HUWWARA SOUTH, Sunday 14 November 2004 PM Observers:Gal K., Aya K. (reporting) colour=red>A taxi driver told me last week about the special “checkpoint permits” now demanded of Palestinian taxi drivers on the Huwwara-Ramallah route. There are 110 drivers affected by this new harassment , and only one or two have managed to get such a permit from the District Coordinating Office (DCO) [the army section that handles civilian matters; it generally has representatives at the checkpoints ostensibly to alleviate the lot of the Palestinians]. They’re only the older ones, he explained. Not the others. No reason given . So their livelihood has been reduced to nearly nothing. They can drive now only between Huwwara and Za’tara. His income has dropped to less than half, he said.14:40 — There were about 20 detainees in the “pen”. [Detainees are, typically, men aged from 16 to 30 or 35 who have no passage permits; recently, young women, too, have been detained. The detainees’ ID details are phoned through to the General Security Services (GSS, also known as the Shabak or the Shin Bet, the Hebrew acronym for the GSS) for checking against a central list of security suspects and the answers are then relayed back to the checkpoints. This cumbersome process can take considerable time, and that can be prolonged even more if the soldiers wait to accumulate a batch of ID cards before passing them on to the GSS , or if they behave in a similarly tardy manner at the end of the process, waiting until they have a batch of GSS clearances before they release individual detainees. Meanwhile, the detainees are virtually prisoners at the checkpoint where the soldiers retain the ID cards until the entire process is completed]. The detainees told us they’d been here over an hour. The soldier claimed it was less. But he conceded that, due to an earlier power failure, it was only now that the ID numbers would be sent to the GSS for checking. There was a huge crowd lined up behind the turnstiles. G., an Arabic-speaking volunteer, approached and screamed something in Arabic, and then mumbled in Hebrew:” Don’t they realize that order makes things go faster? They’re absolutely dumb… They crowd the children.Should I not tell them?” What would happen if , instead, he’d call another soldier to lend a hand?On the other side of the counters stood the volunteer, a soldier with rifle aimed and cocked, and the commander with his back to the line, leafing through the ID cards .A young man approached, his face bitter. Fuck… he whispered, to himself. What? What said the soldier, alarmed, hearing or seeming to have heard… His voice rose. Threats, what? Nothing, said the young Palestinian in a subdued tone. The soldier deliberated The soldier seemed to be fighting with himself about what to do, his face flushed. The something gave in him and he relaxed. And signaled the young man to proceed.Another three were sent to the detainees’ area. “We live in Nablus,” they said . “You say you live in Nablus”, retorted the soldier. .One of them persisted: He does live in Nablus. It’s written, he said. Ah, said the soldier.” So how did you get out of Nablus ? To the ‘pen’!” “Hey, you! Get going! Go!” “Come!” “Go! One by one! Get back!” The shouts of the soldiers were all callously shrill with a callousness that doubled and redoubled the built-in callousness of the job, regardless of the tone. An hour after we arrived, the detainees’ ID cards were returned. Some were let through, others not. One man said he lived in Nablus but his ID had him listed as resident in Awarta, and he was not allowed through . Checkpoint commander Y. spoke Hebrew to him, of which he understood not a word, naturally. But what did Y. care if he understood or not? He is convinced, always, that “they” know. This man should know that even if his home is in Nablus where he lives with his family, even if he wakes up there in the morning and goes to sleep there at night – he should know that as his ID says Awarta, he does not really live in Nablus. He doesn’t really sleep there. And it’s all his own fault. We asked G., the Arabic-speaking volunteer, to talk to him, so that he at least would understand him. G., reluctantly agreed : and then, although this was one of “them”, G. had to believe him, and was convinced he should be allowed to return to his home. Still, so that Y. shouldn’t lose face, G, said ceremoniously: “Take a good look at him, Y. If he comes tomorrow, don’t let him through!!!”F., a young man who looked ill and could hardly stand straight, leant on the ledge, constantly changing feet, suffering. Without doubt.He had a note to see a doctor in Nablus, but no specific appointment . He had been diagnosed with kidney stones and should see the doctor the next day, after spending the night at his relatives’ in Nablus. He was not allowed through. We called the ” Moked”, the Centre for the Defence of the Individual from where, in turn, they called the army’s “humanitarian” hotline. We’d been told that if they approved, the soldier at the checkpoint would get instructions. We should wait. So we waited. Sometimes turning our gaze away from the man’s suffering, mute and introverted, which we couldn’t alleviate. At 16:25 even the new detainees were released. But there wasn’t a trace of an okay for the soldiers to release F.It was almost 17:00. We and F. were the only people left. Y. approached and asked, somewhat aggressively, “Who is this?” I tell him as fast as I can everything I know, that he was refused, but we’ve called and he might be let through. Everything so as to make sure Y. does not chase him away. “What’s his name?” Y. interrupted. I tell him. ” F. ? Why didn’t you say so? Half an hour ago we already got an okay for him to pass.” There were hundreds of people behind the turnstiles. Moving slowly. The pen was empty. F. went through. And we went home.