“I would not do that if I were you,” says Maha tightly, as I reveal a small camera. She has generously offered to guide me from Bethlehem to the Old City in Jerusalem for a day of shopping, via one of the main Israeli check points, and her tone indicates a small betrayal.
Around us is a hard press of olive-skinned Palestinians, eight deep and two-hundred strong, waiting in unnatural silence. They are dressed cleanly, modestly and in dark shades. Most are somber-faced men. Some of the women have their heads covered, many do not. A few tote children, taking care to keep them quiet.
High above in the ceiling void stamp two Israeli soldiers on a steel grate. Their footsteps echo harshly in the small hall. They brandish assault rifles at their hips and yell down a flood of angry Arabic, herding us through barriers seemingly designed for cattle.
Abruptly, the checkpoint is shut. A mutter of discontent stirs through the crowd. I desperately want to film but I stow the camera at Maha’s words; exposure would place her under unnecessary scrutiny.
She is a child of the occupation and speaks flawless Hebrew – self-taught by watching Israeli cartoons – as well as her native Arabic. Making me feel even more inadequate, she is also fluent in English and German. She is calm and cynical but not bitter. An Arab, she has the slim face and stately nose of a Palestinian but unusually green-grey eyes and light brown hair curls she wears in a careless ponytail, which combined with her smooth Hebrew will have mistaken for an Israeli once in Jerusalem. It is a mistake she rarely bothers to correct. She moves seamlessly between two cultures and in an ideal world her skills would be utilised for reconciliation. Instead, the fragility of the Palestinian economy means she is lucky to work part time in hotel reception.
Today, she hopes to indulge her obsession for handbags, spices and her profound need to walk in the Old City. Her newly approved papers are valid for just two weeks and work commitments mean she can cross twice in that time, provided nothing goes wrong.
Above us, the soldier waves the assault rifle – a weapon that appears designed for a rapid burst of effectiveness rather than accuracy. He hovers four metres above us on the metal grating, and the weapon slung at his hip is angled down by default, waving disturbingly in our direction. We stand shoulder to shoulder so there is no way to evade its arc.
Belatedly, I notice he is not the archetypal Israeli army man; he has intensely black skin and his Arabic sounds heavily accented compared to the dialects I have been hearing.
“Is he African?” I hiss.
“He is an Ethiopian Jew. They get the worst jobs in the army.”
My bemusement shows and Maha nods to the sea of Arab faces behind her.
“Their grandmothers and grandfathers are from here, their families for generations. They don’t understand either.”
We arrived early to beat the crowds and after nearly half an hour are nearing the front. However, the soldier is ordering a swathe of us to move to a small gap on the left and effectively out of the queue. I move to obey but she grabs my arm.
“No, it is our turn. Do not step out.”
Around us, others refuse also.
“What is happening?” I whisper confused.
“That man,” she nods to a Palestinian with an ugly expression less than a metre from us, explaining why the soldier’s gesticulations with the rifle are centering on us, “has pushed through from the back. They want him to step out.”
The Palestinian sneers defiantly, chin raised, as though others should be proud of his show of resistance. It begins a standoff. I wait nervously, expecting the soldier to enter the crowd however he remains on the steel grill. It soon becomes clear the Palestinians are expected to expel the leering man from their own ranks.
The atmosphere is volatile. Eventually, someone will have to do something. And that is how we wait for fifteen minutes until, eventually, someone does.
_____________
I am in the West Bank because I am Palestinian-Australian and in response to ‘Visit Palestine’, a humanitarian tourism campaign. And despite the nightmarish situation in places like Gaza and Hebron, the campaign is underpinned by a surprisingly robust events calendar.
In addition to a myriad of religious tours to breath-taking vistas such as the Holy Sepulchre, an eco-tourism market is burgeoning with initiatives such as ‘Walk Palestine’ and ‘Ride Palestine’. In Ramallah you can order a soy latte that would be considered great in Sydney and good in Melbourne. The dirty urban gallery of the Separation Wall features thousands of graffiti works, including many by Banksy. Staggeringly, there is an Oktoberfest, held annually at the West Bank’s only brewery, and, in a strategic masterstroke, The Palestinian Festival of Literature is toured through the labyrinth of checkpoints to a people increasingly unable to travel; the mountain going to Mohamed so to speak.
Yet just as important is experiencing the oppressive checkpoint bureaucracy that Palestinians suffer daily. The check points are ostensibly a security measure that also slows and prevents human movement and subsequently the Palestinian economy.
So even as I question my presence here in Bethlehem, I remain fascinated by the standoff which is eventually broken by the outrage of a man immediately on our right. He is tall, early 30s. Stubble and bags tell a story of near exhaustion however he also has an air of authority.
Suddenly we are in the middle of a loud verbal altercation, the gestures and demands of the two men too quick and too close for Maha to translate. It makes depressing viewing; one Palestinian man imbibed with a natural and ugly violence, the other forced into a confrontation he did not seek but is compelled to end.
Maha tenses, her agile mind most-likely plotting a rapid response for us both. Around us, deep in the throng, Palestinians hold themselves taller, poised like deer. Their awareness has shifted from the soldiers to the immediate threat among us.
At first queuing was like playing a game, being part of a resistance, now I realize how quickly things could go sour given we are within an arm span of both men. The only exit for the 200-strong crowd is back through a two-person wide steel and barbed wire tunnel to the outside.
There is a shift in power and under the increasingly violent gesticulations and outraged demands of the authoritative man the sneering Palestinian finally concedes ground.
The checkpoint reopens and the queue surges forward, yet almost immediately the leering man who was the reason for the closure pushes before Maha and I, beating us to the checkpoint. The soldier watches wordlessly, rendering the tension of the last fifteen minutes pointless.
On the other side of the checkpoint, under grey skies I sigh with relief.
Maha has long forgotten the incident. She smiles, misconstruing my concern.
“Forty-five minutes. That was actually quite quick.”
By day Michelle Coleman works high in the trees at a zip-trek park in the Dandenongs, but by night she freelances and writes teen fiction, which she hopes to have published on day. She thinks you can learn a lot about a person by their favourite books; hers are Vernon Gold Little, Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow, The Catcher in the Rye and the Harry Potters. If you haven’t read them, don’t tell her because she will insist you share the experience. She recently gave up caffeine only to find she still maintains a raging coffee-shop addiction. Her bandwagons include human rights in the Middle East, dying with dignity/Exit International and removing religious teachings from school curriculum. She enjoys rock climbing with her partner Paul and endlessly tormenting him.
michelle.coleman_melb@hotmail.com