My insecurity—probably jealousy—turned into impatience. Every glance they exchanged was full of their shared kinships and friendships, family histories, community and political knowledge, common aspirations and secrets. The more they spoke, the more irritated I became and the more a question echoed in my head: What am I doing here?

They told stories about people who had been caught with guns. I began feeling claustrophobic, anxious to leave. My mind drifted to Amman. I wondered what Mama was doing. How was Sitti Wasfiyeh’s health? I wondered why Jehad hadn’t told me he had been in touch with Mhammad. I missed my brother. The sense of being an outsider among these people spread homesickness through me. Why was I still here, with these people who had spied on me? Who had invaded my privacy, dissected and analyzed my thoughts and movements? Bilal did not feel familiar to me anymore, and I heard Um Buraq’s voice in my head: Trust no man.

“… and that’s why we need your help, Nahr,” Bilal said.

“W-what?” I stammered.

“You’re the only one who can cross into Jerusalem. None of us has a permit to enter. We also cannot be caught in a car with yellow plates,” Bilal explained.

One of the first things I’d learned when I arrived in Palestine was the color code for license plates. White plates denoted Palestinians, restricted to driving on a few roads, most of which were disconnected and unpaved. Yellow plates were for Israeli citizens, some Palestinians with Jerusalem IDs, and tourists. One could travel anywhere with yellow plates, and since I had a tourist visa, I was allowed to enter Jerusalem. Bilal thought someone had made a clerical error in stamping a general tourist visa on my Jordanian travel document, because even tourist visas specifically from Jordan and Egypt could be restricted from entering Jerusalem.

“I have an Israeli contact. He’s Russian and will sell us weapons but not risk taking them across checkpoints. We have to transport them ourselves,” Bilal said, now softer.

“You’re crazy. I can’t be a gunrunner!” I said.

“Please just hear us out, Nahr,” Samer pleaded. “You’re one of us now and—”

“I don’t know what that means,” I said.

“Stop!” Bilal put his hands up. “Let’s all take a deep breath and lower our voices.”

Samer apologized. “I was just trying to say, we’ll have your back. No matter what happens, we would not let you take the fall. We have sworn loyalty to anyone we bring into this space and expect the same. We’ve also collected money to pay you.”

“There’s no need, because I’m not transporting guns and ending up in some Jewish gulag.”

“I’m sorry, Nahr. We made a mistake. I’ll help you up the rope ladder,” Bilal said. It surprised me how much it hurt to hear that he’d made a mistake choosing or trusting me.