I'm Proud to be a Virus!

"How does it feel to be a virus?" asks Neta cheerfully as I climb into her car to drive out to the northern checkpoints. Ya'alon, in his blunder of calling Peace Now and the other movements who object to the occupation, has shown his talent for shooting off his mouth first and thinking afterwards. He has now retracted the statement, claiming he now realizes the importance of democratic discourse. Unfortunately, there is no discourse. But yes, I agree with Neta, I am proud to be a virus.

There is a constant flow of workers returning from work and people coming back from shopping in Jenin. Everyone is preparing for Ramadan, and evidently people still like to go to shop in Jenin despite the delays and difficulty it takes to get through the checkpoint. One man complained that he had been waiting for a long time, but proudly showed us a bag of tiny eggplants that he planned to stuff with rice – they cost NIS 8 in Israel, but only 3 in Jenin! The security guard again demanded to see my notebook, and explained “We’re trying to make things easier during Ramadan.”

As we approached the gate at A'anin a soldier asks us, “May I ask what you are doing here?” He is evidently new, and we ask if he has heard of Machsom Watch. Several tractors, a boy with a donkey, and many other young boys were waiting at the gate when we arrived. Things seemed to go smoothly and the soldiers let people through and allowed wagons to pass through loaded with plastic chairs, bags of sawdust, ties, and many other things. At 15:15 one tractor and wagon was delayed as a father with a young boy about 12 showed his documents.

“This only shows that the kid was born,” declares the soldier. (How else did the child come into the world?) After delaying the boy and his father another 15 minutes the soldier, unable to leave them there but unwilling to back down, finally capitulated, but tells the father that his son needs a “special permit”. As the soldiers came to close the gate at 15:30 we asked what the problem was with the father and son. He explained that the boy is over 12 - too old to be included in his father’s permit, and too young to have his own ID at age 16 and receive a separate permit. Thus, he “falls between two stools.”

"But," I asked, "How did the boy get into the seamline zone in the morning??"

He, of course, had not been there to let him across in the morning, but must follow orders now. In the occupation, the law of gravity of what goes up must come down does not hold: Whoever goes out of the West Bank does not necessarily go back in again..

A telephone call to the Liaison and Coordination Administration confirmed that there is no such thing as a “special permit” and that all children under 16 are to be included in their parents’ permit. It appears that there is a lack of coordination between the soldiers in the field and the Liaison and Coordination Administration and the policy is not consistent. At 15:30 everyone had gone through, and we left.

The lower parking lot at Reihan is so crowded with cars and taxis that we have difficulty maneuvering our own car through and could find no place to park. A small number of workers are coming out of the terminal. Everyone is getting ready for Ramadan: As we drove up and began to walk down the sleeve we met several men carrying heavy packages of water, fish, and other groceries, and gave them a hand lugging it all down to the turnstile. They thanked us profusely. All the Moslems that I have met are talking about how difficult the month-long fasting period will be in August-September when the days are hot and long. Since the Moslem calander does not have a leap year system as the Gregorian and Hebrew ones do, the month of Ramadan cycles backwards through the year, moving back one month or so every three years. This means that another nine years of hot, long days until the month of Ramadan is shoved back to the cooler spring months. It will be rough for people who work outdoors and cannot drink water all day.

There are two windows open in the terminal and people are moving through quickly. We listen to the usual complaints about people not being able to go to work in Israel through Reihan Checkpoint in the morning. One man also tells us that the number 27 Egged busses from Hadera to Reihan will not take them back, and we promise to write to the Ministry of Transportation and investigate the matter.

This week, after a year and a half of invitations, my friend from Jordan finally made it up to the Galilee on one of her visits. Determined to show her a part of the country where Arabs and Jews live side by side, I began the tour by showing her the Yehiam battle site and its proximity to the villages of Sheikh Danoun and Abu Snan. I hoped to convey to her just how precarious the situation of the settlements in the Western Galilee was at the time, and that there are villages still standing as opposed to the ones that she was continually referring to that were destroyed. I refrained from much comment, but she silently took pictures of the rusty vehicles scattered throughout the gorge and the old Moslem cemetary above. We then continued to the Arch Cave, where I called upon Dan to serve as tour guide, and we walked around the edge of the cliff and approached the cave by the "surprise" route over the arch. We then continued on to Rosh Hanikra and marveled at the colors and light as the sea crashed into the grottos.

"היום הכל בסדר" "Today everything is OK.

But actually, it's far from OK.

I am suddenly startled out of my reverie while translating Machsom Watch reports. "Today," reports a Palestinian, "Everything is OK." THe soldiers are OK, no one is being held up, there is no humiliation, people are moving through the checkpoint smoothly.

Have people now reached the point that they take for granted that the checkpoints are there, that this is normalcy, and that if they are not stopped, humiliated, harrassed, or anything else exceptional does not go on, than this is to be considered "OK?" "B'seder?"

Does it enter anyone's mind that the checkpoints within the Palestinian territory should not be there at all? Has this absurdity now become a state of normalcy?

Why, asks a watcher, are there so few Palestinians at the checkpoints in the middle of the day? From ten to noon people who are not already at work would take a walk, visit family, grandchildren, new mothers, a sick relative, look for a potential bride, shop, go to the clinic, take the washing machine in for repair in the neighboring village, bring some concrete cinder blocks for the new house. Children on summer vacation are looking for work, and other mundane errands. Such wanderings would be termed by the occupying force as wandering around the seamline zone with no purpose.
The army and the country have obligated themselves to ensure that Shaked Checkpoint enable people for whom the separation fence has infringed upon their lives to continue to live their lives as before.

However, in practice this is not what is being done, and the “all is OK” is far from OK. Any movement from one place to another within the seamline zone or from the seamline zone to the West Bank requires a permit. There has to be a reason – a good reason – to present to the soldier at the checkpoint for why you want to go anywhere. So people don’t bother…Yalla, so let’s not bother fixing the washing machine. We’ll wash clothes by hand, because in order to get the washing machine fixed we will have to tote it through Reihan checkpoint, and that will cost more than a new machine!

Let’s imagine that the Shaked Checkpoint were transferred to the Ra’anana junction. Soldiers stand and flag people down, require each person to be checked according to their capriza...ID. Check the car. Check the trunk. Maybe even let a bonb search dog with muddy paws into you car to give it a good going over. You will only get to work on time if the guy with the boots and the M-16 wants you to. I wonder how long the average Israeli would have patience for these daily holdups?

Keep in mind that we are not talking about border crossings into Israel, but about checkpoints within Palestinian territory. The excuse of "If we don't check then they will bomb Tel Aviv" therefore does not hold water.

Perhaps we should organize a demonstration: place a simulated machsom at the Kfar Sharyahu Junction and start checking cars, ID’s, where are you going? You’re late for work? Too bad. Perhaps then we would realize that everything is not OK.

At the checkpoint on the Way to the Wedding

Wishing to avoid the usual catcalls and chaos in the lower parking lot at Reihan, we went directly to the upper entrance to the terminal where we can see if there are any problems of people being delayed. Two windows remained open for the entire time we were there. For a change we didn't have to initiate a phone call to demand that they open another inspection booth. One of the women inspectors noted what was going on at the entrance and said to her colleague over the loudspeaker: “They’re talking to the women from “Watch.” Good. They knowthat we are here. Throughout the hour we observed the usual routine: the turnstile opening every five minutes and 9-12 people entering each time. Occasionally someone got caught inside the turnstile and had to remain standing in this “cage” until it turned again, occasionally someone got hit by the turnstile. The line outside occasionally grew to a dozen people but people continued to enter quickly. We wonder why people are not simply admitted to the air-conditioned terminal to wait there, rather than stand out in the sun.

A woman with an infant and two other small children attempted to pass through to the seamline zone and was refused. We could not find out why. A man from Jerusalem attempted to get back into the West Bank without a permit. He wanders about at the entrance and people shout at us. “He’s been here for six hours already. What’s he going to do? Sleep here?”

Evidently there is a wedding today and families dressed up in holiday clothes are coming from the Israeli side of Barta’a. As we left the entrance and walked back to the upper parking lot we saw a lineup of half a dozen cars - evidently the wedding party - waiting to get through to the West Bank. A taxi on its way to the seamline zone is being held up and everyone is waiting. People are standing next tot the cars in holiday clothes – including a woman who appears to be the bride - waiting to have their documents checked. People driving through are now allowed to be checked at the vehicle checkpoint and drive through without passengers having to go through the terminal. From inside one of the cars we can hear someone playing a darbuka and people clapping hands. We clap with then and shout "Mabruk! Mabruk!" As we leave the taxi going through towards the seamline zone that was holding up traffic is released and the wedding procession drives through.

A man accosts us. “The humiliation we have to go through at the checkpoints – there’s nothing like it anywhere else. Maybe in South Africa.”

“Actually,” I answer, “There is, but that doesn’t make it right.” He is definitely preaching to the converted. It is unfair that we have to get shouted at, but I am used to this: we are there and available for people to let our ther anger.

Another man demands, “When will it end? When?” And I wonder myself.

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...?