The Souk

…And we find ourselves back at the souk, near where we first got off the bus from Jerusalem. The stands overflowing with every kind of wares conceivable, from spices to pirate DVDs, clothes, toys and everything in between; the pandemonium of shoppers haggling about prices, merchants shouting out their best offers, crowds rushing through, merchandise hanging even above our heads, almost forming a roof, with only tiny patches of sky visible… a place unlike anything in the West.

We stop at a stand selling mobile phone accessories, and Anna asks if she can recharge hers for a while. Without any question, the man behind the counter, an affable Palestinian in his late forties, searches through a box, pulls out the correct charger and plugs the Nokia in. Anna stays to chat with him while her phone charges, while I venture a bit further to take some more pictures of market life.

Almost immediately, my cameras are noticed by some youths hanging around the market and minding some of the stands. They gesture for me to come closer, to take their picture, and strike wild poses, apparently vastly amused by having a real photographer around them; then run further down the market street, calling for friends to join them, posing for me some more. Even as I take their lead, I’m a little apprehensive at first – it’s sad to say, but growing up in the posh Parisian west teaches you a distrust of young Arabs, especially when they seem overly energetic. A hundred or so steps down the street, they bring me to a photography store, and, all smiles and laughs, demand my memory card. I hand it over, they pop it into the photo kiosk, but no pictures show up on its screen, as I’ve been shooting raw files which the machine cannot read. Realizing by then that they mean no harm, I switch to the JPEG format and motion for them to follow me outside, where we shoot some more poses.

I try to stay calm and produce good pictures, but adrenaline kicks in. I’m not exactly composing my photographs anymore, forgetting the rule of thirds, the golden ratio, forgetting the very controls of my camera. The rush is incredible. The last of the misgivings about contact with Palestinians – that’s been instilled into me by almost everyone to whom I’ve mentioned my plans to visit Ramallah – crumble away, and I find myself to be furiously enjoying the moment.

The files show up this time. The boys are happy – lightning-quick finger strokes over the touch interface, all in Arabic of course, and my memory card is safely back in my camera’s body. We head back to where Anna is.

The euphoria of the moment passes, and we find ourselves, once again, listening to our new friends talk about politics. The youths complain about not being able to travel freely, and exhibit their “green” id: same as the Israeli blue cards, but bearing the Palestinian Authority’s eagle instead of the Star of David, and therefore making it impossible to travel to Al Quds (“The Holy” – the Arabic name of Jerusalem), or to anywhere on the other side of the wall, for that matter.

Eventually, someone brings the prints that have been made from the pictures I took, and the sourness of politics dissolves in a great big cheerful laugh that fills the Souk once again.