I found this nearly-full pack of cigarettes neatly placed at the bottom of a support post holding up one end of a roof over a closed auto repair shop in Jericho, Israel. No one in sight.
The building looked like every other small building in the area — begging for paint and upkeep. Trash littered the open bays of the dirt-floor shop. Windows, thick with years of wind-blown sand added to the mystery; I couldn’t tell if the place was just closed for the day or abandoned.
Up the street, I found two Palestinian policemen (at left). The big guy had a sheepish grin on his face; was he embarrassed that I took this candid shot, afraid I had found his stash, or just glad to see me? We exchanged pleasantries as best we could — their English was limited, my Arabic was zero. I left and walked back down the street.
When my tour bus drove away, I noticed the pack of cigarettes was gone.
Thought for the Day: In order to obtain the goal of returning to Palestine, all of us, sometimes have to grit our teeth. Yasser Arafat
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