August 17, 2003

Ramallah, Palestine.

This morning we worshiped at the Latin Church, happy to be with friendly familiar faces. Today the new deacon, Deacon Imad, preached for his first time. He gave a moving sermon about the eucharist, and how we should not be afraid to partake. Many people, it seems, forego the feast because they feel unworthy and not pure enough; rather than forego, said Deacon Imad, we should partake of the eucharist, and the joy of that offers us strength and transformation to face our weaknesses and sins.

After worship, we caught a shared taxi south. At the first (and now only major) checkpoint between Zababdeh and Qalandia checkpoint (the new transportation center of the West Bank), we stopped and waited. When our turn came, we all turned in our IDs. One of the soldiers, a young man with curly blondish hair, did a double take at our American passports and said, in a New York accent, "So, you're Americans? What are you doing here??"

"What are you doing here?" we asked back.

"Yeah. It's a helluva place to be," he said, handing back our passports. One of the other riders was traveling to Ramallah to see a doctor for a possible kidney stone. "Why does she want to go to Ramallah?"

"To see a doctor; there's a note from the hospital."

"You know what, I'll let her go - because of you," he said, looking at us. We thought we would be on our way, but the soldier took a hard look at our driver's ID. "Ask him where he lives." Marthame complied.

With a vague sweep of the hand, the driver said "Over there."

The soldier went back to talk with another soldier, and our driver let out a heavy sigh. After a moment, the American soldier returned and said, "I'm sorry, but your driver has a fake ID. The rest of you are fine, but he can't go through. You'll have to find another taxi."

Our driver, who is from Zababdeh, had gotten a fake ID to cross that very checkpoint; like the rest of the population, without special permission, he is not allowed to travel out of his home district (but allowed to return to it). So he got an ID listing his home district as on the other side of the checkpoint (hence allowing him to cross it); on the way back, his Zababdeh ID would do the trick. But not today.

He eventually found a driver coming from Qalandia to Jenin; he took their passengers and we crossed with the other driver. Still curious about how drivers manage to get around, we asked this one about how he passes checkpoints. He said he has travel permission because of a job in a factory - a job which of course he doesn't really have. It seems that the entire taxi industry relies on a thin veneer of lies and authorities (when they want) turning a blind eye.

Eventually we made our way back to Ramallah, where we had a nice meal, still feeling a bit raw about the day's events.