Construction dust filled my nose and made my eyes sting as I walked down the ramp just meters from Checkpoint 300. Dozens of people walked or stood in front of me, all trying to leave Bethlehem (the West Bank) and enter Jerusalem (Israel). My parents had just visited Bethlehem for the first time and we were late for lunch. I'd made this crossing many times before and didn't think twice about the extra five or ten minutes it would add to our journey home. This time would prove different.
Tall turnstiles usually spin continuously, letting travelers into the security space where belongings go through an x-ray machine and people go through a metal detector. Despite the gargantuan size of the facility, I'd only ever seen one turnstile and security space being used at a time. This day was no different -- except that now the single turnstile was locking after every 2 or 3 people went through, trapping the next person between bars for an indefinite amount of time. I have no idea what was making the soldiers slow down our line as much as they did, but what normally would take me 5 minutes to go through, this time took over half an hour.
I am a person of privilege. I don't feel like it when I'm living in America, but there have been key times and circumstances in which my privilege smacks me square in the face. And the comparison of my ease in crossing back and forth from the West Bank, with the struggle of the Palestinians to do the same, is one glaring example of my position. I do not have to have a special permit to exit Bethlehem. I do not have to pay thousands of shekels to acquire such a permit. I have never faced the humility of my belongings or my person being scrutinized in a more in-depth way than the x-ray machine and metal detector. I do not stand for hours every morning, shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to leave the checkpoint for my daily commute to work. I usually breeze through the process at non-rush-hour times and flash my American passport for an easy way past the gun-toting guards.
On this day, however, being American didn't make any difference. My blue-eyed baby snug in my baby carrier and my blonde toddler hungry for lunch had to wait just like their black-haired peers in the arms of hijab-covered mothers. My parents and I were smack dab in the middle of a crowd, all trying to wait patiently at the mercy of Israeli soldiers, but all growing impatient at the meaninglessness of delay after delay. We heard voices rise from frustrated bystanders as they questioned why it was taking so long for one mother to go through security. Another mother, one who had been sweet enough to offer me the chance to cut in front of her with my babies, found herself suddenly stuck in the turnstile after her two children were already through. I watched her face cloud over and saw her rest her head against the metal as she felt the 'trapped' sensation of being locked between bars. She was unable to move, and couldn't comfort or guide her children, who were left to fend for themselves in the security space. I saw her angst and mentally planned how to walk our party through so that Miriam wouldn't be stuck on one side or the other, away from someone she knew.
Anger rose within me -- not just at my own circumstances of being hungry and feeling like my time with my parents was being whittled away, but more at the idea that this is what Palestinians face in every aspect of their lives. They are fellow human beings who live according to the whims of the Israeli government, having their water highly limited and their olive groves cut off from their homes, among countless other inhumanities. My 35 minutes in line was barely a sip of struggle compared to what Arabs drink routinely, but my eyes were opened more widely to the oppression my neighbors face on a regular basis.
As tears began to fill my eyes, my dad turned to me and said, "I guess most tourists don't see this, do they?" And I had to agree. Not only do many Americans on typical tours never see the Separation Wall, as their tour buses enter the West Bank through a tunnel, thus sparing them a view of the barbed wire topped concrete monolith; they also don't walk on foot to leave the West Bank, so they miss seeing the lines and scrutiny.
I don't know what hope there is for the conflict here in Israel/Palestine. I don't have answers or even suggestions. But I do know that the feeling of being herded through barriers, locked at will, is not a good one. And it's hard to not despair...
Tall turnstiles usually spin continuously, letting travelers into the security space where belongings go through an x-ray machine and people go through a metal detector. Despite the gargantuan size of the facility, I'd only ever seen one turnstile and security space being used at a time. This day was no different -- except that now the single turnstile was locking after every 2 or 3 people went through, trapping the next person between bars for an indefinite amount of time. I have no idea what was making the soldiers slow down our line as much as they did, but what normally would take me 5 minutes to go through, this time took over half an hour.
I am a person of privilege. I don't feel like it when I'm living in America, but there have been key times and circumstances in which my privilege smacks me square in the face. And the comparison of my ease in crossing back and forth from the West Bank, with the struggle of the Palestinians to do the same, is one glaring example of my position. I do not have to have a special permit to exit Bethlehem. I do not have to pay thousands of shekels to acquire such a permit. I have never faced the humility of my belongings or my person being scrutinized in a more in-depth way than the x-ray machine and metal detector. I do not stand for hours every morning, shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to leave the checkpoint for my daily commute to work. I usually breeze through the process at non-rush-hour times and flash my American passport for an easy way past the gun-toting guards.
On this day, however, being American didn't make any difference. My blue-eyed baby snug in my baby carrier and my blonde toddler hungry for lunch had to wait just like their black-haired peers in the arms of hijab-covered mothers. My parents and I were smack dab in the middle of a crowd, all trying to wait patiently at the mercy of Israeli soldiers, but all growing impatient at the meaninglessness of delay after delay. We heard voices rise from frustrated bystanders as they questioned why it was taking so long for one mother to go through security. Another mother, one who had been sweet enough to offer me the chance to cut in front of her with my babies, found herself suddenly stuck in the turnstile after her two children were already through. I watched her face cloud over and saw her rest her head against the metal as she felt the 'trapped' sensation of being locked between bars. She was unable to move, and couldn't comfort or guide her children, who were left to fend for themselves in the security space. I saw her angst and mentally planned how to walk our party through so that Miriam wouldn't be stuck on one side or the other, away from someone she knew.
Anger rose within me -- not just at my own circumstances of being hungry and feeling like my time with my parents was being whittled away, but more at the idea that this is what Palestinians face in every aspect of their lives. They are fellow human beings who live according to the whims of the Israeli government, having their water highly limited and their olive groves cut off from their homes, among countless other inhumanities. My 35 minutes in line was barely a sip of struggle compared to what Arabs drink routinely, but my eyes were opened more widely to the oppression my neighbors face on a regular basis.
As tears began to fill my eyes, my dad turned to me and said, "I guess most tourists don't see this, do they?" And I had to agree. Not only do many Americans on typical tours never see the Separation Wall, as their tour buses enter the West Bank through a tunnel, thus sparing them a view of the barbed wire topped concrete monolith; they also don't walk on foot to leave the West Bank, so they miss seeing the lines and scrutiny.
I don't know what hope there is for the conflict here in Israel/Palestine. I don't have answers or even suggestions. But I do know that the feeling of being herded through barriers, locked at will, is not a good one. And it's hard to not despair...
