At 6:30 yesterday morning, I embarked on a journey with Fatima and her oldest daughter Shams, to attend a 10:00 meeting about a summer camp Shams will be participating in this August in Denver, Colorado. I wish I didn’t have to call it a “journey.” When I’m traveling alone, the 40 miles to Jerusalem is usually no journey, just sometimes a hassle waiting for cars and passing through checkpoints. West Bank Palestinians, however, do not have this same luxury. Without permits, they cannot visit their capital, their holiest site in the country.
The organization sponsoring the summer camp had attempted to procure permits for the girls and their parents who were coming from the West Bank. Everyone got these permits – everyone except Fatima. No reasons were given for the denial. “You’re a terrorist,” I joked with her. “Like you,” she responded with a smile. Nevermind, Fatima decided, we’ll go to Jerusalem anyway. The occupation won’t give me a permit. That’s not surprising. But they can’t keep me away from Jerusalem.
So we headed south, from Qarawa roadblock to Huwara checkpoint, from Huwara checkpoint back out through Zatara checkpoint and towards Kalandia checkpoint. At Kalandia, instead of taking the regular bus I take to Jerusalem, we took a shared taxi towards Aram checkpoint, and just before the checkpoint everyone got out and walked around on a small path towards the right. We reached a bus, whose driver was hurriedly trying to file people in and depart before being noticed by soldiers. It was too late, though. About 30 seconds into our journey, three soldiers – one man and two women – jumped out from behind a building and ordered the bus to stop. The male soldier entered and checked everyone’s ID cards. Shams sat innocently, planning to tell the soldier, if asked, that she wasn’t yet 16 (she’s 17) and thus didn’t have an ID. He didn’t ask. She was the only one on the bus who he passed over, although most of the passengers were women and old men, who often are not checked at checkpoints. I had a valid visa, and a couple other people were “legitimate” as well, but the soldier removed everyone else from the bus and told the bus to leave. Fatima told us to go ahead without her, but we didn’t feel comfortable doing that, so we got off the bus. We stood for about 20 minutes, waiting for people’s IDs. Several people told the soldier, “Fine, I won’t go to Jerusalem, I’ll turn around, just give me my ID.” At this point, though, it was punishment and not prevention. The soldier kept saying his captain would arrive in 5 minutes.
During the time we stood there, we watched dozens of people walking on parallel roads a few hundred meters away, people who probably do this journey more often and know the best ways to walk without being stopped. I looked at the soldier, who was also watching the people in the distance. I wondered whether he would call his captain to report this, or just continue to do his particular task, which wasn’t to stop all people from reaching Jerusalem, but only the people on this particular road at this particular hour. He continued his task, holding onto the IDs and just watching the people in the distance.
Fatima went to the soldier and said, “I don’t need a permit to go to Jerusalem. I’m old, older than 40.” “Where did you hear that?” the amused soldier asked. “On the radio,” Fatima replied. “Do you believe everything you hear on the radio?” asked the soldier. “No,” said Fatima, “I don’t believe anything that comes from Israel, because it’s all political propaganda.” I couldn’t hold back a smile. Even (especially?) in a situation of extreme power differential, Fatima was in her element, stepping up to the challenge of holding onto dignity and freedom in the midst of humiliation and arbitrary restriction.
After a few more minutes passed, I asked the soldier why his captain wasn’t there yet, and why he needed to come in the first place. “He’s bringing some papers,” said the soldier. “These people broke the law by trying to go to Jerusalem without permission, and they need to sign papers.” Fatima was unimpressed, and decided she’d waited long enough. “Let’s go back,” she declared, “and go around another way. I don’t need my ID, I have another one at home.” Apparently she had lost her ID once, and after getting a new one she found her old one. Knowing that made me slightly less worried, but I still feared that the soldier would not be too happy to find that Fatima was no longer there when it came time to hand the IDs back. Nevertheless, Shams and I followed Fatima and we started to walk away, without being noticed by the soldiers. That is, until Fatima turned around and yelled, “Enough! Keep my ID – it’s yours!” I didn’t turn around, just looked at Shams and started laughing. “I can’t believe my mother,” Shams said laughing. The soldiers didn’t try to stop us.
“I’m free,” Fatima said a few minutes later. “I’m not afraid of them.” We walked for about 15 minutes until we reached a more major road. During the walk, we heard the captain finally arrive and start yelling through the jeep’s loudspeaker. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and I don’t know exactly what happened, as we quickly got out of sight of that scene. I wonder how many times a day this happens.
Finally we caught a bus to Jerusalem, and then a taxi to the meeting, arriving at 10:15. It took us almost 4 hours to travel about 40 miles. I am reminded of an art exhibition I saw last year in Bethlehem, in which a woman had asked several people in Bethlehem, “How far is it from Bethlehem to Jerusalem?” Responses ranged from “two hours” to “10 kilometers and 4 years” to “I’ve never been to Jerusalem.”
From the balcony of the meeting place, we could see the Al Aqsa mosque and the Dome of the Rock to the left, and to the right the Annexation Wall snaked through the landscape of Abu Dis and other Jerusalem villages. Shereen, a friend of mine from Arroub refugee camp in Hebron, who will also be participating in the summer program, walked out to the balcony and saw the Dome of the Rock. “Wow,” she whispered reverently. Shams looked up and smiled. “Is it the first time you’ve seen it?” she asked. “No,” said Shereen, “I’ve seen it twice before.” “Me too,” said Shams. They stood and stared for a couple minutes, and then continued to talk about what teenagers talk about, asking each other questions about families, where they lived, musical tastes, and more.
The meeting ended, we walked to French Square to join the end of the Women in Black vigil against the occupation and to meet up with someone who was coming home with us, we walked through the Old City for a few minutes, and we started on our way. Luckily, Fatima wasn’t asked for her ID (which she no longer had) during any of the ride/s back north. We reached home around 6:00 pm, hot and exhausted, with another story to tell. Another day in Palestine.
