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On this Palestinian
Independence Day I decide to take a break and go and visit the zoo
in Jerusalem together with the children. Mary, who of course
cannot join because she doesn’t have a permit or a foreign
passport-with-a-three-month visa as I do, puts fruits in the bag
for me and for Jara and Tamer. Should we put a knife in the bag,
to cut the fruits? Better not to have an iron knife, but a plastic
one, we think, because the soldiers at the checkpoint may become
suspicious. I make a quick check on the Internet to see whether
there are problems to be expected on the road. The Bethlehem taxi
driver tells us that today the new terminal is in use. We approach
not a checkpoint but rather something that resembles an
international border. The people had heard that it would open one
of these days. Ironically it happened on Independence Day. For
sure no coincidence. As if the message is: If you want to have
your independence, we will be happy to grant you that by
establishing an international border and lock you up.
I count four inspection moments. First, at the gate in the Wall,
where a soldier checks whether I have a passport. I wave it. Then
we enter, through iron corridors, into the terminal itself. We
pass a glass booth where a soldier quickly checks the passport. A
Palestinian woman wants to enter a revolving fence but does not
have a tasreeh [permit]. A rather loud-speaking soldier at the
other side of the fence refuses her entry. The kids and I pass,
somewhat overwhelmed by all the iron and stone around us and by
the huge size of the hall. It reminds of Eretz at the Israeli
entry to Gaza. Months ago I read in Haaretz about an army
representative who stated that the terminal would make it possible
for people to wait quietly, without being disturbed by heat or
rain, and that toilet facilities would be available. Indeed, we
pass by male and female toilets. Everywhere huge signs that people
should keep the place clean. The hall is a combination of iron
revolving gates, corridors and high roofs, and big and small
signs. We are waiting for some minutes in front of another
revolving fence with a red light on top of it. Through the fence
we watch a Palestinian trying to understand the Hebrew-spoken
orders of a female soldier. She apparently wants him to take his
belt off. Or is it his shoes? She speaks through a loudspeaker
from behind glass. The loudspeaker speaks very loud, with an echo
due to the size of the hall. Like at Eretz, the feeling is that
cattle rather than humans are inspected. Although not quite,
because of this emphasis upon cleanliness. But modern cattle
places are also rather clean, I ponder. How will the place look
like after some months? Another woman links up to the queue. She
giggles nervously. Usually people waiting at checkpoints are angry
or passive but the iron and technology and size are so
overwhelming here that they must primarily feel themselves out of
place. Jara starts panicking because we forgot to take the bag
with apples and now she thinks that the soldiers will ask us why
we are bringing a knife without fruits. The light turns green and
we pass the revolving door. The soldier lowers her voice when she
sees me and Jara, with Tamer on my arm. I remember that long ago
Mary used to try to enter checkpoints with baby Jara on her arm,
so as to soften the soldiers’ mood. That now looks an almost
romantic past. No way that you could talk yourself here through. I
put my things in my bag which is X-rayed. “Don’t bring your hand
too close to the bag,” the soldier warns. She is perhaps
instructed to be strict during this first day of the opening of
the terminal. Jara is relieved that the plastic knife stays hidden
in the bag. Through the loudspeaker the soldier tells me “Have a
nice day,” but much too loud. That is the third time to hear this,
I count. Everything is here out of place and out of proportion. We
then go to inspection point number four. The passport goes through
the glass window and is thoroughly looked upon from all sides.
Have a nice day, we hear again, mechanically. Relieved we walk out
of the terminal. Jara pulls my arm and whispers in my ear that she
sees a soldier doing pee-pee behind a pillar. She giggles and asks
why he is doing so. Don’t they learn to go to a toilet?
On the way to the zoo Jara gasps at the greenery alongside the
roads. How beautiful it is here, she exclaims. When walking
through the zoo, the comparison with the terminal presses itself
upon me. The various sections in the zoo are small-scale, human,
diverse, and clean. The play garden hosts imaginative stone
animals with two heads and other funny features. Animals walk
freely in the children’s zoo. You can breath, there is no tension.
When there are some Israelis next to me watching the animals, and
Jara and Tamer are shouting in Arabic, I feel a little tensed, as
if this is not the right place to talk Arabic loudly. Don’t think
stupidly, I tell myself. But this time there are more
Arabic-speaking people in the zoo, it seems. The zoo in fact
advertises that it is a meeting place for Jews of all different
backgrounds as well as for Arabs. That is, Arabs from Jerusalem
and Israel. I remember that half a year ago or so I talked with a
headmaster of a school in a West Bank village near the Israeli
border. Her village is going to be located on the wrong side of
the Wall – hemmed in between the Wall and the Green Line. She said
that the Israelis had approached the Palestinians to give school
classes in the village the opportunity to take the train that runs
along that village once a day in order to visit the zoo. A nice
offer but, I suppose, intended mainly for propaganda purposes and
photo opportunities, so as to show that Palestinian kids affected
by the Wall don’t suffer too much. I frankly sympathized with the
negative response. Palestinians need rights, not favors.
On the way back from the zoo to the Bethlehem terminal, the
Israeli taxi driver says that he cannot put on the meter because
the area towards the checkpoint is not within the boundaries of
Jerusalem. It’s a trick to get more money. I hear myself arguing
that at least according to Israeli law the checkpoint area is very
much within the boundaries of Jerusalem, and that he therefore
should put on the meter. I feel hopelessly hypocritical; after
all, both the zoo and the terminal are on lands of Beit Jala and
Bethlehem, that is, West Bank lands, not Jerusalem lands.
Then back home through the terminal. The kids and I now know where
to go. I talk a little with the soldiers so as to make the
atmosphere less hostile for the children. After going through the
Wall gate, I turn around and see a huge painting on the Wall,
showing an American lion with dollar signs and oil installations
on its skin. It devours a Palestinian lamb. Next day I hear from
Palestinians that they were waiting at the new border for 1.5 hour
and also that tourist groups were separated from Palestinians.
Soon Bethlehem will be enclosed by the Wall on three sides – the
north, the south and west – with the desert on the east.
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