I still have not deciphered what they use the first window to do. Today, I walked up and the IDF soldier was busy doing something else. If I dashed through, what a story that would be! On the other hand, my mission is over if I get deported. So, I stood motionless for more than two minutes, timing how long it took for him to look up from his paperwork.
* * *
My first time, no one appeared to be there. Liam and I passed through a long chute of metal bars painted blue, ambled past one empty booth, then crossed to a building that looked like a farm co-op. After another long metal chute and a trip through the metal detector, we walked up to the final booth. The lady in the booth was an IDF soldier in green fatigues, six-point stars embroidered onto the shield-shaped patches on each shoulder. She was slumping low in her chair, leaning back and talking on a cellular phone. As we drew out passports out of our bags, she cast an apathetic glance in our direction and waved us through with a flick of her wrist.
“I’m glad I brought this thing,” I said, pocketing the US passport.
* * *
We had been sitting for at least a half hour before we even heard from Richard, the urologist. These doctors had been to Gaza and back, so that nothing shocked them anymore. Still, not one of them had walked through a Jerusalem check-point until now.
“Friday is always the worst,” said their driver, leaning through the window with a cigarette tucked into the corner of his lip. Along with his aviators, shaved head and polo shirt, the cig made him the archetypical young-Palestinian-driver.
One of the others finally got a text from Rich. I asked if they were doing monkey-business with the turn-styles. Suddenly, a pair of IDF soldiers ran out of a booth, past the line of East Jerusalem-bound buses and away toward what I know must be Rachel’s Tomb, though I’ve never seen it. We waited minutes for something significant to happen: sirens, gunfire, more soldiers. Nothing happened.
“Must be lunch-time,” said Bill.
Just as suddenly, the driver climbed into the van without a word, turned over the ignition and started down the road.
“Hold on—“ Gerri started to say but Bill put a hand on her shoulder.
“He’s just moving the van further from the buses so they can get out. I saw him carefully put his cigarette on the retaining wall.”
True to form, the driver parked the van thirty yards toward Jerusalem, exited the vehicle without a word and returned to his still-smoldering cig.
* * *
The light turned green but nothing moved. The gentleman by the turn-style pushed on it a few times: clack clack. The green light turned-off again, then on, then off, then on, then off. Finally, the metal tines began to move again. A soldier mosied over on the cat-walk and watched us as we shuffled toward the opening. Clank. The light was still green. Then it turned red.
“It seems” I muttered with some bitterness, “that the locks and the lights on the gates do not necessarily coordinate.” Immediately, I started to make attributions. Meanwhile, I was standing in line with over forty Palestinians. They were carrying children, grapes, brief-cases, hats, cell-phones—no weapons, though. When I reached the metal detector, I laid my bag on the conveyor and emptied my pockets into a plastic bin. As I approached the metal detector, it began to beep.
“Try to take off your belt,” advised a man behind me, uncinching his own belt.
* * *
When I saw who was in the booth, I relaxed and casually drew out my passport. When I flashed it, a voice crackled from the speaker embedded in bullet-proof glass. “Wait – where is your visa?”
“Oh, my visa—of course,” I said, turning my passport to the page with the aging visa stamp on it. That stamp was hard-earned. I was a little puzzled, though. I wondered why, two days later, the guard who had waved me through without a second-thought was now very concerned with my visa. Did she recognize me or was this just a day to be difficult, with so many Palestinians in-line behind me? It was Friday.
* * *
There was a big plywood board covering the entrance to the chute. I started to turn around but a nearby cab-driver said “La la... you go” and pointed to the humanitarian lane. I stowed by kaffihah. At the first gate, the turn-stile appeared not to move but a guy shook his head and lifted a little on the gate so it would turn. A few meters away, the first guard was smilingly waving people through, as if it were any other day and not the first day of Eid al Adha.
On the other side, I boarded a bus bound for Damascus Gate. I noticed the driver was listening to Muslim prayer music. I think that the extent of my cultural tolerance was tested by this song. The lyrics were repetitive and, at risk of alienating non-musicians, the harmonies were made of tri-tones, quarter-steps and other dissonances that even my modern sensibilities were having trouble appreciating. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I could see the driver mouthing along to the words. That part, I know, was what made the music Holy and Beautiful.
* * *
Whenever people are in line, there are always some who are more desperate to make progress than others. Once, there was a guy who was too courteous to cut ahead of me and, so, took the liberty of nudging me forward to fill the space where someone else might have cut in front of me. There is an interesting balancing act between the need to save face and be a nice person versus trying to gain any advantage in the midst of occupation. I’ve seen a man crowded remorselessly out of line just minutes before everyone parted like the Red Sea for a woman with a sleeping baby.
The line at the final booth was longer than I had expected. Palestinians pass by three windows every time. The one by the wall, which is a joke, the one by the metal detectors and this final one. Just as it was about to be my turn, the man in front of me let a young woman with several children cut ahead of him. The older lady behind me was obviously not happy but she resisted making a big scene about it. Turning to her, I said “tfudhl” which means “please, go ahead.”
“Shookraan” she said, smiling just a little bit. She stepped toward the window and the guard mumbled something in Arabic, even less recognizable in an Israeli accent. She produced a document and pressed it up against the window for him to read. More mumbling. She looked straight ahead: there was an eye-scanner I had never noticed before. Then, she placed her hand on another scanner. After all of that, she picked-up her purse, fished out a pair of sunglasses and headed into the sunlight.
I stepped to the window and flashed my visa stamp. He waved me through.
* * *
I went on a quest to find the Israeli post-office in West Jerusalem and send mail to far-away places. Just inside the door was a large metal detector and security guard. I recoiled for a moment. He looked at me and smiled. It dawned on me: this is not the same. The post-office that Palestinians use was closed for Eid Al Adha but they would not come here – it is for Israelis. The security guard spoke good English—he was ecstatic to use it, too. “Are you from German?” he said, puzzled at first. I choked a moment (“Min Ameerka, fi Meesheejin” –no, not this time...).
“No, I am from the United States!” I said and smiled at him. He lit-up.
“I love America!” he said and began to chat with me. I could tell that he genuinely did love the idea of America and it touched my heart. He was welcoming me; given the chance, in a different context (in a different world?) I am welcome in Israel. This young guy, this regular Israeli, sitting bored at the post-office in West Jerusalem, was welcoming me to Israel with kinder eyes.
He asked me to take-off my belt and hand him my bag and other things. I obliged. There was almost no hassle at all. I thanked him and went into the lobby to sit because it had been a long day, already.
I expected that to be it. On my way back, I climbed onto the 21 Bus (which I always mistake for the 24) that swings through East Jerusalem and out to Beit Jala. It was standing-room only, something I had not encountered since I left Belize three years ago. Yet, I was having a great time. West Jerusalem had been exactly that: WEST. It felt like a US city drained of English and decked-out in Pro-Israel paraphernalia—which would be great, if I didn’t know what I know: if I was what the post-office guard thought I was. Instead, I was totally digging some Arab music with the young bus driver.
We had to make a stop. For some reason, it was taking longer than usual. The driver exited; two IDF soldiers entered. I won’t pretend this was scary. I already knew what it was going to be: they were going to check every single Palestinian’s paperwork. ‘Two or three other buses with less people on them,’ I thought, ‘had probably already gone by but this one was just full enough to make everyone’s day longer...’
I was standing next to some people from Europe; we all dug for our pass-ports and opened to the visa-stamp page. When the guard reached us, he waved us away dismissively: he didn’t care. A lady shook her head and said something in French. We met eyes and I nodded: this is unfair.
There were no arrests: every Palestinian had their papers. All of them.
* * *
I was already late to meet someone, going through the check-point. Genius at the first booth did not look up at me for two minutes. I trickled into the barn-like structure that is the check-point: there were long lines at two gates. ‘At least two gates are open, this time,’ I chuckled. I spotted my contact in a line as I joined it and waved to her as she went through the turn-style. I noticed that the Palestinian men in line were making jokes and taking off their belts so it would not take as long once they reached the conveyor belt. In Palestine, they are practiced at humor in tense situations. These are the people who were raised with the reality of check-points, carrying papers with them at all times and subjected to the latest ridiculous security devices. Going to pay condolences in Jerusalem is like getting into Area-51.
I took off my belt. It felt good. ...it felt good for two reasons, bear with me. The second reason is that I entertained the notion I was in solidarity with blue-collar Palestinians. As a peace-and-justice nerd, I was geeked-out to stand in line with my belt in one hand and the waist of my pants held firmly in the other.
Then, a stream of garbled Israeli-ized Arabic spilled over the loudspeakers. The lights of the gate went dark. They were closing that gate. The massive line of people slithered back through queuing rails and over to the other, equally massive line. It feels awkwardly intimate to have your belt off with so many other people. Here we were: so many beltless men crammed into line with women in hijaabs. There was nothing to do about it, either. In fact, no one was impressed that I had my belt off with them – they are trying to live their lives. The lights of this gate were flashing on and off, tauntingly (am I seeing things?). One man leaned casually against the gate in hopes it would turn when it was actually unlocked. Garbled Arabic: he stops. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that one ‘shabaab’ was still waiting at the previous gate, in hopes of being first if it was all just a fake-out.
As I came around the bend of the queue, I discovered I could read two out of the three languages on the wall over the door.
[something in Hebrew]...
خروج...
...EXIT
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