On the Art of Waiting

“Hey, are you trying to play games with me?” The tone is reminiscent of a fourth-grade teacher talking to an arrogant child: the language of an occupier
to the occupied.

We drove Suheil and her daughter Aya from Rambam Hospital to Jalameh. Expecting to see Aya again on watch this Thursday, I stopped in a toy store in Nahariya this week and picked up an inexpensive baby doll that makes a hilarious snoring noise and lights up when her tummy is pressed. Aya was enthralled with the doll and cuddled it until she fell asleep about halfway to Jalameh. There were many Israeli Arabs going through the border crossing in both direction, and many were families with small children. It is close to 40 degrees outside and a strong wind blows clouds of dust from the construction work nearby. Aya and her mother had already gone through when we arrived at the entrance, but about a dozen people were waiting inside the terminal. Despite the fact that the terminal has two sides to accommodate people coming in and out of the West Bank in both directions, only one side is being used and the one clerk who is working must process people going in both directions. One man complained angrily that his 55-year-old mother had been detained inside, and he had been waiting for her for an hour. She finally emerged, clutching one plastic bag – the reason she had been delayed in the terminal. Neta called and complained about the waiting line, and this resulted in them opening up the other side of the terminal making lanes in two directions. Since she also told them where we were standing, it also brought an armed guard, who came up and looked over my shoulder.

“I want to know what you are writing in your notebook!” Ah, I think, soon they will put a sign up with a picture of a notebook and pen and a red diagonal line across it that says: NO REPORTING AT THE CHECKPOINT ALLOWED! But, well, when confronted with an M16, I tend to get a bit more docile than my usual self.

“Certainly," I say, "No problem. Long line at the entrance to the terminal, only one window open, people with small children waiting to go in both directions and being delayed…”

The gate at A’anin opened promptly at 3:00 and about 15 people and half a dozen tractors passed through by 15:25. Several teenage boys were with their fathers, probably helping them in the fields.For the first time we see that there are two women from the military police checking cars and pedestrians at Tura. Several cars and taxis passed through the checkpoint in both directions, but one driver drove into the seamline zone, stopped, and complained that things were not going smoothly, he had been waiting for a half hour. The ladies evidently need to be more efficient at their new job.

As we drive into Reihan Checkpoint we see seamstresses arriving and walking down to the sleeve. At the entrance there are already twenty people in line, and at 16:30 two windows were open and the line was moving. Unfortunately one window stopped operating, and the line soon began to grow longer. The loudspeaker announces again and again: “Enter the checkpoint only if you have a permit.”

"I want to photograph the line. I'm going to sneak one."Soon another announcement is made: “Hey, are you trying to play games with me?” It is reminiscent of a fourth-grade teacher talking to an arrogant child: the language of an occupier to the occupied. It takes the man at the end of the line 12 minutes to reach the turnstile and get inside.Furious, I was seized by an urge to disobey the signs posted for the benefit of people such as myself who want to record what goes on here. Holding my camera close to me waist high to avoid the overhead cameras, I blindly snapped a picture and lo and behold, I caught the men waiting in line. Neta took a picture with her phone as well. Neta calls S., who sharply offers her an explanation for the holdup in the terminal: He is rude and cross, and refuses to take any blame, adamant in his attitude that they are doing the Palestinians a favor.

“You refuse to understand. It’s because we let people who don’t have permits come through here.”

Sigh.

This goes with the comment of “Its lovely over at the vehicle checkpoint: aid conditioning, coffee…” Sure, they could sit there all day. Who needs to work, earn a living...we have nothing better to do but WAIT all day...?

Machsomim in the July Heat

We arrived at A’anin at opening time, but the gate was locked and there were no soldiers present. Several pedestrians and one man with a tractor were waiting in the makeshift shelter that has been placed next to the gate – a large section of concrete pipe with used electrical equipment attached. At 3:10 the soldiers had still not arrived to open the gate and Neta called to see what was going on. She was told to call back if they did not come soon, and at 3:12 a hummer pulled up and a soldier got out and unlocked the gate. The soldiers unlocked the other two gates and began checking people through at 3:16. We were reminded of the Palestinian whose work permit had been revoked as “punishment” for failing to arrive at A’anin on time to return to the West Bank and had come back through Reihan, and the soldier who had smugly justified the punishment by saying: “What would you do if I showed up here at 3:05 instead of 3:00?”
While we were waiting one of the young men approached us and asked how he could get a permit to enter Israel and look for work. He explained that such permits were granted for three days every six months. We were surprised since we have never heard of such a permit. He also asked why people were not given permits to harvest almonds in their orchards in the seamline zone.
By 3:25 all the pedestrians and several tractors with bags of sawdust, as well as some bags of used clothing we had brought had passed through the gate. We left at 3:30.
Shaked-Tura 3:45 – The checkpoint is very quiet. One or two vehicles passed through in both directions, and three women came through in the direction of the seamline zone and waited to be picked up.
Reihan Barta’a – 16:05 – The lower parking lot is full of cars and there are a lot of yellow taxis, which are the only ones permitted to travel any distance within the West Bank. Since private drivers are not permitted to carry passengers for pay by the Palestinian police, the local drivers are limited to short jaunts to the neighboring villages.
We drive back through the checkpoint and go to the upper entrance to observe. A Palestinian approached us and again complained of problems obtaining a work permit: he has a permit to work in Israel but has not been given a permit to work his land in the seamline zone. His question ends with the usual “Ma osim?” (What’s to be done?) We give the usual answer: we’ll try, but can’t promise anything.
From 4:30 until 5:00 the number of workers arriving increased , but only one inspection point was open. Soon there were over 30 people standing in front of the turnstile. Soon there are calls of “Od chalon, allo!” (Hey, open another window!) Neta tries to call S., the checkpoint manager, and ask them to open another window. Within a few minutes there are close to 60 people in front of the turnstile, and all are shouting and angry. Another window finally opens at 5:00 – either as a result of Neta’s phone call or in response to the shouting crowd outside. By 5:10 everyone is inside, including three women who arrived with a child and two men with bicycles who waited for someone to open the gate for them. . I “marked” one man who had been standing at the end of the line and noted that it took him 15 minutes just to get to the turnstile and get into the terminal.
Despite the fact that this happens every day at this hour, the checkpoint staff seems unwilling to take the initiative and open a second (or third) window and avoid a backup.
On the way out a Palestinian recognizes Neta and stops us. “Why don’t you come and visit?”
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
“Only Israeli Arabs are allowed to visit the West Bank. Israeli Jews aren't."

“When will you be allowed?”
“When there’s peace, Insh’Allah.”