Chapter 2150 - 871: I’ll Be the Referee!

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge

The negotiations reached the third day.

The coffee pot on the folding table in the middle of the bridge was changed seven times, the ashtray filled up four times, and Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez's interpreter had a hoarse voice, so a new one stepped in.

Brigadier General Hassan's uniform was still the same worn-out old clothes that had been washed to near whiteness, but the bandage on his left arm had been removed. The wound hadn't healed completely, and he would subconsciously touch it from time to time, only to put his hand back on the table afterward, as if afraid someone might notice.

Today, Colonel Barak switched to a thermos, not a military one, but a household one, with a blue plastic shell and a logo of a supermarket in Haifa printed on its body. He unscrewed the lid and poured Hassan a cup. Hassan took a sip, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Not Mexican coffee?"

Barak shook his head. "Israeli. Grown on Mount Galilee. Roasted in Haifa."

Hassan took another sip. "Sour."

"The soil quality here produces sour beans." Barak also poured himself a cup, "You'll get used to it."

Sanchez sat in the middle, with a map of Golan Heights marked with red lines spread before him. The red line had been revised six times; the first version was drawn by the United Nations, the second by Mexico, and the third to sixth by Hassan and Barak in face-to-face amendments. Now the seventh version laid on the table, the red line twisting and turning like a snake that had been stepped on.

"Three border ports on the east, three ports on the west." Hassan pointed to six small circles on the map, "Syrians control two on the east, Israelis control two on the west, the remaining two—" he looked at Sanchez.

"Mexicans control," Sanchez said.

Barak shook his head. "Not control. Supervise. Mexicans stand guard at the ports, but the power to check the documents belongs to Israel and Syria."

Hassan tapped his hand on the table. "Stand guard? Mexicans standing guard on Syrian land?"

Sanchez looked at him. "General, that's not Syrian land; that's the corridor. The corridor belongs to no one. The people in the corridor don't carry guns, don't wear uniforms, don't raise national flags. Mexicans in the corridor don't stand guard, don't patrol, don't enforce laws. They merely sit in small booths, check documents, and count heads. Who should pass, who shouldn't, it's not up to them, it's up to you."

Hassan's hand paused.

Barak spoke up. "Yesterday, it was agreed the corridor's width would be three kilometers. How do we divide these three kilometers?"

Sanchez took a pencil out of his pocket and drew two parallel lines on the map. The space between the two lines amounted to exactly three kilometers.

"One kilometer in the east for Syrian patrols. One kilometer in the west for Israeli patrols. The central kilometer—" he put the pencil down.

"Mexicans can go for a walk." Hassan added.

The three of them laughed. It wasn't the kind of forced laughter typical in diplomatic situations; it was genuine laughter. After the laughter died down, Hassan picked up the cup of sour coffee and took a sip, Barak did the same, and Sanchez poured himself a cup of cold water.

"A stroll is fine." Hassan said, "But those going for a stroll can't bring dogs."

"No dogs," Sanchez said.

"And no guns."

"No guns."

Hassan nodded. He looked at Barak. "Colonel, what about you?"

Barak thought for a moment. "Can those going for a stroll bring water? Mexican coffee is just too bitter. If you could set up a coffee stand in the middle of the bridge, I would come to drink a cup every day."

Hassan's face moved slightly. It wasn't a smile; it was the expression one makes when finally unable to hold back after a long time.

"A coffee stand is okay," Sanchez said, "But it only sells Mexican coffee. Israeli coffee is too sour; Syrians aren't used to it."

Barak shook his head. "Sour wakes you up. Bitter makes you drowsy."

"That's you Israelis," Hassan said, "Us Syrians have drunk bitter coffee for fifty years and never felt drowsy."

The three laughed again. After the laughter, Barak extended his hand. Hassan also extended his hand. The two hands shook together, lasting a bit longer than yesterday.

Sanchez did not extend his hand. He picked up the cup of cold water and took a sip.

"General, Colonel, the matter of land is settled. Next, we'll discuss people."

He put the cup down and took another sheet of paper from his briefcase. This time it wasn't a map but a list.

"Prisoner-exchange list. Syrians detaining Israeli prisoners of war—seventeen persons. Israelis detaining Syrian prisoners of war—twenty-three persons. And civilians, Syrians detaining Israeli civilians—three persons. Israelis detaining Syrian civilians—eleven persons."

He pushed the list to the center of the table.

"People are more important than land. Land is dead, people are alive. Land can wait five years to negotiate, people cannot."

Hassan looked at the list, looking for a long time. He recognized several names on it. One was his former driver, captured in the Yom Kippur War in 1973, detained for twenty-five years. Another was a fellow cadet from Military Academy, missing since the Lebanon War in 1982, thought dead but still alive. Another one wasn't a soldier, but a shepherd, caught by Israelis while herding sheep on the Golan Heights, detained for ten years.

"These people," Hassan began, his voice lower than before, "an exchange is possible. But there's one condition—"

He looked at Barak. "Not an equal exchange. People for people. Syria's forty people for Israel's forty people. Not more, not less."

Barak also looked at the list. "General, the list shows only twenty-three Syrian prisoners of war. Where are the forty people coming from?"

Hassan pulled out a neatly folded paper from his pocket and pressed it on the table. "These are the other seventeen. Captured in Lebanon, in Gaza, in the Golan Heights. Not registered, not numbered, not on the list."