Checkpoint Diaries

After passing back and forth to the West Bank three times, I thought it only right that I convey the average return journey. Many of you may be familiar with the experience – having read about, heard about, or experienced the increasingly institutionalized checkpoint system yourself.

Nonetheless, for those that haven’t, or for those interested, I hope this proves to be a concise description.

(It should be noted that there is a whole different system of checkpoints WITHIN Palestinian territory that I will write about when I see them.)

Normally, I hop on a bus near Bab il3amood.

There’s a parking lot on Nablus Road where all the Arab buses park, headed for different parts of the West Bank. Each green and white striped bus is numbered per its destination, and labeled in Arabic with its major stops: “Al Quds-El Bireh-Ramallah,” “Al Quds-Jabal Izzaitoun” “Al Quds-Beit Lahem.” There are probably 15 or 20 different routes.

The Ramallah Bus (#18) leaves every 15/20 minutes – whenever the bus fills up. It’s 4.20 shekel up to the wall, and an additional shekel if you plan on crossing.

The approach to Ramallah is generally painless – the three times I’ve crossed into the West Bank, we’ve had no problem carrying the Arabs back to where they belong. The bus drops us off wherever we please. Hit the button, “3indak ya ostaz!” and the bus driver pulls to the side of the road and lets you out.

The return into the beloved Eretz, on the other hand, is a different story.

Boarding in downtown Ramallah, each rider is asked, “Jerusalem ID?”
“Yes,” they answer the driver invariably.

While riders cross at their own risk, Palestinians with a West Bank ID (generally green) are not allowed into Israel, and much less into Jerusalem, without special permission; they’re known to be turned away without consideration at the main checkpoint – slowing down the bus’ route and the bus driver’s business.

As we drive west toward Jerusalem – and toward the wall – there’s generally dabkeh (1 ½!) music playing on the stereo, declaring the greatness of Palestine and its people; those lines always seem to come up as the wall cuts its way through the horizon. As I stare in awe at the concrete behemoth, my companions are understandably un-phased, shouting at their children to sit down, or laughing on the phone with their friends.

The first time we pulled up to Qalandiya Checkpoint, the bus driver yelled, “Everyone under the age of 50 off!” I jumped up, begrudgingly preparing myself to be searched, perhaps more intensively than I had been at Anata.

“Those with children under 10 stay on!”
“Those with foreign passports with visas, stay on!” the bus driver screamed in Arabic.
I went back to my seat.

What the hell?

As I moved back to my chair, I looked up at the bus driver, hoping I was doing something wrong – hoping he’d send me out to be searched like the other dangerous youths – both male and female. Each would have his or her bag search, body checked, and id scanned.

The bus driver nodded at me.

Sure enough, a 20-year-old girl padded like a linebacker and armed with her M-16, crept onto the bus, backed up by another soldier who manned the stairs. She made her way through the aisle, checking each ID.

She looked at my passport. “Whegh is de visa?” I had it opened to the page of the visa. I stayed quiet, and let her search for the stamp as she shoved it back into my hands.

She didn’t check my bag. God bless America. She didn’t check my bag.

Is that what than 3 billion dollars a year is getting us?

Maybe, I thought, it was a fluke.

Today, again, as I went through Qalandiya, the bus driver warned that everyone under the age of 50 should get off. Again, he gave the exceptions.

And again, two soldiers came onto the bus. It was 15 women and me.

This time, though, the soldier stopped at each woman.
Pointing at her purse. “Iftakh il shanta.” (Open the bag.)
Pointing at her son. “Hatha Ibnik?” (Is this your son?) “Sho Ismo” (What’s his name.)

He stopped at me. I handed him my passport. He looked at the visa, looked at my hugely over packed bag tucked under my feet, and handed my passport back. The soldier then escorted an older lady with an orange hijab off the bus.

As we moved toward the area where the dangerous youth had been searched, the young bus driver shouted out his window.

“Is7a2! Is7a2! Shayif im ilbort2an illi til3at rakkid halla2 ma3 il jundi?! Mat rakkibhash! Daffi3ha! 2oltilha illi 50 o nazzil yinzil 3an ilbus! O ma nizlitish.”
(Isaac! You see miss orange over there that just ran off the bus with the soldier? Don’t let her on the next bus! Make her pay! I TOLD her 50 and under MUST get off. And she didn’t.)

It’s a routine.

Everyone is used to it, and there are in fact added fees for not complying with Israeli orders, EXACTED by the Palestinians upon each OTHER.

The fact of the matter is this: this is clearly a system that achieves (if not aims at) only one thing – humiliation.

Is an American bag really any less dangerous than a Palestinian bag when it comes right down to it?

Or is it that – as an American with a foreign passport and fancier shoes – I am just more civilized and reasoned?

I’m not begging to be searched. As I’ve said time and again, there is no glory in misery. Our goal should be to elevate man from misery, not to descend complacentely as partners. There is an obvious hole here and it’s filled by humiliation.

Any of you who have studied counterterrorism with the Israeli experts. Please. Tell me. What logic lies behind racism.
_____

As a side note, I have not yet included any positive/normal interactions with Israelis in Israel.

That’s because the first one I had was at the post office on Thursday in West Jerusalem.

I asked to send 8 cards. She gave me 24 stamps. I paid, and said have a nice day.

I live in Jerusalem – a separated but inevitably mixed community. This is not a bad thing.

If the West Bankers ONLY interaction with Israelis is a soldier speaking shitty Arabic on a bus, how will they ever coexist?

It’s easy to say, “Of course they have to be separated! They don’t even want to live together.” No shit they don’t want to live together. Especially if this is the lens through which they see one another. How convenient…