Qalandiya: Thursday, 25.08. Mid-morningObservers: Hanna B., Susan L. (reporting)SummaryThe separation barrier/fence/wall is less than 13 kms. from the Mediterranean, yet the central area MachsomWatchers don’t get this close to the barrier of asphalt, wire, trenches and concrete as Jerusalemites. So a visit to Qalandiya is especially chilling on a furiously hot summer day. What is familiar is the dust, and the blinding white light. On the way, to Qalandiya, we drive for several kilometers in the company of the overbearing atrocity looming so ominously above us: a “road divider” that cuts the lives of people on one side of the road from the lives of the others — or from what they’re used to on the other side. Here the right of people to move about freely, of which we talk so frequently in discussing the West Bank checkpoints, takes on a shocking and even more ominous meaning. And yet, amid the many shuttered shops on the roadside we spy one open shop called — “Future.” The first site of Qalandiya is absolutely shocking. The sullen grey concrete wall, snaking its way across the landscape as far as the eye can see, is “in your face” right here, at the checkpoint, together with innumerable threatening lookout towers. New sections of this monstrosity seem to be put up overnight, for there’s not a workman in sight at this hour of the day, just hundreds of people trying to make their way through the mess, the dust and the hassle of the checkpoint. Dozens of taxis are parked, waiting for passengers, there are cars and trucks and an endless stream of people, men, women, children, young and old, city dweller and villager – the latter often in beautifully embroidered dresses.The former Atarot airport runway, gleaming white in the harsh light of summer, still streaks its way across the fields below, but it’s now transformed from serving planes to part of the barrier: there are the beginnings of a used car dump on its edges, and barbed wire meanders on the hill above, parallel to the runway and to the concrete wall beyond. Behind the wall, a Palestinian village, the bright, slim minaret standing proud and tall in the midst of the unholy chaos around. Everywhere, the landscape has been hacked into by bulldozers (none to be seen) and the rocks moved or turned or put to unnatural use to further the progress of the “security fence.” Closer by, the wall already winds its way between two rocky gullies where the taxis are parked, and it’s well nigh impossible to understand how the far off construct will ever join this section: but, with the occupation government we have, we know that where there’s a will, there’s a way.Meanwhile, work is being carried on apace on a new, euphemistically called “terminal.” We wander over there, are immediately greeted by an armed, black clad security guard (private company, since the army, in its wisdom, now out sources duties such as security). We’re told that this building site is a “closed military area,” and the guard follows us as we leave the area — very, very slowly. The usual kind of paradox greets us at the building site. A not unhandsome roof and below it, nicely spaced metal benches – as if this were going to be a new municipal park! The checkpoint itself is familiar and as nasty as any: pairs of turnstiles, long narrow concrete paths for people to go through, peddlers sitting alongside, selling wonderful fruit, and children wandering around trying to sell gum or candy. Although ours was not a regular shift, and was only meant to be a “visit”, we got involved in a problem:10:10 The detention compound is unfamiliar and unreachable — on the other side of the road, where we cannot go. But even from a distance of perhaps 50 meters, we can see one man there, sitting in a relaxed manner, and certainly not the usual 35 year old, or younger, but quite a lot older. Time to ask questions. The lieutenant there says “there’s a problem, the police have been called.” He goes on to say, “What’s the difference what the problem is.” The DCO representative is equally uncooperative. We place ourselves in the direct line of sight of the detainee. A man approaches us, tells us the detainee’s name, saying that the soldiers are accusing him of trying to run over a soldier at the checkpoint. He gives us the man’s mobile phone number. At this point, the lieutenant goes over to talk to the detainee, a few minutes later, a volunteer soldier goes over to give him coffee (courtesy of his friend), and a little later, the detainee leaves with the lieutenant and disappears behind a low building, again, across the road. It now makes sense that he’s been here from about 7:00 a.m. and is being taken to the usual kind of toilet found at checkpoints (none).The whole story doesn’t ring true. We call the detainee, making signs (non verbally) that it’s us who are calling! He doesn’t speak Hebrew or English. We stop a couple of people passing through the checkpoint, soon find one who does speak Hebrew and translates the Arabic for us. The detainee, obviously known to the soldiers, is a taxi driver, and there’s been a misunderstanding (probably language related), and he’s been accused of something very grave. On the other hand, he’s not blindfolded, not shackled, the police are still not here after several hours, and nothing appears to be happening. We realize that something cooked up for his “file” will in all likelihood lead to all kinds of problems. The bottom line is that we begin to make phone calls: the Humanitarian Center of the army and a while later the Center for the Protection of the Individual where we know there are Arab speakers on hand to help. We leave at 10:45 when we observe that the detainee fishes out his phone, and we assume that, at least in this case, all will end more or less well.