I am thirsty, sitting here in the wrong corner of the ‘service’ (pronounced ‘serveece’) taxi. It is hot. The seat belt is tight, scratching my neck. I am sweating. The sun is beating down on me. I am hungry. My mind meanders, searching various avenues of escape. Could I walk through the checkpoint, leaving my fellow Palestinians behind? Would I find a car on the other side? Could I pay a sum to a private car waiting in line on the other side of the dead, closed closure point? Could I persuade someone to leave the line and turn around and take me to my destination? Read more about Valley of Fire