Inside the Bethlehem Checkpoint With Machsom Watch

Inside the checkpoint in Bethlehem

Last Friday, I went out again with MW, this time with the Jerusalem section. It was a long and draining week (see the following post). I went with Efrat, who works at the Jewish National Fund (they used to buy up the country for the Jews, now they plant trees). After some ado, she managed to pick me up on the edge of the Hebron Rd (standing at the crossing can mean that one stands at 4 spots) and before I could say occupation, we were at the checkpoint. Bethlehem is really around the corner, I live in the southern part of the city, and this checkpoint is for once really at the Israeli-Palestinian border (or, say, at the border to zone B). It is a huge checkpoint, the so-called terminal, which means that it’s a closed building where the passers wait, pass turnstiles, wait, pass some security checks, all accompanied by illegible voices from above, but no people to turn to.

On Friday, the Moslems go praying, and the mosque is on the other, Northern, Israeli side. So they have to pass, and they have to pass by 11 am, because this is when the service starts. The Jewish Israelis are not allowed to enter the zone B, only with some special permit. When we arrived, Efrat, who speaks Arabic, asked the Palestinians how things were going. Apparently, people were kept waiting inside, some incident occurred, and the lines were not processed. We did not see much in the terminal, only angry noise. That was the moment when I became useful, because with my fancy EU passport, I can cross to the other side. You take a look outside, and come back in ten minutes. Which I do – Efrat urged me not to take pictures inside the checkpoint not to upset the soldiers – and saw at the other side the wall, another entrance, turnstile, line, and left of it an entrance for cars with two soldiers checking. From some speaker came permanent, alienating announcements. You come out from the terminal, in front of you the wall, in the wall a little shack with a hidden soldier, behind it people waiting, who, as soon as they see you, start screaming and telling you something. Barb wire, cameras, and the sounds of announcements (which may, and may not, talk to you) everywhere. And there you stand, on this kind of a parking spot. (see gallery)

You stand there and feel like an idiot, as a theoretical human rights activist, and wonder what are you supposed to do next. Eventually, you stop looking like calf on a new gate (as the Czech proverb goes) and walk towards the Palestinians and ask them kindly if they’d mind being taken picture of. More noise, and no, they don’t mind. Elderly ladies in headscarves scream something illegible. How many are they waiting? about 100, they say.

By then, the soldier at the car gate started waving at me, saying I should pass. I tried to explain to him that I was from Machsom Watch, however to little avail, as he spoke hardly any English. I then decided that the external documentation was enough, and entered the checkpoint to get out to Efrat again. Now this was the point where you, dear readers, may have been better aware of then me in my tired naiveness: there was one line for everyone, which, as is the point of the checkpoints, was not moving. The internal line cheered and told me immediately, that I will wait with them and it may take up to 10 hours. I tried to explain that I was a part of Machsom Watch and that my point of being there was to get out quickly and then take action, but they were unimpressed. So I went out again, and asked the soldiers at the car gate if there was any other way out. Apparently not. Back to the terminal. I tried to call Efrat, who was not picking up. – More conversation with the Palestinians (Do you see this crime???!!). More attempts to call Efrat. In front of the turnstile an angry, thick crowd of people, nowhere a person from the checkpoint to ask anything (like when the line will start moving or such obvious questions). The Palestinians told me to go back to the car gate and ask the soldiers to open a second line: You are a tourist, they will do that for you. Back to the car gate, put up a smile for the soldier, he slowly turning halfway between irritated and flirtatious. I (inspired by Merav’s talk back at Sarah Lawrence) put my head to side, smile at the soldier, and tell him in a surprised voice that There is a very long line in there! and it’s not moving; would it not be a good idea to open a second line, perhaps? Soldiers exchange looks, and call someone. I stand by, batting eyelashes. Go now, say the soldiers, and assure me that the second gate should open. So I leave.

That is also the point where Efrat calls back. I explain her the situation, and she tells me to Talk to one of the soldiers. Show them your passport. But, Efrat, no soldiers, no contact person, no nothing but hallogen light and upset Palestinians outside. Efrat promises to talk to one of the soldiers at her side (she sees some). I descent once again into the terminal. I check on the toilets, which are dirty, but dirty within Israeli limits. When I am back again, there are no soldiers, but decisively more talkative Palestinians. I start taking pictures inside, in hope a soldier will emerge to prohibit me doing so.

Nothing happens. I text Efrat to update about lack of soldiers, while surrounded by Palestinian men talking to me. Listen, I tell them, let me finish this text, and then we can talk, one thing after another, but they chat away merrily. But then a second turnstile opens, and luckily I stand close by, so hop, and there I am, passing through the dirty insides of the terminal, having my luggage x-rayed, and eventually, after a number of gangways, getting to the passport control, behind which stands Efrat. I wave, jump, call her name, and a soldier comes, takes my passport, waves me out of the line and puts through the border back to the safe, Israeli, Efrat side.

Efrat tells me that in the meantime – I was gone for some 45 minutes – there came a security officer, scolded the checkpoint officer for being closed (some kid walked in the wrong direction, after which the soldiers closed the lines), and that was the reason for the second line to open. Efrat said that now also the line in the wall was open. In any case, Palestinians flowed by, as we stood there talking, carrying their plastic bags, off to the (I’d almost say church) mosque. They thanked, as the hurried away, one even blessed me. And that was it. We left for Beit Jalla, where we had tea together, Efrat showed me a small passage where Israelis sometimes sneak in to Zone B; the wall, being beautified, as the settlers are upset about its rough cofrete surface. Beit Jalla is quite on a hill, and one can see the wall being built through the landscape, Jerusalem and the lego-like suburb of Homat Shemu’el.

The Wall south of Jerusalem