Weapon of Vengeance Read Online Free PDF

occasional green patches of cultivation, she saw only bleakness. The color brown predominated. Like the narrow potholed road, the bleakness got worse the farther north they moved from Colombo. So did the presence of soldiers and small army camps surrounded with barbed wire, grim reminders of the recently ended insurgency.
    The driver stepped on the gas now, going as fast as the road would allow. Enjoying the speed. Ruby was about to try to catch some shut-eye when they hit another checkpoint. A long line of vehicles waited to cross it. The soldiers were in no hurry; they searched each vehicle thoroughly, with the trucks, of which there were several, taking a lot of time.
    Sleep forgotten, Ruby sat back, exasperated, watching the vehicles inch forward. Her mind wandered away, to Palestine, to another such checkpoint.
    â€œThat day too the line had been long.” Rehana’s oft-told story echoed in her memory. Her voice, clear as a bell; as though it were she, and not Mark, sitting beside Ruby in the car.
    *   *   *
    The Israel Defense Forces checkpoint at Huwwara, one of the main “Inner Checkpoints” of the West Bank, lay deep within Palestinian territory, just south of Nablus, at the junction of Routes 57 and 557, between the settlements of Bracha and Itamar, standing between Nablus and the satellite communities that depend on it.
    â€œAbout six thousand people pass through Huwwara every day,” Rehana narrated, “some to work, go to hospital, visit relatives, or to do their shopping.”
    Like all such checkpoints, passing through Huwwara involved a meticulous process. It was not uncommon to take up to two hours to get through. And the rules were never predictable, adding further to the confusion and delay.
    Men line up in a closed waiting area, while women and children go through a separate pathway. The area for men was an open shed with a corrugated roof. Waist-high walls demarcate the area into aisles. The roof trapped the sweltering heat.
    â€œWuakef!” (Stop!) “Jubil aweah!” (Show me your identification papers!)
    One by one, the men trudged up to the barred window and handed over their papers. They lifted their shirts and rolled up trouser legs to confirm no weapons or bombs. The women and children were also frisked. And arrays of scanners were also at work.
    The procedure for cars was more tedious, with all passengers getting out and standing clear while a search was carried out using undercarriage mirrors, detectors, and sniffer dogs.
    Bilal, Rehana’s brother, thumped the steering wheel, his frustration evident. Half an hour had passed, and only two cars had been cleared—with three more still ahead of them. Bilal, the eldest and usually the calmest of the three siblings, was getting jumpy; perhaps his diabetes was acting up. In their hurry to rush their mother, Salima, to hospital he had not eaten. Eventually, driven by his anxiety, he got out and went to speak to the IDF soldiers.
    â€œYou! Wuakef! Stop right there!” The Galil AR multipurpose rifle in the hands of the soldier yelling came up. “Where do you think you’re going?”
    â€œSoldier, my mother is ill,” Bilal replied.
    â€œI don’t fucking care.” The beardless twenty-year-old yelled, “Get back to your car and wait your turn. Now! ” His rifle pointed straight at Bilal, rock-steady, confirming his willingness to use it. “Don’t come any closer.” He pointed at the security line painted on the road, meant to keep the soldiers safe from suicide bombers.
    The neatly painted BORN TO KILL shining whitely across the front of his helmet and his badly accented Arabic added to the menace.
    Cursing under his breath, Bilal returned. Another fifteen minutes slithered by; only one more car got cleared. Then another bout of coughing shook Salima. More blood sprayed out; by now the sheet covering her was splattered with red dots.
    â€œMother had