As is the case with most lives, the daily routine is such
that to write about it would bore you to tears. And so I am posting an experience
that I had early in my stay here - one that brings me to tears for reasons other
than boredom. For me, the day to day
work and living do not change too much, however, for other people; their every
day experiences need to change radically. And if they do not, I believe that
one day, we will all be held accountable.
Qalandiya Checkpoint
I have a friend who is volunteering in the organization EAPPI
(Ecumenical Accompaniment Program for Palestine and Israel). She goes regularly
to the Qalandiya checkpoint to monitor the length of time it takes for people
to pass from one side to the other. This Sunday morning she has offered to let me
come and observe the process.
Qalandiya is one of the largest checkpoints in the Separation/Discrimination
Wall. It runs through a neighbourhood in
East Jerusalem. So although it is still
considered a part of East Jerusalem, it is behind the Wall.
It is 4:10am and we have taken a taxi to Qalandiya. We have
gone to the West Bank side of the checkpoint to observe this morning’s lineups as
people cross to Jerusalem. The people waiting here are going to school and/or
work. School starts at 8am, as do most jobs. Although there are not many here
at this time more people are arriving little by little. The turnstiles are open
and there is steady movement through them into the next part of the checkpoint
where IDs are checked and two more turnstiles wait. The humanitarian line (for
women, children, the elderly and the ill) will open at 6:00am, so for now everyone
is moving through the general line.
My friend asks a young man if he will take a card, with the
present time on it, through the checkpoint, to give to her cohort on the other
side, who will make note of his arrival time. Later we hear it took him an hour
to walk the 150meters (500 ft) through the checkpoint.
It is freezing cold. I am wearing three layers and my coat
and scarf and two pairs of mittens. Some
men have lit a fire in the back of the corrugated sheet metal shed, to keep
themselves warm. More and more people are arriving. Some men have taken themselves
off to the side for morning prayers while others are lining up in haphazard
lines at the entrances of three lanes. These barred lanes are hard to imagine, like cattle runs about 25 meters
in length, with the opening above one’s
head also having bars and added barbed wire. The people walk down these lanes
to a turnstile that is activated, to rotate, by the guard in a bulletproof booth
on the other side. I understand that crowd control varies. This morning, it is moving along at a good
pace, letting people through a few at a time. At other times it can differ in
that large numbers are let through after a longer waiting period. There is no
consistency.
Today seems like a quiet morning yet there is an uneasy feeling
as men are gathering behind us in the waiting area. Unfortunately someone has fueled the fire in
the back with garbage and the smoke has begun to fill the shed. Our eyes are
burning and the smell is awful.
At about 5:30am, whether
by silent signal or on the spur of the moment, all the men arise and rush the
lanes. There is yelling and shouting and I see men climbing up and over the top
of the cages, and squishing down through the bars into the turnstiles (imagine
three or four men in a quarter turn of a turnstile). Some men are slipping
through the bars at the head of the line. It is a mad push and people are in an
uproar and I can see older people caught up in this crush in the lanes. It
makes no sense. There seems no reason for the why of it and definitely no way
of making the line move along any quicker.
In the meantime the humanitarian line has not opened and
there are obviously school children waiting, and women, and some who are not
feeling well. There is a middle-aged man, and his wife, with their elderly father
who can barely stand up. He looks so very frail and old. They were waiting in
the back area and I saw them leave when the younger men rushed the checkpoint
lines. But now they are back and making their way to the humanitarian line which
has still not opened.
My friend calls the number on the guard’s booth, to tell
them that one line is getting dangerous (a buzz word) and the other has not
opened although it is now 6:30am. She is told that it will open soon, in five
or ten minutes. People have now started coming up to us
and asking us to help them. They need to get to work, get to school, and go to
the hospital. We tell them we have called twice and there is nothing we can do.
But we are the international presence and why can’t we do something!? That is a
good question – why can’t we? Where is the International presence actually? The little power we have is in the watching.
EAPPI observe and report. Their presence is important and they do make calls to
the soldiers in the booth and that will often help in getting the stalled lines
moving, but watching is not easy. There is a sad irony that a snap shot of
these faces, pressed against the bars and barbed wire, is too reminiscent of
other barred cages with other distraught faces.
The crush is still on and it is now nearing 7:00am.The humanitarian
gate has been opened for a short time and people have moved quickly forward in
a hurry. Although they are not allowed, some of the younger men have tried to
push their way forward in this line too. A number have gotten through, so more
give it a try. The other turnstiles have not moved in ages and those in the
midst of the crush are frustrated. Many just hang about at the back of the shed
waiting for it to ease up. I still see some trying to bypass the whole
apparatus by climbing on and over the bars at the front. One fellow has caught
his jacket and gets hung up. Another rips his pocket shimming over the pointed
bars. People have put their bags and lunches through the bars and onto the
floor at the front and then once through the line and turnstile, pick them up
on the other side before going on through the second stage of entrance into
Jerusalem. I couldn’t figure out why they did this until I realized that the lunches
wouldn’t survive the crush in any sort of edible state.
In many ways the young men are their own worst enemy. The jumping lines, rushing, crushing,
pushing, shoving, yelling behavior just feeds into the worst of the imagined
stereotypes that the Israelis are lead to believe of their neighbours. I can see why the young soldiers (many of
them female), even in their private booths, would begin to feel anxiety, as the
hordes of angry men continue their machinations. On the other hand, I cannot possibly
understand the frustration that these Palestinian men, and women, must feel
every morning, afternoon, evening and night, being forced through this daily routine just to get to work, or to school, or to the other side of their
neighbourhood.
There is no sense in any of this. If this is the way of it,
at least make this checkpoint a workable functioning operation. As one man, in line, said to us, ‘We are
the same people every day. They know us now, our faces. This is not fair. There
are easier ways to do this, if it must be done.’
At 7:30am our shift
is over, it is our turn to get in line. Because we are women, we get in the
humanitarian line; we stand with other women and some young boys going to
school. Beside us, the man and his elderly father have returned. This man can
barely stand up and his son is close to tears. We are trying to help, holding
an arm, catching the eye of a soldier. Please help! I am led to understand that
this soldier is a ‘good guy’. When he sees this man and his
father, come through the turnstile, he goes over and takes an arm, speaking
orders into his walkie-talkie, for what we hope is preparation for a wheel
chair or ambulance or something on the other side. He helps to carry this man
onward through two more turnstiles and a passport check. We see that the woman who has been carrying, what I assume is the elderly man’s
luggage, is being let through ahead of the line to catch-up with her family.
The Israeli soldier has come back to carry her bag.
[Later that Sunday
morning, I am reminded to always look for God in our midst. I weep silently in
church as I realize that this moment was a God inspired moment. ]
Once we have reached the other side (only a brief half hour
for us) we wait for a bus home. A young boy, on his way to school, comes up to
me and says, ‘You are good luck for us, not too bad this morning, we are through
quickly’. With a huge smile he walks off, and with a wave says - ‘Have a nice
day’.
