The Death of Optimism

Condoleeza Rice's upcoming peace conference in Annapolis was of far less interest to me this week than the fact that there was no room in the airport parking lot for my bus when I arrived to pick up my first group of the fall tourist season. After seven long, lean economic years it appears that the seven fat ones are on the doorstep. Of course, it could all go down the drain with one suicide bombing or military incursion but we've learned to live with that shadow of ephemerality hanging behind us.

I used to follow the reports on imminent summits and peace talks with great anticipation. Maybe this time there will be a breakthrough! Maybe this time the iceberg will shift! Maybe this time the leaders will make history! I remember well my disbelief and bitter disappointment after the Camp David talks between Barak and Arafat fell apart, and then the Taba talks after that, and then the outbreak of the Intifada, and then, and then, and then. I finally decided that it was too punishing to be an optimist and gave up hoping that the New Middle East was just on the horizon. Instead, I'm resigned. That's not the same as being a pessimist - rather, it's a worn out, threadbare version of optimism. It means I've accepted the fact that while the conflict is resolvable in theory, in practice both sides suffer from a dearth of quality leadership, at times in tandem and at times alternately. It means I've lowered my expectations from a possibility that everyone will rise to a historical occasion to the probability that only coercion and force will instigate change. I have no more patience for peace conferences. Call me if there's any good news. Meantime, I'll be busy working.

It's not just me. The seven lean years have affected us all. Today I met my friend Hussam, a Palestinian bus driver. He's got a brand new bus and a steady source of well-paid work from an Israeli guide who really likes him. "It's great," he told me. "The only problem with these groups is that they're all pro-Israel. I pick up an Indonesian group at the Egyptian border and they're already singing 'Heveinu Shalom Aleicheim' when they get on the bus." He smiled at me. "What am I gonna do? I just shut up and drive."

What would Ehud Olmert and Abu Mazen say about this devil-may-care attitude, while they're busting their butts to save their political careers as they hurl us all through this last window of opportunity? If I could, I'd ask them to wait outside my bus in the morning, as the tourists are loading up in front of the hotel. There's an Arab kid there selling Jerusalem beaded bags and ten caps for ten dollars. He's blond and scruffy, with buck teeth, and he's ubiquitous - he pops up in parking lots all over the city, each time with different merchandise. He's probably about seventeen but he's been buzzing around for years now, hustling whatever he can sell from bus to bus, indefatiguable. I always assumed he was from a poor family, coming out to work at such a young age and looking a little neglected. But today I noticed something surprising about him - he had braces on his teeth! Whether he's an orphan who's been saving up diligently all these years for orthodontia or whether his parents finally decided to do something about his teeth, it wouldn't have been possible without the upsurge in tourism.

So for those headed to Annapolis, think well before you pull anything dramatic. We don't really expect you to change the Middle East, make peace or even demonstrate significant progress. Just steer the ship on an even keel. Keep it quiet enough around here so that a body can make a living. We've all got kids that need new computers, a school trip to concentration camps in Poland and straight teeth. Let us work quietly. It's the least you can do for us.