Chapter 2154 - 872: Hope for Peace?

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias Floating Bridge

The third day of the prisoner exchange.

Four white tents were set up at the eastern end of the bridge, provided by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, with the blue UNHCR logo printed on them, bulging in the wind like a stuffed belly.

Beneath the tents were folding chairs, bottled water, biscuits, and several boxes of baby formula.

The Syrians were waiting, waiting for the other side to send over the twenty-three prisoners.

Four tents were also set up at the western end of the bridge, the same white, the same UNHCR logo, the same folding chairs and bottled water.

The Israelis were also waiting, waiting for the other side to send over the seventeen prisoners.

In the middle of the bridge, Major Sanchez's folding table had no coffee pot, no white flag, only three lists. The first list was of Syrian prisoners, twenty-three names, each with an indication of age, military rank, capture time, and place of detention.

The second list was of Lebanese prisoners, seventeen names in the same format, but the place of detention column was entirely blank. The third list was of Israeli prisoners, forty names, ages ranging from nineteen to sixty-one, captured from six months ago to twenty-five years ago.

Sanchez looked at the list, his finger paused on the name "Muhammad Fayez."

Sixty-seven years old, shepherd, captured ten years ago. The remarks column had a line of small letters: "Civilian, non-combatant."

He looked up, gazing at the white tents on the western side of the bridge.

An elderly Israeli man was sitting under the tent, over seventy, his hair all white, his back hunched, feeding bread crumbs to pigeons. The pigeons by the lake were not afraid of people, circling around him, cooing.

That was Moses Levi. The one whose brother had been locked up for twenty-five years with the Syrian shepherd.

Sanchez walked over and sat down beside him.

"Mr. Levi."

The old man looked up at him. "Lieutenant Colonel."

"Your brother returns today."

The old man nodded. "I know."

He continued feeding the pigeons. The bread crumbs scattered on the ground, the pigeons scrambled for them, flapping their wings.

"Do you hate him?" Sanchez asked.

The old man's hand paused. "Hate who?"

"The one who locked you up for twenty-five years."

The old man scattered the last bread crumb, dusted off his hands. "Lieutenant Colonel, have you ever seen a bird in a cage?"

Sanchez did not say anything.

"After being caged for so long, even if the door is opened, it won't fly. It's not that it doesn't want to fly, it has forgotten how to fly."

He looked at the lake's surface.

"I was caged for twenty-five years. When I came out, the sun was blinding, the wind hurt my face, the grass was green, the sky was blue. I stood at the cage door, stood for a long time."

He turned his head, looking at Sanchez.

"Do you know what was the first thing I thought of?"

Sanchez shook his head.

"I wanted water. The water in the cage was salty. It was rationed, one cup per person per day. I wanted a sip of fresh water. Sweet."

He took a thermos out of his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and poured a cup of water. The water was clear, the cup was plastic, the kind bought from a supermarket.

"This is water from Lake Tiberias. Sweet."

He took a sip.

"Lieutenant Colonel, I don't hate anyone. Hated for twenty-five years, I can't hate anymore."

Sanchez stood up and saluted.

The old man did not look at him. He looked at the lake's surface, at the pigeons, at the white tents on the opposite side.

"They're here." He said.

At the eastern end of the bridge, the crowd stirred.

The first bus stopped behind the tents, the door opened, and people came down wearing uniform gray tracksuits, their hair cut short, their faces sunburned dark. They squinted, looking at the sunlight, at the lake water, at the relatives holding signs.

A young woman rushed up, embraced a tall, thin man, crying so hard she couldn't catch her breath. The man patted her back, saying something softly, words unintelligible. An elderly lady nearby leaned on a cane, shakily walked over, touched the man's face, touched it again, as if to confirm he was real.

A child stood outside the crowd, holding a cardboard sign, with "Papa" written in crayon. He was about five or six, wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt with Spider-Man printed on it. He held the sign aloft, holding it for a long time, but no one came.

Sanchez walked over, squatted down.

"Little one, who are you waiting for?"

The child looked at him, eyes big, eyelashes long. "Waiting for my dad."

"What's your dad's name?"

The child lowered his head, looked at the words on the cardboard. "I don't know. Mom wrote it on there."

Sanchez glanced at the cardboard. It read "Jonathan Ben-Joseph." He compared this name with the forty names on the list. No match.

He stood up, walked to the bus, asked the driver. "Are there more buses coming?"

The driver shook his head. "Just this one. All forty have gotten off."

Sanchez returned to the child's side, squatted down. "Little one, where is your mom?"

The child pointed towards the tents. A young woman was standing at the entrance, holding a baby, her eyes red, looking this way.

Sanchez walked over. "Madam, who are you waiting for?"

The woman looked at him. "Jonathan Ben-Joseph. My husband."

Sanchez was silent for two seconds. "That name is not on the list."

The woman's face turned pale. "Impossible—he was captured three years ago. They said the exchange was today—"

"It's not on the list." Sanchez repeated, "The Syrians handed over forty prisoners, your husband is not among them."

The woman's legs gave way, and she slid down the tent pole, the baby in her arms began to cry. She held the baby, lowered her head, her shoulders trembling.