On the Sabbath, Israeli buses don’t run. We realized this too late and were left searching for alternative transport to the Dead Sea on our last Saturday in Jerusalem. An Iraqi taxi driver overheard us asking around the bus station and offered to help. Along the way, he stopped to take us to lunch at the best Kebab place he knew. He told us he’d lived over 60 years in the region. He told us he now had cancer but still worked to provide what he could for his family. He haggled us for a hefty tip. His eyes were persuasive - dark pools, deep with history, rich with pride.