doesn’t guarantee a bright future. Like every Palestinian
child, Lina’s future is uncertain. Will Israeli government policy
permit her to become a happy, healthy, and productive adult, as she
deserves? For this to happen, Lina needs not only health, but also
an end to occupation.
At the Checkpoint
May 24, 2006
QIRA, West Bank: As the line behind me grew,
I read a novel. The drivers behind me leaned on their horns. I
advanced a few meters and returned to reading Memory in the
Flesh , by the Algerian writer Ahlam Mosteghanemi, thinking of
her presentation of the ravages of colonialism from the viewpoint
of its victims, enjoying the passion of the language.
I was interrupted by the siren of an
ambulance trying to get through the checkpoint with a patient. I
moved my car a bit to let them pass.
The Zaatara checkpoint, where I was waiting,
is one of dozens inside the occupied Palestinian territories,
restricting the movement of people and goods. It’s the only passage
between the northern and central West Bank.
This week, during Ehud Olmert’s first visit
to the United States as Israel’s prime minister, he will claim that
under his “convergence plan,” Israel will withdraw behind its wall,
leaving most of the West Bank. But under Olmert’s plan, Zaatara,
twenty-seven kilometers inside the West Bank, and other checkpoints
like it, will remain under Israeli control, dividing the West Bank
into several bantustans.
I looked at the two young soldiers
arrogantly manning the checkpoint, with dozens of people awaiting a
sign from them. At last the soldier moved his finger. A taxi edged
forward. The driver got out, still far from the soldier, holding
the passengers’ identity cards. The soldier signaled to the driver
to remove his T-shirt. Checking IDs takes ten minutes per car.
Palestinians are required to carry Israeli-issued identification
cards to present at checkpoints inside the West Bank. If the
soldier keeps the card, the Palestinian cannot travel.
Unfortunately, I must cross Zaatara to reach
my office in the city of Salfit. I spend from 90 to 120 minutes
daily at the checkpoint, despite living eight kilometers from my
office.
Wondering how I could best use this waiting
time, and avoid the checkpoint’s tension, it struck me that I could
read. For the last few months, I’ve carried books in my car.
I was staring at the soldier as he shouted
at a woman holding a crying baby. He ordered her to dump her bag’s
contents on the ground. Then he forbade her from crossing because
she lives in Tulkarm, a city whose inhabitants are currently being
collectively punished. A few youths were forced to sit for hours
under the sun just because they are under thirty years old or for
trying to cross the checkpoint on foot.
While we waited in a long queue under
searing heat, Israeli settlers in air-conditioned vehicles bypassed
the checkpoint in their special lane.
Israel says these measures are vital to stop
suicide bombers from flooding into Israeli cities to terrorize the
civilian population. But I can’t imagine a suicide bomber standing
in a long line deep inside the West Bank, waiting for soldiers to
check his ID and car. Determined people can always travel through
the hills, avoiding the checkpoints.
Checkpoints are the most intimate contact
between Israelis and Palestinians. This contact occurs over a
barrel of a gun. An Israeli friend of mine told me the main Arabic
phrases they teach in the Israeli Army are “Stop or I’ll shoot
you”; “Go back”; and “Forbidden.”
At 9:00 a.m., it was my turn. The soldier
waved me forward with his finger. As I do every day, I stepped out
of my car to hand him my ID. On the side of the road, a soldier
whose face was partially hidden beneath his helmet pointed an
automatic rifle at me, his finger on the trigger. I opened the
trunk, and he returned my ID to me without a word.
I left the checkpoint wondering whether my
generation will witness a day when
child, Lina’s future is uncertain. Will Israeli government policy
permit her to become a happy, healthy, and productive adult, as she
deserves? For this to happen, Lina needs not only health, but also
an end to occupation.
At the Checkpoint
May 24, 2006
QIRA, West Bank: As the line behind me grew,
I read a novel. The drivers behind me leaned on their horns. I
advanced a few meters and returned to reading Memory in the
Flesh , by the Algerian writer Ahlam Mosteghanemi, thinking of
her presentation of the ravages of colonialism from the viewpoint
of its victims, enjoying the passion of the language.
I was interrupted by the siren of an
ambulance trying to get through the checkpoint with a patient. I
moved my car a bit to let them pass.
The Zaatara checkpoint, where I was waiting,
is one of dozens inside the occupied Palestinian territories,
restricting the movement of people and goods. It’s the only passage
between the northern and central West Bank.
This week, during Ehud Olmert’s first visit
to the United States as Israel’s prime minister, he will claim that
under his “convergence plan,” Israel will withdraw behind its wall,
leaving most of the West Bank. But under Olmert’s plan, Zaatara,
twenty-seven kilometers inside the West Bank, and other checkpoints
like it, will remain under Israeli control, dividing the West Bank
into several bantustans.
I looked at the two young soldiers
arrogantly manning the checkpoint, with dozens of people awaiting a
sign from them. At last the soldier moved his finger. A taxi edged
forward. The driver got out, still far from the soldier, holding
the passengers’ identity cards. The soldier signaled to the driver
to remove his T-shirt. Checking IDs takes ten minutes per car.
Palestinians are required to carry Israeli-issued identification
cards to present at checkpoints inside the West Bank. If the
soldier keeps the card, the Palestinian cannot travel.
Unfortunately, I must cross Zaatara to reach
my office in the city of Salfit. I spend from 90 to 120 minutes
daily at the checkpoint, despite living eight kilometers from my
office.
Wondering how I could best use this waiting
time, and avoid the checkpoint’s tension, it struck me that I could
read. For the last few months, I’ve carried books in my car.
I was staring at the soldier as he shouted
at a woman holding a crying baby. He ordered her to dump her bag’s
contents on the ground. Then he forbade her from crossing because
she lives in Tulkarm, a city whose inhabitants are currently being
collectively punished. A few youths were forced to sit for hours
under the sun just because they are under thirty years old or for
trying to cross the checkpoint on foot.
While we waited in a long queue under
searing heat, Israeli settlers in air-conditioned vehicles bypassed
the checkpoint in their special lane.
Israel says these measures are vital to stop
suicide bombers from flooding into Israeli cities to terrorize the
civilian population. But I can’t imagine a suicide bomber standing
in a long line deep inside the West Bank, waiting for soldiers to
check his ID and car. Determined people can always travel through
the hills, avoiding the checkpoints.
Checkpoints are the most intimate contact
between Israelis and Palestinians. This contact occurs over a
barrel of a gun. An Israeli friend of mine told me the main Arabic
phrases they teach in the Israeli Army are “Stop or I’ll shoot
you”; “Go back”; and “Forbidden.”
At 9:00 a.m., it was my turn. The soldier
waved me forward with his finger. As I do every day, I stepped out
of my car to hand him my ID. On the side of the road, a soldier
whose face was partially hidden beneath his helmet pointed an
automatic rifle at me, his finger on the trigger. I opened the
trunk, and he returned my ID to me without a word.
I left the checkpoint wondering whether my
generation will witness a day when
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