Deconstructing a cabbie's cross

CARL ALPERT

Since the repeated terrorist attacks on buses here in Haifa, some Israelis try to avoid use of that public transport system. Driving a car is not always a satisfactory substitute, because of parking problems, especially if the destination is downtown. Taxis are easily available, but frequent use becomes a drain on the budget.

A satisfactory substitute along the main lines is the shared jitney cab, known here as the sherut. The cost is little more than that of a ride on the big bus lines.

We share the trip with nine or 10 other passengers and have the advantage of calling our debarkation point even if it is between the fixed bus stops. Despite the relatively close quarters in the car, there is seldom any socializing among the passengers. Here in Haifa, many of the drivers are Arabs or Druze.

The other day we had the good luck of boarding a sherut with not a bus in sight, took a just vacated seat behind the driver and observed his operations. Many of the new, incoming passengers hurried to vacant seats in the rear and passed the fare down front from passenger to cooperating passenger.

Many drivers, for whom the cab is their home for long hours, suspend various items that dangle overhead inside the windshield. Often these are good luck tokens. Sometimes they provide a reminder of home or family, or reveal a hobby. We sought our driver's interest. There it was, a simple cross, symbol of the Christian faith. Why had he chosen this conspicuous way of pronouncing his religious affiliation?

Perhaps he was a deeply religious person and would probably not be found behind the wheel on a Sunday. This was a weekday. A religious Jew would have made himself identifiable by his beard and earlocks, or kipah.

Possibly this was the driver's way of asserting identity, as if to say: This is supposed to be a Jewish state, but I have an historic, religious association with the land as well, and I don't want you passengers to forget it.

There could also have been an element of family pressure. They may all be devoutly religious, perhaps even a spiritual leader among them. If you are going to work among the Jews, they told him, let them know who you are, proudly.

His reasoning may have been simply practical. Now that you passengers know who I am, there is no point to your asking me, as we hurry along on a late Friday afternoon, when Shabbat begins - or address a question to me in Yiddish.

Or, he might have a more in-volved, psycholog-ical reason, along these lines: You all know that many of my colleagues on this line are Arabs, but I take this means of informing you that I am not like the others. The great majority of the Arabs are Muslims. Justifiably, because of the terrorists among them, they are all open to suspicion. You should know that we Christians, too, have been victimized by these neighbors. They have made life so unpleasant for us that many have left the country. I have chosen to remain, and I want you Jewish passengers to know that your driver is an ally, not a foe.

The time came for us to get off, and he opened the door for us to descend. We never did have a chance to ask him why he displayed the cross as he did. On the other hand, if opportunity did offer, would we have had the temerity to ask him?

Carl Alpert is a free-lance writer living in Haifa, Israel.

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