October 8, 2003

We got up early this morning and hurried to the bridge only to wait two hours until the bus left for the Israeli side. Once there, the old system of two tracks - one Palestinian and one international - has been changed. Though internationals still get preferable treatment, the wait begins in line with Palestinians trying to cross back home. We were through the border checks in less than an hour, no doubt several hours faster than the sea of Palestinians waiting there.

We caught a shared taxi back to Jerusalem, where we met up with our friend Andrea who is here to help us with filming. No sooner had we met up with her than we learned by chance that Fr. Aktham was in Jerusalem. Having only room for two, he took Elizabeth and Andrea in the car along with our luggage while Marthame determined to make his way and meet up with everyone back in Zababdeh.

Checking with the Jenin-Ramallah drivers, things sounded iffy at best. No one was being allowed out of Jenin, but some folks were being allowed back in. Sharon's cabinet is meeting to decide what to do about the Haifa bombing, and Israeli Jews are in the midst of several religious feasts.

Marthame caught the shared taxi from Jerusalem to Ramallah, but just outside of Beit Hanina, the traffic just stopped. Marthame assumed it was because of a checkpoint, and got out to walk - it's usually faster. He arrived at the front of the traffic jam to find hundreds of Palestinians trying to go both ways and about a dozen Israeli soldiers blocking their path. Past experience shows that internationals can often remain invisible in such situations, so Marthame tried to cross.

"I'm going to my church. Here's my clergy visa." No way. He tried another soldier. Again, no way. He waited a few minutes, trying to figure out what other options there might be - Qalandia is the center for all West Bank access, and it seemed shut off. Marthame tried one more time, remembering the advice of an NGO worker: the Israelis can't prevent you from going somewhere unless they can't guarantee your safety from their side. Or unless there's a written military order. With this confidence, Marthame tried again. The soldier had run out of patience at this point, taking his gun across Marthame's chest and shoving him back into the crowds. Everyone watched silently as this international was helpless against the Israeli military. What's to be done? Swallow pride and go spend the night in Jerusalem? Go for a Plan B, C, D? Call the embassy and complain of rough treatment from the Israeli military? Try again? See if there's a way around? Such are the options that face people daily and hourly.

Marthame waited for a few minutes with school children trying to go home, others simply trying to pass for one reason or another. The soldiers began to get rough with the crowd, shoving and grabbing children and older people. It wouldn't be long before somebody would lose their patience with all of this and it would turn uglier than it was, so Marthame retreated and started walking back towards Jerusalem. Until there's a collective Palestinian sense that enough is enough, and that massive, popular resistance can be powerful and effective - as in struggles for civil rights in the US, against apartheid in South Africa, independence in India - there's nothing to do but swallow it.

Marthame found a grocery store, parched by this time, and asked about taking an Israeli-plated taxi up to the Hamra checkpoint. From there, he would either meet up with Fr. Aktham and Elizabeth, or jump in a Palestinian taxi, or keep the Israeli taxi and try to get in through the north. Anything was possible.

Upon arriving at Hamra, he found Fr. Aktham's car still waiting and heard their story. "Seger! [closed]" they had been told. Fr. Aktham's attempts to explain that we had permission to pass had been met with shouts of "Back off!" the only English these soldiers seemed to know. Fr. Aktham backed up and called the military District Coordinating Office (DCO) and was told he had permission to pass and that things would be sorted out soon.

After getting updated, Marthame paid his driver and sent him off, deciding it would be better to try his fate with Fr. Aktham. Should he fail, the next option was less clear - there are no Israeli taxis around here to take back to Jerusalem, and the car only has room for five passengers - Fr. Aktham, Elizabeth, Andrea, and two of the Rosary Sisters. As soon as Marthame arrived, the soldiers began to berate us again. "Seger! Go away. Back off!"

Then Marthame spotted one of the soldiers from his last time here, one who had been somewhat helpful. This time, however, he had other plans in mind. "Ah, you're a priest. You can't pass. Go away." For the next three hours, we waited. Elizabeth embroidered, the soldiers came and told up to move the car farther from the checkpoint, the sisters chatted, we all stretched our legs, the soldiers told us to go farther away, Fr. Aktham called the DCO again, one sister tried to take a nap.

Having the gall to enjoy ourselves while waiting at the Israeli checkpoint.

We decided to eat, then, setting out various salads (hummus, baba ganoush, Greek salad, parsley/tahini salad, cucumber yogurt salad, which Elizabeth had bought just before leaving Jerusalem) on Fr. Aktham's trunk. A nice day for a picnic, we joked. Somehow this really upset the soldiers, who came back, threatening us that they would close the checkpoint altogether if we didn't back up even further (we were already several hundred meters from them). One soldier threatened to hit Fr. Aktham, another told one of the Sisters to shut up. We've had better treatment.

Repeated calls to the DCO were met by bafflement. "You're still there? I gave them the order to let you pass!" The sun went down, fewer and fewer cars arrived, and options for getting back were fewer and fewer as well. Finally, a Palestinian walked over to us from the checkpoint: "The soldiers want you." We piled in the car with relief and approached the checkpoint. We were met by a soldier who fortunately spoke fluent English.

"You called us up?"

"Yes. It's closed. Go away."

"You called us up to tell us it's closed? But the DCO assured us we can pass!"

"I don't have any orders."

"Here. Talk to him."

"I don't talk to anyone on the phone. Only by radio. You'll have to wait back there."

"Why can't we wait here? You'll get the order in a few minutes."

"You can't wait here. It's a checkpoint. Go back there."

"OK. Now you're playing games with us."

"You think I'm playing games, bro?"

"At least let us wait next to that truck there."

"Behind that barrier. You can wait there."

After fifteen minutes, we were called forward again, and our trunk was searched. Soldiers don't mind having an extra passenger - that's police business, and beyond this checkpoint there are no police, so Elizabeth sat on Marthame's lap in an already crowded back seat.

"How long will you stay in Zababdeh? A few days?"

"Yes. Can we pass from here tomorrow or the day after?"

"This checkpoint is closed until we finish."

Those last words rang in our ears as we made the final stretch of our journey. Finish what? Where? Why?

We made it home twelve hours after our morning journey began, to discover that the electricity is out. This has been happening three or four times a day for the past few weeks. We decided to go up to the University to catch up with the ex-pats there and to also borrow their electricity (they have a back-up generator) to charge our electrical devices just in case. We're all wondering what the coming days will bring.