As long as I can still talk with Hamid, there’s hope

Recently my car broke down and was collected by a very pleasant and cheerful tow-truck driver who took the car and me to the mechanic.

It was about half an hour’s drive, so we got talking.

The conversation was light and breezy. The driver was smiley and convivial as we swapped stories about the various cars in our lives and how they had either disappointed us or filled us with joy and pride.

After a little friendly chit-chat, the driver realised we hadn’t introduced ourselves, and told me his name, effectively informing me that he was a Muslim Arab. To protect his privacy, I’ll call him Hamid.

“Joseph,” I said. I felt apprehensive about using my obviously Jewish name in the wake of the antisemitism, violent threats and intimidation that the Jewish community experiences daily.

I asked him about his background. He told me he was a Palestinian from the West Bank who had migrated here seven years ago with his wife and four children.

“Welcome,” I said. The pleasant conversation about cars, the weather and anything but the elephant in the room continued.

But the elephant grew too big to ignore so I asked him if he was following what was happening in Gaza.

“Of course,” he said, “Just like you must be”.