Chapter 2147 - 870: Victor: My Words Matter! (Part 2)

The Golan Heights at dawn.

The sky had not yet brightened.

Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the engineers set up tables. The tables were folding ones, camouflaged, brought out from the camp. The tablecloth was white, sent by the wife of the mess sergeant from Mexico City, originally intended for a wedding. The coffee pot was insulated, prepared last night, with beans from the Chiapas Highlands, a flavor Hassan liked.

At the eastern end of the bridge, the Syrian positions were pitch black, with no lights visible. On the western end of the bridge, the Israeli positions had a few lamps, dimly lit, like sleepy eyes.

The adjutant came over, lowering his voice. "Lieutenant Colonel, General Hassan has arrived."

Sanchez looked up. In the darkness at the eastern end of the bridge, a jeep was slowly approaching. The headlights were off, just the low growl of the engine was heard. The vehicle stopped at the bridgehead, Hassan jumped off, wearing a faded military uniform, with a new, glaringly white bandage on his left arm. He was accompanied only by one adjutant, no guards.

He walked onto the bridge, each step steady, all equally paced.

When he reached the table, he stopped, looked at the white tablecloth, looked at the insulated kettle, and looked at Sanchez.

"Lieutenant Colonel, you're up early."

Sanchez saluted. "General, the coffee was just brewed, still hot."

Hassan nodded and sat down on the eastern side of the table. He glanced at his watch. "When will the Israelis arrive?"

Just as the words left his mouth, within the light on the western end of the bridge, an armored command vehicle was slowly approaching. The headlights were on, turning the bridge surface snow-white. The vehicle stopped at the bridgehead, Colonel Barak jumped off, wearing a brand-new military uniform, without a hat, holding an insulated kettle in his hand.

He walked onto the bridge, his pace quicker than Hassan's, but each step just as steady.

Upon reaching the table, he stopped, looked at Hassan, looked at Sanchez, and looked at the white tablecloth.

"General Hassan."

Hassan stood up. "Colonel Barak."

The two stood face to face, separated by the table. The lake water under the bridge gently rocked in the morning breeze, waves slapping against the piers with a splash.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the table and cleared his throat.

"General, Colonel, please sit."

Both men sat down. Sanchez also sat down, on the northern side of the table, facing south.

He picked up the coffee pot and poured three cups. The first cup he pushed towards Hassan, the second towards Barak, and kept the third for himself.

Hassan took a sip from the cup. "Lieutenant Colonel, your coffee is still so bitter."

Barak also took a sip. He said nothing, merely holding the cup, gazing at the sky above the lake, which was beginning to lighten.

The three sat in the middle of the bridge, drinking coffee, waiting for daylight.

Gradually, the sky brightened. The sun rose from behind the hills in the east, shining on the lake, turning the water golden. The lights on the bridge went out, and the string of small bulbs on the railing turned into a string of transparent beads in the morning light.

In the distance, the outline of Tiberias City began to clear. Those stone houses, those narrow alleys, those steeple churches, all were adorned with a layer of golden edges by the sunlight.

Hassan put down his cup. "Colonel, let's begin."

Barak also put down his cup. "General, you start."

Hassan looked at him. "The Golan Heights, it's Syria's. In 1932 when Syria gained independence from the French, it was Syria's. In 1948, when Israel was established, the Golan Heights were still Syria's. In 1967, you occupied it, in 1973 we fought back, only to be driven out by you again. We've been fighting for thirty years, and tens of thousands have died. Now you hold two-thirds, we hold one-third. Colonel, do you think that's fair?"

Barak did not evade his gaze. "General, before 1967, Syrians stood atop the Golan Heights, firing at the Galilee villages below for twenty years. Israelis couldn't farm, couldn't herd sheep, couldn't even leave their homes without risking death from shellfire. In 1967, we climbed up there not to seize land, but to survive. Now you occupy the east bank, we hold the west. The lake water flows in between. Do you think that's fair?"

Both stared at Sanchez.

Sanchez held his coffee cup without drinking. "General, Colonel, I am not a judge, not an arbitrator, nor here to decide who is right or wrong. I'm the bridge builder. When the bridge is finished, you can negotiate. If you reach an agreement, the bridge stays. If you don't—"

He looked at Hassan. "General, you said once, if there's no agreement, blow up the bridge."

Hassan's hand pressed on the table. "Lieutenant Colonel, you—"

Sanchez raised his hand. "General, let me finish. If the bridge is blown, you'll return to the east bank, and the Israelis to the west. The lake water will still flow in the middle. You won't have water, and the Israelis won't have land to cultivate. Then what? Then after a few years, another war. More thousands dead. Another bridge built. Another negotiation. Another explosion. Another battle. Aren't you tired of it?"

Hassan withdrew his hand from the table.

Barak spoke. "Lieutenant Colonel, do you have a plan?"

Sanchez pulled a paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. It depicted a map of the Golan Heights, noting the current military demarcation line, settlements, water sources, and roads. A winding red line ran through the center.

"This is the latest temporary boundary outlined by the United Nations. Two-thirds to the east belong to Syria, one-third to the west to Israel. Syrians live on the east side, Israelis on the west. A five-kilometer-wide corridor opens in the middle, patrolled by international observers. No troops, no checkpoints, no settlements in the corridor. At the ends of the corridor, an access point on the east, an access point on the west. People enter from the east, exit from the west. Goods enter from the west, exit from the east. Water is drawn from the lake and shared by both sides."