Another Ordinary Day

I visited friends at the Qalandiya refugee camp whose 20-year old son was abducted from his home two nights earlier. On my way back to Jerusalem, I reached Qalandiya Checkpoint and stood in line.

Like other checkpoints throughout the occupied West Bank, Qalandiya Checkpoint too is located inside Palestinian territory, separating Palestinians from other Palestinians. It rips populations apart, divides families, narrows down and reduces life itself in the shadow of changing ordinances and regulations, and the permanent, built-in cruelty of the various and changing agents of Occupation.

I entered an especially filthy roofed structure with several benches and neglected toilets, usually out of order, and stood along with others inside a narrow, rectangular cage, metal bars on all its sides. Myself – the only non-Palestinian.
To our left, in a secured cubicle, behind glass, a soldier was seen. He is the one in charge of the turnstile, ‘the carousel’ as it is called, at the end of the rectangular cage, opening and closing at his whim.

Only rarely did the soldier lift his eyes and look at the accumulating waiting line. Lazily he would press some button, and then the turnstile would open and several people would stampede through until it locked again.
Like most of his young peers, his gaze was usually glued to his iPhone.
None of the people standing beside me opened their mouths or shouted to him that the line is long and why doesn’t he open the turnstile. And I suppose it is because they know it would do them a disservice. After all, it is not for lack of thought or knowing or blindness of any kind that the young man plays with his iPhone and does not open their cage. And that is why they keep silent.

More and more people crowded the line that already ran far behind the rectangular cage. Time elapsed – longer than itself because of the sense of helplessness – until I came close to the turnstile, and there was a moment when the soldier raised his eyes from his other business, pressed the button and the gate opened, and I was freed along with several other men and women, and scrambled out with them, determined and confused, in order not to get caught behind or inside the ‘carousel’, and then for no special reason I stood at “sleeve number 2”, perhaps because most of the people lined up there.

There are several “sleeves”, short filthy corridors, at the end of which is yet another ‘carousel’, it too controlled by male and female soldiers, unseen at this point, only heard over loudspeakers.

I began to examine my pockets for any change or keys, to put everything in my bag for the next inspection, when a screechy voice over the loudspeaker said that sleeve no. 2 was now closed, and sleeve no. 3 open. Immediately all the people standing next to me stampeded, as did I, and we all stood at sleeve no. 3. We hardly finished gathering in the new waiting line when the same screeching voice was heard once more over the loudspeaker, “Closed! Closed!” and we all rushed back to no. 2.

One woman suddenly stopped in the middle between the sleeves. Weary. About seventy years old. She just stood there. And still stood. And then she went over to some new line that formed. Took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her forehead, which perspired in spite of the cold.

Again the screech of a male or female soldier rang out, with some instruction I couldn’t understand, not because the words were in broken Arabic but because this screech plowed into me and I could hardly listen. But even without understanding the actual words, they were obvious to me as to all the rest. And their meaning, in short, was that if you have arrived here at this point, then it is closed to you, and open elsewhere. And if you have stood over there, that point too will be closed. Your fate is in their hands. Their hands are light and glad to make you scurry to and fro like a rat in a cage. Which is exactly what you are.

At this point I was determined not to move any more. And that is probably what others near me thought, too. And we waited. And perhaps another twenty minutes went by without the turnstile opening. And no one said a word. And one baby girl began to cry and weary eyes were lifted and then sank back into themselves.

And at some point the carousel opened and several people got in, and then it closed again, and more time passed, and again it opened, and again it closed. Again and again.
My turn was so far off still, and I daydreamed.
Get back!! I heard a heavy Israeli accent yell over the loudspeaker, and I looked.
A woman who had already gone through the second carousel and the metal detector was standing at the last phase, which entails showing the ID to the soldiers sitting behind the plate glass window.
I didn’t see them from where I was standing, but I could clearly see the woman. And that she was frightened. It seemed she was holding something and showing it. I suppose it was her ID.
Get back, I told you! The soldier was heard again. You speak Hebrew? I told you to come.
The woman stood motionless. Clearly she was not sure what to do.
Come on, already, his voice shrilled on, and she approached quickly, and he, whom I didn’t see, must have let her go for she walked on, out of my sight.

Again time passed and I don’t know how long, I just know its texture. Dense and borderless and full of anxiety. And I also know that everything I experience and have experienced as I occasionally cross the checkpoint has nothing at all to do with the dimensions and texture of what the Palestinians experience right there next to me, or anywhere else for that matter.
And even if I think that I’m standing right there with them in the same reality at any given moment, it is not true. Neither in demonstrations nor at checkpoints, anywhere.
Because I as a non-Palestinian have privileges in the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea. Including passage in this checkpoint. And I have a choice. And more than anything else, because I am visible to the Occupation forces, in my being, in my humanity.
And I cannot begin to conceptualize from inside me what it is to be trampled, helpless over time and life, and especially not to be a human in the full sense of the word to these soldiers here and elsewhere. And in spite of my knowledge that being a non-Palestinian I am not really in any danger – even if at times despised for my views, still I have a name and an identity and a human face which make me seen – still the quiet, polite, withheld terror around me has seeped into my bones. And blood. As it always does, there at the checkpoint. Because it cannot be otherwise. And the pulse began beating from the depths. Strong. And I heard it.

Get back… If two get into the turnstile together I’ll make her wait for two years!!! rang the sudden screech of an invisible woman soldier.

And we trickled on in, one by one, one by one, so the soldier would not close down the turnstile, although we knew that even this rule that appeared all of a sudden, like all the other more or less fixed rules, made especially to harass, would easily be changed for another. Still we obeyed.
Finally I got very close to the head of the line. In front of me were a father and his three little daughters, and after him two young girls who looked like university students, and then me.
A light flashed, meaning the turnstile was open, and the little girls, one after the other, hurried inside, but then the turnstile locked before the father managed to join them.
They stood there, stunned. Not daring to move. And so did he. But immediately he recoiled, and with soft eyes signaled them not to be afraid and to go on and get though the metal detector. And so they did. Slowly, his gaze escorting them, and they stood facing the last plate glass window.
Where are your parents? The voice of the woman soldier resounded.
The girls stood close to one another. The eldest, about ten, stood first, and behind her the two smaller ones, about seven and four-years old.
Did you hear me?
All three bodies cringed without their moving, and again they froze, their gaze mutely fixed at the plate glass window.
At this moment the turnstile was released, and the father ran and joined his daughters, and hurriedly took some sheet of paper out of his coat pocket, probably his permit, and said in Arabic and then in Hebrew, I’m the father.
He also took out his green – Occupied Territories – ID. His two hands in the air. One holding the permit, the other – his ID. For a moment he seemed to be raising his hands in surrender.
Where are the birth certificates? Shrilled the soldier. He hurried to take out the girls’ birth certificates from another pocket. Opening the first one, he brought it closer to the glass. The girls huddled against their father, their gaze frightened but eager. Wearing their very best clothes. Very excited.
Who is this? asked the soldier. And the father pushed the girl forward. He proceeded to spread out the second birth certificate. And this? Gently he pushed the second daughter, who stepped forward gingerly.
And this? He tried to push the smallest girl so the soldier would see her, but she refused, holding on to her father’s leg with all her might.
Alright, said the soldier. I saw her.
A certain relief is noted in the girls’ frozen postures, beginning to thaw a little, as is the father’s, lightly patting the youngest daughter’s head.
And some more time passed. And they waited. And we waited with them. And then the soldier scolded, but they have no permits. You alone have a permit. You go ahead. They don’t get through.
But they’re little, he said.
No. Not without permits. Get back. Finished.
They’re little… He said, and then again, maybe he didn’t. And again he raised his ID and their papers in a mute gesture that leads nowhere. Then he slowly lowered his hands, replacing all the certificates in his coat pockets. The girls understand without understanding. The seven-year old began to cry.
Get back already! The voice of a male soldier sounded, who was probably sitting next to the woman soldier.
The father lightly touched the little daughter’s bowed head, and then his other daughters, and then they turned around and crossed the metal detector back, and then the turnstile, in the opposite direction, and we made them room. No one spoke, it was all so obvious.
Bitch, a woman standing next to me hissed into the silence.

In the meantime, the line grew very long. And it suddenly became very cold too, I don’t really know whether it was the sinking temperatures outside or just the cold that gripped me inside.

All of a sudden a soldier entered the space in front of us, which we were about to reach, and began sweeping the area near the metal detector.
He has time.
They have time.
Earlier, when there was no waiting line, and at the many times when no people would stand there, these young, determined Occupation forces don’t take the trouble to sweep the place. But when the line is long enough, crowded enough, desperate enough, then comes the right moment for them to begin sweeping. And, calm and easy, the soldier conscientiously continued to sweep those few square meters, more and more, meticulously moving around the dust and scattered cigarette butts from side to side.
He did so for ten whole minutes.
And I swallowed my breath and spit and mute shouts of rage.

At long last passage was allowed again. And we got in one by one, not two together, so that the woman soldier would not keep her promise to close down the checkpoint for two years if we commit such a terrible sin.

Now is the moment to place our bag and anything else that might make the detector bleep in a plastic tray that will enter the machine and come out the other side, where we will collect our belongings after they have been x-rayed. And then, after approaching the plate glass window, we shall show our ID or permit, or place out hand in the slot that reads fingerprints.
All three of us placed our bags at the mouth of the machine but the conveyer belt didn’t function. We crossed anyway. The ID presentation succeeded. For my companions and then for myself.

A moment before continuing towards the far end of the machine to collect my bag and get out of there at long last, I cast a quick look at the soldiers’ room. I saw several monitors, where various areas of the checkpoints were visible. Facing one table sat a woman soldier with her back to us, while getting a back-rub from a male soldier, as another soldier leaned towards a laptop at the other side of the room, and the woman soldier facing us. On the wall were all kinds of instructions which I didn’t mange to read.
I looked away and approached the x-ray machine.

The conveyer belt was still not working. Several minutes had gone by in which no one raised their voice or protested. Neither we, waiting for it to work, nor others in the previous lines.

And suddenly it functioned again. The body lets go all at once. Soon we’ll be out, soon it’ll all be over, our thoughts trembled. Just one more ‘carousel’.
And again the conveyer belt stopped, containing all the bags.
What should we do?
We did nothing.
Another few minutes passed, long or short, I don’t know, for my gut was one lump of wax.

And I am thinking, did the woman soldier see the bags passing and press the button on purpose so they would stall inside the machine… Did the soldier come out on purpose to sweep the area just as the waiting line grew so long… Did the soldier play with his iPhone on purpose right then, while holding people’s fate between his finger – I don’t know for certain.
But I do know that the Palestinians, all of them, those with Jerusalem residency IDs and those few coming from the West Bank with their special permits, all of them are transparent for the young Occupation forces sitting here.
Unseen, uncounted, not really human beings.
At best, they are not fully human. In the worse case, they are the enemy, their time is transparent and unseen, and their lives there for the taking.

The conveyer belt began moving, our bags reached us. Blood flowed again between my body parts, in my face. The two young girls before me in line took their bags, I took mine, and we faced the last electric turnstile. Get back, sounded the voice of the woman soldier as she released the last button turning from red to green, her voice dripping into our ankles as we moved away, until we left the checkpoint. They, and I behind.

Whoever said that the Occupation corrupts is right, I thought. The memory of that soldier sweeping the area on purpose just as the line grew longest, in order to delay those desperate people just a bit longer, because he can – suddenly that memory catches me all the more.

Aya Kaniuk. Translated by Tal Haran.