Checkpoints I have written about West Bank barrier and the identification needed to cross, but another, critical part of this, are the checkpoints which control the (limited) access through this segregation barrier. In order to cross from the West Bank to Israel (or to Jerusalem), one must pass through the tall, imposing turn-styles, encircled by a network of wire-fences and corridors, filtering people like cattle. At the Bethlehem checkpoint, one enters a warehouse-type building with a tin roof, drowned by bright, white light. On walk-ways above, Israeli soldiers patrol, their hands on their M-16 rifles. This is an oppressing place. The guards checking identification sit the other side of thick, bullet-proof glass, and communicate with the people they are controlling via harsh loudspeakers. Crossing from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, it is sufficient to show identification. Crossing back the other way, there is a metal detector to pass through, and all bags are scanned by an x-ray machine. This can be a humiliating experience. Whilst I waited my turn, a Palestinian man in front of me was forced to remove his trousers—in full sight of everybody present—because something on them was causing the detector to beep. The first time I emerged to the Bethlehem side, I was faced with a long crowd of people, crammed into the wire-fenced walkway, trying to cross to Jerusalem for the Friday prayers at the al-Aqsa mosque. If you are a male with Palestinian ID, you must wait until you are 55 to have authorisation to cross this barrier, and then, only on a Friday. At the Qalandia checkpoint (between Ramallah & Jerusalem), this queuing is a long, slow, arduous affair. On a Friday morning, it can take three hours to cross, in very pushy, cramped conditions. Tempers often flair. The wall & its checkpoints are also having a devastating effect on the economy in Bethlehem. Many people who live here used to work in Jerusalem, but now they are denied the authorisation to cross, and so find themselves without a job. Unemployment is high; in 2008, it was estimated as high as over 60%. (An article from Al Jazeera about Bethlehem’s economy.) Crossing through these places, I feel sub-human, and the treatment I get as a Westerner is vastly improved over that of the Palestinians. This piece of graffiti, from the entrance to the Bethlehem checkpoint, is particularly apt: I am not a terrorist.

Checkpoints

I have written about West Bank barrier and the identification needed to cross, but another, critical part of this, are the checkpoints which control the (limited) access through this segregation barrier.

In order to cross from the West Bank to Israel (or to Jerusalem), one must pass through the tall, imposing turn-styles, encircled by a network of wire-fences and corridors, filtering people like cattle. At the Bethlehem checkpoint, one enters a warehouse-type building with a tin roof, drowned by bright, white light. On walk-ways above, Israeli soldiers patrol, their hands on their M-16 rifles. This is an oppressing place. The guards checking identification sit the other side of thick, bullet-proof glass, and communicate with the people they are controlling via harsh loudspeakers.

Crossing from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, it is sufficient to show identification. Crossing back the other way, there is a metal detector to pass through, and all bags are scanned by an x-ray machine. This can be a humiliating experience. Whilst I waited my turn, a Palestinian man in front of me was forced to remove his trousers—in full sight of everybody present—because something on them was causing the detector to beep.

The first time I emerged to the Bethlehem side, I was faced with a long crowd of people, crammed into the wire-fenced walkway, trying to cross to Jerusalem for the Friday prayers at the al-Aqsa mosque. If you are a male with Palestinian ID, you must wait until you are 55 to have authorisation to cross this barrier, and then, only on a Friday.

At the Qalandia checkpoint (between Ramallah & Jerusalem), this queuing is a long, slow, arduous affair. On a Friday morning, it can take three hours to cross, in very pushy, cramped conditions. Tempers often flair.

The wall & its checkpoints are also having a devastating effect on the economy in Bethlehem. Many people who live here used to work in Jerusalem, but now they are denied the authorisation to cross, and so find themselves without a job. Unemployment is high; in 2008, it was estimated as high as over 60%. (An article from Al Jazeera about Bethlehem’s economy.)

Crossing through these places, I feel sub-human, and the treatment I get as a Westerner is vastly improved over that of the Palestinians.
This piece of graffiti, from the entrance to the Bethlehem checkpoint, is particularly apt: I am not a terrorist.

Dome of the Rock This Islamic shrine, part of the al-Aqsa complex, is the oldest Islamic building in the world, and one of the most holy sites in Islam outside of Saudi Arabia. I had seen pictures of it adorning the walls in the houses of many Muslim families that I have met whilst on this trip, although to the majority of them, they will never be able to visit it. For me, the blue tiles & intricate calligraphy brought back memories of the mosques of Esfahan in Iran, my first real experience of a Muslim country. Israeli police patrol inside the site, and it is only accessible to non-Muslims for an hour a day. Access is via the same complex as the Western Wall, one of Judaism’s most important sites. If you are Muslim, access is limited by other means. Most citizens of Arab countries would not be able to visit it due to the travel restrictions surrounding Israel. If you fall into the category of a Palestinian holding Israeli ID, then you can live in, or travel to, Jerusalem (and therefore access the al-Aqsa complex). However, Israeli police do sometimes limit access to the site; just the other day, the Old City itself was closed to Palestinians. Israelis and tourists were allowed to enter. For Palestinians holding Palestinian ID, things get a little more complicated. Access to Jerusalem from the West Bank involves crossing a checkpoint, due to the existence of the (illegal) separation wall. To cross this checkpoint, one must have the right papers. Authorisation to travel to Jerusalem is often granted for Fridays only — the holy day for Muslims. For males to obtain this authorisation, they must be 55 years old. And once authorisation has been gained, there is the issue of actually traveling there. On a Friday, the queues at the checkpoints surrounding Jerusalem are horrendous, as people try to reach their place of prayer. Qalandia—the checkpoint between Ramallah and Jerusalem—in particular, is a very unpleasant experience. People often queue for hours, in a very hot, pushy, humiliating environment.

Dome of the Rock

This Islamic shrine, part of the al-Aqsa complex, is the oldest Islamic building in the world, and one of the most holy sites in Islam outside of Saudi Arabia. I had seen pictures of it adorning the walls in the houses of many Muslim families that I have met whilst on this trip, although to the majority of them, they will never be able to visit it. For me, the blue tiles & intricate calligraphy brought back memories of the mosques of Esfahan in Iran, my first real experience of a Muslim country.

Israeli police patrol inside the site, and it is only accessible to non-Muslims for an hour a day. Access is via the same complex as the Western Wall, one of Judaism’s most important sites. If you are Muslim, access is limited by other means. Most citizens of Arab countries would not be able to visit it due to the travel restrictions surrounding Israel. If you fall into the category of a Palestinian holding Israeli ID, then you can live in, or travel to, Jerusalem (and therefore access the al-Aqsa complex). However, Israeli police do sometimes limit access to the site; just the other day, the Old City itself was closed to Palestinians. Israelis and tourists were allowed to enter.

For Palestinians holding Palestinian ID, things get a little more complicated. Access to Jerusalem from the West Bank involves crossing a checkpoint, due to the existence of the (illegal) separation wall. To cross this checkpoint, one must have the right papers. Authorisation to travel to Jerusalem is often granted for Fridays only — the holy day for Muslims. For males to obtain this authorisation, they must be 55 years old.

And once authorisation has been gained, there is the issue of actually traveling there. On a Friday, the queues at the checkpoints surrounding Jerusalem are horrendous, as people try to reach their place of prayer. Qalandia—the checkpoint between Ramallah and Jerusalem—in particular, is a very unpleasant experience. People often queue for hours, in a very hot, pushy, humiliating environment.

To the West Bank I hesitated about going to the West Bank. The territories are still under occupation by Israel, thus making me question the ethics of my going there, and I also wondered what my Palestinian friends thought about people visiting “their” country. I had met many Palestinians living in neighbouring states, their families having left in 1948, 1967 etc. How do they view foreigners, like me, visiting the country to which they themselves do not have the right to travel? I questioned friends about this, and whilst they were frustrated that they could not cross that border, they encouraged me to go and see what the situation was like there. It was also complicated by the fact that if my passport got stamped, or there was any trace of travel to “Occupied Palestine” (as the visa forms of Arab states tend to term it), a fatal blow would be struck to my plans to travel through Africa via Sudan. The Allenby/King Hussein border crossing between Jordan and the West Bank provides a solution to this. It is the West Bank’s only “international” border, linking it to Jordan. Here, the Jordanians do not stamp passports, and whilst it is the Israelis who still maintain control over the Palestinian Territories’ borders, it is possible to have their visa issued on a separate sheet of paper. My passport, however, would do little to enamour me to the Israeli border officials. It contained visas from their three greatest enemies: Iran, Lebanon & Syria. I was, therefore, expecting a lot of questioning and was prepared for the event that they may not let me enter. I had spoken to several friends who had made this same crossing, and who had tales of hours spent being questioned, a thorough examination of luggage, and strip-searches by less-than-friendly officials. References to Palestinians in my diary were therefore ripped-out, “Arab” names from my phone were deleted, I offered any books discussing the occupation to friends in Syria, and prepared myself for the questioning. And not without reason. Following the presentation of my passport at the window, I was asked to step-aside, and somebody would come to speak to me. I waited. I forwent the strip-search, but I was subject to a rather arduous interview—I hesitate to use the word “interrogation”— where I was asked what I had been doing in those other countries, what I would be doing in Israel and whether I planned on visiting the West Bank. I was tempted to point-out that it would be difficult to step outside of the building without going into the West Bank; the territory, as defined under international law, stretches from here to East Jerusalem. But I held my tongue. So, what books did I have in my bag? (I’d kept only the novels.) Did I have any relating to Palestine? (“Well, the Lonely Planet discusses the region”, I naïvely proffered.) What were you doing in Syria for three months? (This & that.) What were my political opinions on the situation? (I feigned total ignorance.) Did I have any Palestinian friends? (Who?) And again, was I planning on visiting the West Bank? (No, sir.) Are you sure? (Yes, sir.) I felt like a dirty liar, but I had to play the game. Their game. When they finally granted me leave to enter the country, I felt that this was not the end. There is an overwhelming sense of surveillance and mistrust in the place. The smooth, air-conditioned ride in the minibus from Allenby to Jerusalem on well-maintained roads seemed a world away from my habitual shared-taxis and servees buses bumping along pot-holed roads. Approaching East Jerusalem the bus stopped at heavily guarded check-point and my documents checked. There was very little difference in this from my experience of approaching Beirut, where it was the Lebanese army who were leafing through my passport. Just that the Israelis bore more fire-power, and their uniform was more smartly pressed. That, and the fact they they were breaking international law. The Lebanese had a right to be stood on their road.

To the West Bank

I hesitated about going to the West Bank. The territories are still under occupation by Israel, thus making me question the ethics of my going there, and I also wondered what my Palestinian friends thought about people visiting “their” country. I had met many Palestinians living in neighbouring states, their families having left in 1948, 1967 etc. How do they view foreigners, like me, visiting the country to which they themselves do not have the right to travel?

I questioned friends about this, and whilst they were frustrated that they could not cross that border, they encouraged me to go and see what the situation was like there.

It was also complicated by the fact that if my passport got stamped, or there was any trace of travel to “Occupied Palestine” (as the visa forms of Arab states tend to term it), a fatal blow would be struck to my plans to travel through Africa via Sudan.

The Allenby/King Hussein border crossing between Jordan and the West Bank provides a solution to this. It is the West Bank’s only “international” border, linking it to Jordan. Here, the Jordanians do not stamp passports, and whilst it is the Israelis who still maintain control over the Palestinian Territories’ borders, it is possible to have their visa issued on a separate sheet of paper.

My passport, however, would do little to enamour me to the Israeli border officials. It contained visas from their three greatest enemies: Iran, Lebanon & Syria. I was, therefore, expecting a lot of questioning and was prepared for the event that they may not let me enter. I had spoken to several friends who had made this same crossing, and who had tales of hours spent being questioned, a thorough examination of luggage, and strip-searches by less-than-friendly officials.

References to Palestinians in my diary were therefore ripped-out, “Arab” names from my phone were deleted, I offered any books discussing the occupation to friends in Syria, and prepared myself for the questioning. And not without reason. Following the presentation of my passport at the window, I was asked to step-aside, and somebody would come to speak to me.

I waited.

I forwent the strip-search, but I was subject to a rather arduous interview—I hesitate to use the word “interrogation”— where I was asked what I had been doing in those other countries, what I would be doing in Israel and whether I planned on visiting the West Bank. I was tempted to point-out that it would be difficult to step outside of the building without going into the West Bank; the territory, as defined under international law, stretches from here to East Jerusalem. But I held my tongue.

So, what books did I have in my bag? (I’d kept only the novels.) Did I have any relating to Palestine? (“Well, the Lonely Planet discusses the region”, I naïvely proffered.) What were you doing in Syria for three months? (This & that.) What were my political opinions on the situation? (I feigned total ignorance.) Did I have any Palestinian friends? (Who?) And again, was I planning on visiting the West Bank? (No, sir.) Are you sure? (Yes, sir.)

I felt like a dirty liar, but I had to play the game. Their game. When they finally granted me leave to enter the country, I felt that this was not the end. There is an overwhelming sense of surveillance and mistrust in the place.

The smooth, air-conditioned ride in the minibus from Allenby to Jerusalem on well-maintained roads seemed a world away from my habitual shared-taxis and servees buses bumping along pot-holed roads.

Approaching East Jerusalem the bus stopped at heavily guarded check-point and my documents checked. There was very little difference in this from my experience of approaching Beirut, where it was the Lebanese army who were leafing through my passport. Just that the Israelis bore more fire-power, and their uniform was more smartly pressed. That, and the fact they they were breaking international law. The Lebanese had a right to be stood on their road.