The road to freedom

News of the Gilad Shalit deal arrives during a treacherous journey.

It was my first trip to Arad. That evening, a huge round orange moon hung over the eastern roofs of Jerusalem. The smartphone's navigation system suggested the shortest route from Jerusalem to Arad and promised a 90-minute trip. That might not have aroused my suspicion had it not been for the fact that this was the eve of the Sukkot holiday and the highways were certain to be busy.

Stubbornly I checked out the suggested route and discovered that the foolish instrument was planning to take me through the tunnels road, Hebron and Yatta. "Have you lost your mind?" I shouted at the automatic navigator and wondered how he could have allowed himself to suggest flagrantly illegal routes. I gave up on the heavenly guidance of the satellite and decided to rely on the road signs. In general I know how to get to Be'er Sheva, and from there I will certainly see signs that will take me to Arad.

The way out of Jerusalem was already crowded. The traffic reports, which came on after long minutes of crawling up a hill, talked about heavy traffic from the edge of Jerusalem as far as the Harel interchange, because of a stuck vehicle. That's so typical of the Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway: it's enough for a heavy truck to drive slowly in one lane to cause a nerve-racking traffic jam all the way to Sha'ar Haggai - and now they were talking about a vehicle that was stuck. It's the first time I've been invited to Arad, and I was already starting to be afraid that I would not get to the library there on time.

It took me half an hour to get to the stuck vehicle, which was blocking a lane a little before the turnoff to Mevasseret Zion. I wanted to look to the right, to make eye contact with the blocking driver - I wanted him to see my furious, outraged face, because maybe that way he would grasp the enormity of what he had done - but I refrained, as I do when I pass a car that's been damaged in an accident. I always restrain myself from looking, in order not to be one of those curiosity seekers who slow down the traffic. I just kept going, and after that the road was pretty clear.

I turned left at Lehavim Junction and got to Shoket Junction with no problems. There was a serious problem with the traffic lights there, but luckily for me there wasn't much traffic. I still have a chance of making it on time, I told myself as I drove east, toward Arad and the Dead Sea. The moon shone bright and helped me traverse the dreadful, unlit road - a huge moon, now white over the desert. The radio broke off its regular programming for a news bulletin. A reporter burst into the studio and said that Al Arabiya, an Arab television network which is considered reliable, was announcing that a deal had been struck to free Gilad Shalit. A minute went by and there was a report about an extraordinary cabinet meeting. The reports quickly became official - confirmations were received about a prisoner exchange deal. I was glad. I was very glad, and the moon hung there over the desert like a smile and made the drive pleasant.

I reached the municipal library in Arad exactly on time. An audience of readers, surprising in its fairly large numbers, had not yet heard the great news. The director of the library informed them just before he presented me and invited me onstage. The festive atmosphere undoubtedly helped me shake off the weariness from the exhausting drive.

At the conclusion of a successful discussion with the audience, I got into my car, following wishes for a good trip from the polite organizers, who also implored me to drive carefully on the awful road. By now there was a great to-do on the radio. Reporters were dispatched to every possible corner and broadcasters tried to get whoever they could onto the air. The cabinet was meeting and everyone was waiting to hear the results of the vote. A thousand-something Palestinian prisoners, the broadcasters said, in return for one Israeli soldier.

The initial happy atmosphere had turned a bit reserved while I was in the Arad library. The way back was really tough - very dark, with blinding lights from the other direction. I decided to drive slowly and listen to the reports until Shoket Junction, after which the rest of the trip would be a lot less dangerous - so the library staff had promised. But the road from Arad to Shoket became longer and longer, and for a moment seemed endless. On the radio they were talking about the steep price we were paying, and I tried to think about those thousand-something prisoners: What they looked like, what they had done, what their families felt. Murderers, someone called them on the air; terrorists, the broadcaster called them. They, in contrast to our Gilad, would not be returning to the family fold - they had no loving parents and children waiting for them - but to the terror fold. A thousand-something prisoners about whom no one knows anything, who have no faces, who are just a number.

I was dazzled and had to follow closely the yellow stripe that started to threaten me on the right side of the road. Occasionally a car passed me; some of the drivers gave me an irritated, angry look as they went by. I only hoped that I would be able to drive in their wake, so their tail lights would light my way and tell me about bends in the road, ups and downs - but in vain. They drove too fast, and left me behind, alone with the yellow stripe and the radio.

My eyes started to burn with the effort. An important speaker said on the radio that one Jew is worth a thousand Arabs, and this was a sign of the Jewish people's greatness. The broadcaster repeated his words in agreement. The cabinet would soon start voting. A sure majority, the diplomatic correspondents said, and the way looked so long, so narrow and dark and I looked in the mirror for the huge, round ever-so-close moon, but it had gone out.