We speed out of the city. I realize that the maps we used to draw in Bialik Hebrew Day School in Toronto had neglected an important detail: Israel is really damn small. Within five minutes we’re on a highway. Mohammad takes time away from his cellphone to point out Beit Hanina on the left, the so-and-so settlement to the right. Within fifteen minutes we’re stuck in a mess of traffic, going nowhere.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Checkpoint,” he says, punching numbers into his cellphone.

“Are we really going to drive through this?”

A blue bmw pulls up next to us. Mohammad rolls down his window and proceeds to swear at the driver in Arabic. I know he’s swearing because the only Arabic I know is curses. The two immediately become engaged in a wicked screaming match. Mohammad closes his window.

“What are you fighting about?” I ask.

“We do not fight,” he says. “We scream only because we love each other very much. We are brothers.”

I have grown quite comfortable in the plush leather seats. I have even begun to like Mohammad. I have a good feeling about this bearded man. There is a photograph on the dashboard of his two children wearing Adidas and Nike outfits and one of his wife in a traditional Palestinian wedding dress, framed in a band of red and yellow elastics in the shape of a heart.

“Get out,” Mohammad suddenly commands.

“Where am I going?” I ask.