More Anger at the Checkpoints

I'm dressed for a checkpoint – i.e., my most American outfit. Boots, leggings, and a dress. I am covered from neck to toe, but I want to make sure there is no doubt of my Americanness. Hence, the flashy outfit.

As I approach the front of the line, the woman behind me watches me pull out my camera and encourages me to take pictures so that I can show people back home. However, the soldier is keeping an eye on me and I am unable to gather the courage to take a snap of the wires, fence, and crowd of IDF soldiers searching a taxi on the other side of the barbed wire.

Finally, it is my turn. I hand over my passport to the soldier, who could easily be my younger brother. He mutters, "So, you're American."

He then asks, "Where are you from?"

I look at him as if he is crazy. Did he not just state to himself where I was from?

"The U.S.," I respond. That is all he needs to know.

The kid looks at me again and smiles. He asks me if I enjoyed my time in Nablus. I try to unclench my teeth so that one syllable to respond to his ludicrous question may come out.

After a moment of silent stares, he lets me pass. Infuriated, I mumble my way to the taxis towards Ramallah. How dare he treat the eighty year old man in front of me as if he is worthless or going to blow up the checkpoint, and try to be my friend? Does he think I am ignorant or naive?

I'm afraid that one day I won't be able to control my rage and that I will slap one of those soldiers.