Youssef: The Second Coming (1968) 

Tales of a Palestinian Taxi Driver in the West Bank

By April Cyr

Chapter 1: Dreaming about my failed third grade English Writing Exam 

I am a grade school student in an English writing class. Today is our final exam. We are given four prompts in 20-minute intervals and expected to write an essay for each prompt. If I fail this exam, my grades and attendance record will suffer, and I will receive a failing grade in the course. If I focus and apply myself, I will pass the course. If I fail, I will have to repeat the third grade.

The first prompt was a creative writing prompt about writing a unique recipe from scratch for a tonic that will cure sadness. I was unable to write a single word over the twenty minutes. I could barely focus on reading the prompt. This was less of a creative block and more writer’s paralysis, the type that can manifest for years of burnout, focused in this writing exam time window.

The second prompt was the same story. I couldn’t even remember what the prompt was. I was in trouble and having the early signs of a panic attack. I signaled the teacher and explained that I was having writer’s paralysis. I told her that I was trying my best and that I was scared of getting a bad mark, but I couldn’t for the life of me write.

I explained to the teacher that it was my fault for not speaking up sooner, but I have severe dysgraphia, which is like dyslexia, but for writing by hand. As a child, I was given an accommodation to write with a battery-powered keyboard tool called an Alphasmart. I hated it because I was bullied for it, but as an adult, I was able to buy another one used and used it for many years. When it died, I was unable to buy another one because they were discontinued and there were no comparable brands. If I try to write, I have unlined paper and thick pencils that will make my writing illegible.

“Well I can’t have you typing on a computer because it’s against the test rules. I can’t give you extra time or a re-do later on. We’re about ten minutes into the third prompt, can you just do your best, write something for this prompt, and find it within you to complete the fourth one? You may be able to settle on a C as a final grade which is passing, otherwise you will have to repeat the third grade.”

The third prompt is on Charity models of Disaster and Aid Relief. I wanted to write that “Charity models of aid are much less effective than mutual aid models at helping people and cost much more.” However, the teacher, who is not supposed to talk to me at all during the exam, interrupted and asked, “Wait, what is mutual aid?”

I engage in a discussion with the instructor about how charity is an ineffective model of disaster relief compared to mutual aid. I explain that mutual aid is a peer-to-peer system of support, rather than a top-down giver-beneficiary model. There is no expectation of compensation for aid workers, and the system is based on the principle of “pay it forward.” I provide several examples of how mutual aid has been effective in recent history. I argue that mutual aid is more efficient and cost-effective than traditional disaster relief models, and that it is often necessary when governments fail to provide assistance. I also contend that mutual aid can be destructive when governments and markets fail to intervene.

“I must admit, despite your poor grades, you are skilled at combining ideas. I wish I had known this before, because your grade is abysmal. Unfortunately, I cannot give you credit for this because this is a writing class, and our final exam must be written. This is not my decision; my hands are tied. The time for the third prompt is almost up. If you do not write your fourth prompt response, you will undoubtedly fail this class and will have to repeat the third grade. Furthermore, the quality of your work must be excellent.”

“I am still in a state of panic, and it is not helping me produce quality creative writing. Is there any way I can get a better pencil and some lined paper?”

“I don’t have any extras to share, but you could ask your classmates if they have any spare materials. However, if you are caught talking to them during the exam, it will be considered cheating. There is no talking allowed during the exam, and even our conversation right now could get me reprimanded as a teacher for violating the state exam’s code of conduct. Can you check your bookbag for any supplies?”

My backpack is in disarray, with crumpled papers and withered notebooks that have lined paper but are all covered in doodles. I have already checked the notebooks and can confirm that there is not a single blank page left. There are some pens at the bottom of my bag, but I know for a fact that they are no longer usable because they do not dispense ink. The exam requires us to use a No. 2 pencil, so those pens are useless to me. I am unprepared for the fourth essay writing prompt, both in terms of materials and my mental state. I am also unprepared to accept the reality of the situation, which is that if I do not do my absolute best on this last assignment, I will fail and have to repeat the third grade. We are now being instructed to turn to the final prompt on our exam booklets.

I began reading the prompt, and was overcome by what began as noticeable chuckles, and was told to quiet down, as we were in an exam. Despite my best efforts, the chuckles turned into laughter, which was picked up by other students, who began laughing as well. This continued until there were only ten minutes left in the final exam period, and not only was I laughing like a madman who was about to be kicked out, but both the other students and the teacher could not help but laugh as well, because laughter is contagious. 

The prompt was about a Taxi Driver in a far land. I recognized the passage, because it was about me. I was that Taxi Driver in my last life. That was when I was the second coming of Jesus Christ. I remembered it like it was freshly yesterday…

 

Chapter 2: My name was Youssef

It was 1968, my name was Youssef, born in the Palestinian city of Bethlehem in 1940, like I was two thousand years ago. My family had ‘moved’ when I was eight, and I always missed our family and friends back home. 

Back then, the West Bank was a very tumultuous place, maybe less than it is today. The Six-Day War had recently ended, leaving deep scars and simmering tensions. The Palestinian Liberation Organization was gaining momentum, and the city of Bethlehem, Jesus’s supposed birthplace, was buzzing with political fervor and hope for a brighter future. Contrasted with the stark reality of the war-torn city with the timeless spiritual significance of my messianic presence in 1968. Imagine dusty streets lined with concrete checkpoints, the constant hum of military vehicles, and the watchful eyes of soldiers, juxtaposed with the vibrant faith that still burns in the hearts of the people.

Like I said, I was a taxi driver, and not a very graceful Palestinian man. I was mostly quiet and kept to myself, but enjoyed my job, as I’d get to meet all types of people. Maybe what you might call a ‘nerd’. There was no space for me to be ‘politically active’ but every fare encounter each day was a glimpse into the complex tapestry of a conflict that would tear the region apart in the coming fifty plus years. I wasn’t ignorant by any means, I was well read, but many outsiders may have seen me as an ignorant person. Taxi driving isn’t glamorous, the fares aren’t great. But life is simple and we keep our heads up and look on the bright side of life.  

One day I remember getting a fare of a man who was in a really sad situation and needed me to drive two and a half hours, all the way to Nazareth, so he could visit a loved one in the hospital. He walked off without paying the fare. That’s okay. He probably needed that money more than I did. I remember that night retiring to work with very low profits that day, and having to choose between filling my car’s fuel tank, and getting something to eat for dinner. That’s okay, I was able to help that person in need out. Now that I think about it. His clothes were pretty nice and the drop off point was a few blocks away from the hospital. I’m sure there was a good reason for that and I’m just glad to help. 

Normally when I would have to drive through those military checkpoints, I’d have to endure some humiliations. One time I got arrested. Still not sure why. Was never told what I was being charged with. I had to strip to my boxers and dance. That’s okay, it was hot outside and I like dancing. I try not to sweat the small stuff. 

Taxi-fares are a special kind of calling..

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Chapter 3: 

Scene: Jerusalem’s bustling streets hum with the rhythm of honking horns and bargaining voices. Inside his dented yellow cab, Youssef sips bitter coffee, listening to Khalil, a younger driver notorious for his sharp tongue and faster reflexes.

Khalil: (Slapping a worn passport on the dashboard) See this, Youssef? American gold! Tourist dropped it right into my lap, clumsy as a camel in high heels. Think how much she’ll pay to get it back? Enough for new tires, maybe even a fancy radio that speaks English instead of these camel bleats.

Youssef’s stomach churns. He remembers his own father’s tattered passport, a symbol of the dream they left behind. The thought of exploiting someone’s vulnerability twists his soul.

Youssef: Khalil, this girl, where does she stay? We must return it. Her heart will be like that car with a flat tire – useless without this paper shield.

Khalil scoffs. >You and your dusty morals, Youssef. Why help the ones who took our land, stole our olive groves? This is our chance to take a little back, a taste of justice from their pockets.

A familiar anger crackles in Youssef’s chest, embers of injustice fanned by years of silent frustration. But then, another memory surfaces – a Jerusalem shopkeeper, Jewish but kind, who shared water and dates when his family first arrived, lost and thirsty.

Youssef: Look, Khalil. Jerusalem, she whispers a different story. We may not hold the deeds to the land, but we hold the keys to kindness. This girl, she came with hopes in her eyes, not guns. We don’t steal dreams, Khalil. We make sure they reach their destination, safe and sound.

Khalil hesitates, the glint in his eyes dimming. Youssef grabs the passport, its leather cool against his calloused palm.

Youssef: Come on, then. Let’s find this lost soul and show her Jerusalem’s true face – not the one carved by anger, but the one painted with compassion. We’ll be her angels, you and I, with wings made of taxi fumes and worn tires.

They weave through the city, Youssef grilling every street vendor, every shopkeeper, until a glimmer of recognition lights up a hotel clerk’s face. They race up the stairs, hearts pounding a rhythm of hope and guilt.

Finally, there she stands, a young woman with eyes as red as sunset after rain. Relief washes over her face as Youssef presents the passport, a silent apology for the city’s momentary lapse of grace.

Youssef dragging Khalil by the ear. Tears well up in Youssef’s eyes. He sees his own fear reflected in hers, but also a spark of gratitude that ignites a warmth in his chest. In that shared moment, he understands that kindness, like a pebble dropped in a pond, ripples far beyond the immediate splash, carrying whispers of hope even through the stormiest nights. “We don’t do this in the holy city. You deserve to feel welcomed here.”

She walked off without saying ‘Thank you’.

________________________________

I remember one day when I met Miriam..

Scene: Dusty twilight settles over the winding roads near Bethlehem. Inside a battered yellow cab, Youssef hums a forgotten melody, steering with one hand while sharing dates with Miriam, a young woman clutching a worn suitcase. He’s 28 years old in appearance, though the etched lines on his face whisper a different story.

Youssef: You seem troubled, Miriam. Like a lost kite in this wind. Is it Nazareth you miss, or leaving your family?

Miriam’s smile is fragile. >Miriam: Both, a bit. But mostly, the hope this journey holds. My brother, he got a job in Jerusalem. Now, maybe I can find work too.

Youssef nods, understanding the pull of ambition in a land scarred by uncertainty. He remembers his own father’s yearning, the exodus that uprooted their olive grove when he was just a boy. He remembers, too, the kindness of strangers along the road, how a shared meal or a helping hand lightened the burden of loss.

Youssef: Don’t worry, child. Jerusalem has a heart for dreamers. And this old car, she knows every alleyway in the city. We’ll get you there safe and sound.

They talk past dusk, Miriam’s laughter catching like fireflies in the gloom. Then, a new flag appears in the rearview mirror – a blue Star of David emblazoned on white. Three young settlers climb in, their voices sharp with the unfamiliar accent.

Settler 1: To Kfar Etzion, and make it fast. This taxi smells like olives and revolution.

Youssef’s smile flickers. He recognizes the fear behind the bravado, the way they clutch their worn rifles like shields. His mind stumbles for the right route, the shortcuts replaced by a sudden fog of unease.

Youssef: It’s a long journey, sirs. Night has fallen. Perhaps an inn for the night and we resume at dawn?

Settler 2: We don’t sleep with Arabs, old man. Drive! Or we find another cab with less sandbaggage.

The insult stings, but Youssef swallows it. He takes a wrong turn, the car twisting deeper into unfamiliar backroads. The settlers’ impatience morphs into panic.

Settler 3: You’re lost, you fool! Stop the car!

Youssef’s hands tremble on the wheel. He forces a laugh, trying to calm them, but the laughter dies in his throat.

Youssef: Just a shortcut, friends. See, the moon guides my way. Like an old shepherd…

Suddenly, the car lurches off-road, a ditch swallowing one tire. The engine sputters and dies. Silence descends, heavy as the desert night.

The settlers erupt, cursing in Hebrew, guns glinting in the moonlight. Youssef shields his head, a wave of fear washing over him. He’s lost, not just on the road, but in a storm of prejudice and rage.

Then, a touch on his arm. Miriam steps forward, her voice surprisingly steady.

Miriam: Leave him alone. We’ll walk. Let your fear not consume you.

The settlers hesitate, their fury flickering against Miriam’s unwavering gaze. One by one, they climb out, disappearing into the shadows.

Left alone in the cold moonlit wasteland, Youssef and Miriam face the uncertain path ahead. His car, his livelihood, stolen. But something else remains, untouched – the quiet courage of a young woman, the shared breath of defiance against the wind.

I wished nothing but peace for those men, despite the incident. They seemed very troubled and I hope they can find what it is they seek out of this life. I could never live that way with that much fear and antagonism in my heart, and I hope others can learn from our mistakes of that night. 

End Scene

“Well, Billy, your story was indeed creative. It gets an ‘A’ for pure imagination and a ‘D’ for historical accuracy. You will be able to proceed to the Fourth Grade, but only because I already ordered pizza for the class party, and there’s a garlic knot crisis brewing. We don’t know what to do with you creative types.”

Then the Janitor, comes bursting in, mistaking the classroom for a lost luggage claim. He yells, “Hey, anyone missing a taxi driver from Bethlehem circa 1968? Came with a carjacked car and a suitcase full of dates. Big hit with the nuns!”