I was climbing the street toward Damascus Gate two days ago after a long session at Mike's -- my favorite Internet cafe in the Old City.

The street is divided into two separate lanes. One lane has steps, while the other is smooth, to facilitate the passage of small tractors, hand-pushed carts and the occasional horse. Between the two lanes, all along the street, old women sit by their bags of herbs, grape leaves, radishes and unidentified greens. They don't sell fruit or vegetables, only the simple things they grow in their yards. They all wear their colorful Palestinian embroidered dresses and squat or sit on the cold stones. They come in buses from surrounding villages, and I doubt that at the end of the day they have much to show for their efforts. But even a few shekels help when so many husbands are unemployed.

I was climbing the steps two at a time, in a rush to get home, when I saw a group of young soldiers strolling down the steps. They were laughing and obviously joking, enjoying themselves. A couple of them stopped by some old ladies and started talking quietly to them. Then one came along, shouting orders to move. The old women started closing their bags of goods, while the soldier, cocky and powerful, kept shouting.

I stopped. When he got close to me I asked him, "Why are you shouting?" Startled and annoyed, he asked me in Arabic what I wanted. I repeated, "Why are you shouting?" "I don't understand English" he replied in Arabic and dismissed me with a wave of the hand before moving on.

But I heard no more shouting after that.