Qalandiya

Whoever is born to undoubted freedom, finds it difficult, even impossible, to decipher the patience with which Palestinian society bears the daily humiliation and harassment it undergoes, and decide whether this is an expression of power or weakness.

And hour and some minutes of standing in place, of more and more people joining the crowded waiting lines, silently, without any shoving or shouting. Quiet speech, enigmatic patience and a macabre sense of humor.

Only one fellow summoned to meet his probation officer at 16:30 was worried he’d be late and lost it. He ran among the lines, “Let me go first, I’m in such a hurry” he begged, but the people’s good or bad will had nothing to do with the young man’s chances to get to his appointment on time. For they, the soldiers, who were inside, couldn’t give a goddam about us, standing outside.

When after an hour and some minutes the soldiers got back to their duties and the checkpoint was in operation again, and the people who crossed it boarded a muss headed for East Jerusalem, they were followed by Border Policemen who for 15 minutes conducted a careful repeated inspection of every single person and their IDs, and the Palestinians, patient yet again, some indifferent, some smiling as if saying “What can I do about this?” waited until the last BPmen left.