is armored and has bulletproof glass, Akeem told me on the way over from Mishkenot Sha'ananim, the state-sponsored guest house only a few blocks away where my wife and I are staying yet again here in Jerusalem. Now I am at the curb out front of the US Consulate on Agron Street, with its squared-stone wall and wide sidewalk and security stands and guards in blue shirts with ID cards on lanyards around their necks. The stone wall is topped with razor wire, on the other side the complex of stone buildings and the three-story Consulate itself, the grounds lush with palms and cypress and pine trees and roses. But right now there is only the business of this Suburban passenger door, and how heavy it is, until finally I have it open. "Shotgun!" I say, and climb in, the word out of me too loud for the small joke it is. The driver, already seated behind the wheel, laughs, and Akeem and Maryam laugh too, the two of them climbing into the back seat. Akeem: director of the America House, a cultural engagement center and part of the US Consulate, and a Federal agent; Maryam: US Consulate Cultural Program Specialist. My wife Melanie isn't allowed on today's trip, though [End Page 21] she was with us the whole day yesterday. But that was in Bethlehem and East Jerusalem. Technically the West Bank, yes, but safe enough to allow a kind of spousal dispensation for her from the Consulate. There will be no dispensation today. Today we're going to Ramallah. I pull the door closed, then turn to the driver. "I'm Bret," I say, and he nods, says, "I know." He's still smiling for the bad pun about riding shotgun into the West Bank. "I am Moshe," he says, and we shake hands. He's young, a national with a thick accent, aviator sunglasses and black spiky hair. A little like Zoolander. He lets go of my hand, then takes the radio mic from the console. "Moshe to Houston," he says into the mic. "Leaving Post 1." "Roger," a voice comes back on the radio. A very American voice, a southern voice, I can hear on just that one word. Houston, I think, and smile. Mission control. Then we pull away from the curb into morning Jerusalem traffic. Just ahead of us down the four-lane street is the massive white limestone Mamilla Hotel and the outdoor mall, a wide pedestrian boulevard lined with Ralph Lauren and Gucci and Gap stores, cafes and galleries, all of it in that limestone, all of it beautiful and new. Beyond it all, at the top of Mamilla, stands Jaffa Gate and the high walls of old Jerusalem itself, the limestone there leached and weathered. Older every time we come here and see it. Ramallah is, were a straight line possible, eight miles away. But the Consulate General's Program Schedule for the three days I am here to speak on being a writer has allotted an hour to get there, because there is no straight line. There is a wall around which we must travel. Yet even that word—wall—is a political statement, I know. In Israel, it's known as the Separation Barrier. Or the Security Fence. But, well, the fact is, it's a wall. Akeem leans forward between the seats, says, "We'll be safe today. There's an advance team in front of us, probably a half mile or so, just to make sure everything's clear. They'll be with us all day. And there's an extraction team in Ramallah." I turn to him, there in his blue suit and black tie, white dress shirt. Before I'd met him yesterday I'd only known him through emails, and figured a guy named Akeem must be from this part of the world. But he's an American through and through, born in Greenville, South...