Salim was always teasing me, threatening to reveal my true identity to anonymous crowds when I would begin to get on his nerves. But one day he gave me a gift: a velcro wristband with the infamous flag and the word “Palestine” on it. Two days later, in the shared taxi to Al-Khalil (Hebron) he asked me whether I felt “safer” when I wore it, accusing me of flaunting it in Palestine like I flaunt my American passport to the Israelis. Of course I took offense and reminded him that I was doing just fine without his bracelet, yet I knew exactly what he was teasing me about. Later that day, at the checkpoint in the middle of the city, outside of the Tomb of the Patriarchs, a soldier pointed at it and asked, “What is this?” I showed him my wrist and responded, “It’s a watch,” he pointed at the wristband again and said, “No this,” I said, “Oh, it’s 4 o’clock.” He tugged at the velcro and repeated, “No THIS,” I looked back at him, pointed at his gun and asked, “What’s this?”