Checking Frustrations at the Checkpoint

Albeit crowded and unorganized, the line at the checkpoint leading out of Nablus moves quickly. Three obvious abnormalities dodge the restless children and abaayas, so as not to step on any of them.

'We just met,' says L.

'Can't we say we met in Jerusalem?' asks the extremely naïve 27 year old M. Her questions and shallow observations have begun to bring out the culture snob in me. Just the other day, I almost lost it at her mockery of 'insh'allah'; it's difficult to remember that not everyone reads up on culture or has lived in half a dozen countries. Kind of like my dear friend who thinks Farsi is a 'dialect' of Arabic.

With narrowed eyes, L. and I stare at her. In a slight hiss, I repeat, "We met here. In Nablus. At the guesthouse.'

I need to be more patient, but really, some people never learn!

Silently, I mentally go through the items in my handbag, as to make sure there is no slight piece of evidence that I am anything more than an ignorant tourist. Most days, when I am confronted with an Israeli soldier, there is a quick moment that I have to put my pride in check because I want him (or her) to know that, I do know. I know what is going on; I know the reality, and no, I am not here in Nablus to eat Kannafah and visit the soap factories.

However, M.'s anxiety is deemed pointless as the Israeli soldier does not even look for my visa – which I am grateful for as the IDF soldier at the Jordanian/Palestinian border tore it up – and with an extremely bored wave, passes me through.

While L and I wait for M., the hoards of Palestinians grow because their situation is nothing near ours. Bags are produced, opened, and searched at entire lengths. Old men who cannot stand for more than mere minutes are cornered and questioned as if they were terrorists. Little children are searched, and mothers forced to answer why they need to go to Ramallah or beyond.

It takes all of my energy to focus straight ahead, to pretend to be grateful that my time in the line was just a few seconds. If I don't stare blankly at the mob of servis taxis ahead of me, I am afraid I will start yelling.

How is it that these people, who live, breathe, and work inside this country, are not allowed to travel from city to city without the constant supervision of Israel? How can body-searching an 85 year old man who can barely hobble from the taxi to the soldier be deemed reasonable? Under what rules is turning away a woman or making her wait eight hours at the checkpoint before allowing her to pass securing the safety of their country?

Q. told me that a soldier once made him wait two hours because he did not like the clothes Q. wore that day.

M. comes out behind me and says, 'I feel so shaken up."I fight the urge to roll my eyes in her direction as we walk towards the fence to catch a taxi to Bir Zeit.

Note: I really am grateful to have another foreigner around like M., and I am glad she is here to learn and help (most of the time).