Yesterday July the 3rd, we had to make it for Jerusalem. It was an absolute must, as Yassmine myyoungest daughter had an appointment for an interview to get her a visa for continuing herstudies in th USA. We heard that the curfew in Ramallah was lifted till 2:00 am, so by 9.30Yassmine, Sireen and myself left the house, heading for Jerusalem.
We arrived al Manarah looking for a car to take us to Jerusalem. I had to ask people from where totake a car since I have not been there for more than two years at least. ” You have to wait till Ifill the van ” , said the driver. ” But who will go to Jerusalem at this time, we are in a hurry and wehave to be back before re-imposing the curfew at 2 ” , I said. To do this we had to pay for 9 seatsinstead of 3 otherwise we have to wait. ” I will take you to al Ram checkpoint through Rafat roadsince you have no Jerusalem I.D cards ” , said the driver. The ‘road’ was not a road, he drove usalong most rocky fields and I could not recognize where we were. It was such a deserted area, andI felt a bit worried. I decided to leave my worries and enjoy the sunflower fields around. Wewere then ‘dumped’ in a very deserted area, ” You go this way, cross that ditch, there you willfind some cars to take you to al Ram ” , said the driver. ” But you said that you will take us to al Ramand where we are now? ” , I asked. No point in arguing, we walked for about half a kilometer,crossed a very wide and deep ditch framed by barbed wires. The strong strive to live pushedsomeone to cut a hole in the fence and put some sort of a ‘bridge’ for people to cross. The passagewas so slippery, a young child was crying for his mother to hold him. She refused, she was soloaded by so many things, we decided to help but the child refused us so we decided to carry hismother’s load to enable her to carry him.
We took another car to al Ram. Many passing cars and vans were flushing their lights to ourdriver, he stopped, ” There is army and police in the way, be careful ” , said the driver in theother car. ” If anyone of you is afraid to go on, he can get down here ” , said our new driver. No onemoved. We arrived to al Ram and saw many police cars and many army jeeps. ” What is next? ” I asked.I looked like a peasant who entered the city for the first time. We had to take a narrow allybefore the checkpoint to bypass it. The ally was so steady, we walked for about one kilometer,than we had to cross a long fence. By the time we arrived to the main road to find a car waiting forus, we were all exhausted and sweaty. The driver saw us when we were at the top of this hill.Finally we were on the ‘normal’ way to Jerusalem. It took us one hour and a half to reach our placeof destination which usually takes less than 17 minutes. We had to pay 45 shekels (9$) insteadof 19 (less than 4$), triple the ‘normal’ fare.
When we reached the American consulate a Palestinian guard asked us to wait. ” We had anappointment ” , I said. I looked at ourselves again, we looked miserable, our feet covered withdust, Yassmine’s eye lashes were almost white, my hair was like metal wires, my feet lookedvery dirty and our shoes looked like homeless people’s, the dust ruined our appearances.Before us an old Palestinian woman with her traditional dress was arguing with the guard to lether enter with her son, who to my surprise looked in his mid thirties. We were allowed to enterthe building to find an Israeli guard asking us to open our bags. He started to take outeverything in our bags. He kept in a drawer my mobile phone and a computer desk in Yassmine’sbag. I felt myself like in Tel Aviv airport where we have a ‘special’ treatment. This is anAmerican territory established on a Palestinian land, why does an Israeli have to search us,have they no Americans left in America? Or at least they could have hired a Palestinian to bewith him. It was so insensitive, but I decided to let go, we have to get the visa, but tearsstarted to run in my eyes. Then another machine checked us, again operated by another Israeliguard.
We were asked to wait in an air conditioned room. With the sweat covering our bodies, I felturgent need to go to the ladies room. The place was stinking, the wall was leaking and the floorwas a mess. If high level of hygiene is the pride of the so called white man’s civilization, thatwas not a civilized place. In the room, I noticed many women with their ‘big’ sons. I asked myneighbor who was looking at me in a friendly way where does she comes. ” From Deir Dibwan, it wasso difficult for us to come ” , she said. ” I am here with my son, who has to renew his Americanpassport ” . I could wait no longer: ” But why does he not come by himself, he is a big man ” , I said. Iasked her because I started to project my feminist ideas that all men have to depend on women toachieve what they want to do, but this time I was mistaken. ” It is dangerous to cross thecheckpoints or walk in the mountain ‘roads’ when you are a man by yourself, so I insisted to comewith him ” , said the woman. ” But he is an American ” , I said. ” If he gets killed they mightapologize but if he is with a Palestinian passport, they wouldn’t, this is the only difference” , said the woman.
Yassmine’s name was called, the interview started, she was asked a few questions and that wasit. I felt very frustrated; we did not put all this time and effort just for less than fiveminutes, but at least our ‘mission impossible’ was carried out.
It was noon and we had still two hours to go back home. Yassmine wanted to go to al Aqsa Mosque, ” Nowe cannot, that might take one hour from here and we cannot make it to be back in another hour, wehave to reach our house before the curfew otherwise we will have to stay in Jerusalem till thecoming lift of the curfew ” , I had to tell her.
Instead, we decided to get a quick grasp of Jerusalem. We went to the pottery shop crossing thestreet, almost empty. ” It must be difficult now, you have no tourists, I heard some souvenir’sshop in the old city turned into selling Falafel or food stuff ” , I said. ” Yes, this is in generaltrue but we have different kind of tourists not the usual ones, we have visitors fromhumanitarian organizations, journalists and diplomats ” , said the shop owner. While I waschatting with him, I noticed a group of women working in a workshop, this gave me an idea. ” Do youaccept young trainees in your workshop? I have a daughter who finished a ceramic course fromher high school in America and she was the first in a class of twenty students ” , I asked. I hopedhe will accept, that might keep Sireen busy and would not think of this crazy idea of gettingmarried. ” Does she have an American passport? ” , he asked. ” No, only Palestinian, but she canstay in her friend’s house for a month or so ” , I said. ” That will not solve the problem, I am notallowed to hire Palestinians who don’t have Jerusalem ID card otherwise they will fine me andput me in jail ” , he said.
Sireene left us to her friend’s house, she said that she had enough of us and needs to get someair. It was difficult to leave Jerusalem without going to my usual bakery and buy thetraditional ‘ka’ak’, a special kind of bread covered with sesame. Jerusalem lookeddifferent in a way, less people in the streets, lots of poorly looking men in cafes, lots ofpolice, lots of military, less cars and the garage for Ramallah and other cities’ cars was notthere. Another stubborn little boy did not not want to walk with his grandfather, ” O.k, I willleave you here and the soldiers will take you away ” , said the man. What he had said was followedby a hysterical cry from the child who this time sat on the sidewalk refusing to move. I reachedthe bakery, also to see it different, it looks more ‘modern’ now, full of fridges, new tiles andmore expensive prices. The baker too looked different, he had an ear ring in one of his ears,looking so pale and skinny. I used to remember his red face because of the oven’s heat, hissleeveless underwear shirt and the sweat covering his body. I was about to ask him about what Iwant when an old Israeli woman entered the place. He was so busy talking to her sometime inArabic and some other time in Hebrew. I was so close to the woman but could not hear a thing, theywere talking in a mysterious way. The woman was handing out some money but he insisted that itwas not enough. Were they talking about drugs? The idea frightened me and I decided to leavequickly.
No drivers were calling for Ramallah passengers as it used to be before.
I kept asking where are the Ramallah cars standing. ” There are no cars here for Ramallah, onlyto al Ram checkpoint or Kalandia checkpoint ” , said a man. Are these checkpoints replacing thecities? I felt so alienated and again tears started to run.
The cars for Kalandia checkpoint were close to the interior affairs office.
A big crowd of Palestinians were sitting on the sidewalk; some were standing in the burning sunclose to the entrance. In front of the entrance something like a cage similar to the prisoner’scells in Guantanamo in which an Israeli guard was sitting to allow the crowd to enter one by one.Palestinians must come to this miserable place to add their children or their spouse to theirID cards. They also come to this place to get their ” Laissez Passer ” if they want to leave thecountry. ” When is God going to end this humiliation? I am here since 8 in the morning and it isalready 12.30 ” , said an old woman.
We got into a car, but a loud man was saying to the driver, ” Did you take your bill before drivingall these people? ” . ” What bill? ” , I asked him. ” This man could faint while driving if he doesnot get his bill ” , he said. Shall I take what he said seriously or is it just about viciouscompetition? I decided to take the back seat and put Yassmine in the middle, just in case. Iwatched Jerusalem road from my window, more hotels in the way, more walls, and this uglysuspended bridge leading to Jewish settlements. I never saw a suspended bridge with highclosed walls like this; they became obsessed with their security to the point that they cannotenjoy any view around, what a pity.
On the way back a very long line of cars was waiting at al Ram checkpoint, gloomy frustratedfaces inside the cars. They were called one by one. I turned my face and decided to talk to mydaughter. ” Did I talk well in the interview, did I pronounce well, I tried to remember all thespeech therapy I got in English ” , said Yassmine. I wanted to tell her, till when you will keepworrying about your pronunciation, you better worry instead abut getting the visa, butdecided not to talk, I was too tired to argue about anything.
We arrived to Kalandia refugee camp, finally something cheerful, I saw the school’s wallcross the street from the camp like a garden, new red soil, lots of flowers instead of the’usual’ garbage and some people were working in the place and watering the flowers. By oneo’clock we finally arrived to Kalandia checkpoint. I didn’t know if I had to cross thecheckpoint or go through what we call it now ‘Tora Bora’ road, meaning the dirt road. ” No, youcan go directly but not through the soldiers ” , someone said. We walked through a passage fullof garbage and rocks and then I heard the drivers calling, ” Ramallah, Ramallah ” . Finally Iheard the name of the city but only after the checkpoint, not before.
We arrived to al Manarah to see the now daily demonstration after every lift of the curfew; I seethe same usual faces. An Israeli journalist was in the crowd. ” What do you think of the changesin the Palestinian security forces? ” asked a journalist. ” Your security is different thanours. If the changes mean more law abiding and more care for the people, that is good. But, if itmeans more security for you only, thus will lead to more oppression and more restrictions forus. We have to wait and see what side they will take.