A R C H I V E S
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| daily life |
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| mwishka |
| 06/26/02 at 10:01:16 |
| someone from the trip i went on just sent me this. even one of these stories is too many........and the number of them in just a single day is nearly infinite.... mwishka ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This was sent to me by a friend who is currently spending the summer in the West Bank doing some Humanitarian Work...She wanted me to pass this along to people so they know what kind of daily struggles the Palestinians have. ************************************************************************************************ My trip home from work was a typical one, or so it seemed. Walking towards the checkpoint, I realized that such walks had become ritualistic. Today there were a lot of people trying to get through the checkpoint, to get from the West Bank to east Jerusalem. As I was walking to the checkpoint, I noticed a man with his three children, two of the most beautiful little girls and a baby. The girls were wearing little summer dresses, hats, and tennis shoes. They looked liked they belonged anywhere other than a checkpoint surrounded by armed Israeli soldiers. We all got in line, to clear the checkpoint. I heard someone speak in Arabic; today they have an Ethiopian handling the checkpoint. I turned to the man, and asked him in Arabic what he meant by his comment (I had already heard rumors that the Ethiopian Israeli Jews were some of the cruelest and most brutal soldiers), he responded that the Ethiopians were the dirtiest (this does not translate well so bear with me because I do not want to change the content) in their treatment of Palestinians. In the line was a father and son, the young boy looked as if he was 12 or 13 years old. The young boy turned to his father and said, “Father I forgot my birth certificate.” The father responded, “Don’t worry my son, I will take care of it. It has been a while since I had an argument with the border police, it is about time for another-otherwise things would not be normal.” I looked with wonder at the father, who was prepared to take on the ruthless Israeli solders to protect his son. I began to prepare myself for the inevitable argument with the border police and my intervention on the boy’s behalf. Surprisingly, the soldier looked at our documents and allowed us to pass without much hassle. As I passed the checkpoint, I noticed a woman and a man talking with a couple soldiers on the side. They held her Green Id. Card (Green Id. Cards are given to all Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza) and permits giving her permission to travel to Jerusalem. They said that her documentation was not in order, and she looked so broken hearted. It is a look one often sees in this country, a look of desperation, despair, helplessness, and ultimately a broken spirit. I could not bear to look at her. I walked on to catch a taxi; taxies here are white-ford vans (very similar to the old Ford Arostar). Palestinians have abandoned the use of personal automobiles as their primary mode of transportation, because cars have become a burden and traveling by foot from checkpoint to checkpoint is faster. I walked about 20 feet from the checkpoint and got into a taxi. Once the taxi was full, we began to move forward. Someone came to warn us that the Israeli soldiers had set up another checkpoint for all taxies about 20 feet ahead of the previous checkpoint, and the soldiers were confiscating cab keys. Naively, the driver believed the soldiers would not stop us, since we had just passed the security of a checkpoint. The road was composed of two lanes: an army jeep blocked the right lane, and the left lane was open to the occasional traffic, which cleared the checkpoint we had just crossed. We were in the left lane; we saw a row of taxicabs that had been stopped. A soldier roared stop in Arabic and Hebrew, he bashed the van with his Uzi gun and kicked it with his boot, and raised and aimed his gun at the van full of innocent civilians and placed his finger on the trigger. The driver slowed down the van and maneuvered it directly ahead of the army jeep. The soldier, gun still aimed and hand on the trigger, approached the van and attempted to roughly pull the driver out of the seat, but the seatbelt acted as a barrier. When it was unsnapped, the soldier violently grabbed the taxi driver by his shirt, and forcefully removed the poor innocent driver from the van. The soldier violently threw the driver against the van, had the window not been opened, the poor driver’s face would have shattered the glass. The soldier slapped and hit the driver on his head, he than raised his Uzi gun and placed it at the base of the frightened cab drivers neck. Appalled and furious, I began to speak up, however the soldier decided that he had had enough play, and walked to hassle another cab driver, but not before he confiscated the keys. Another soldier came to the van, he did not interrogate all the passengers, rather only the Muslim girls who were wearing Jilbhabs (A long dress) and hijab (head coverings). Most of the passengers knew that I was American, and they were really worried about me. The passengers amazed me, ruthless Israeli soldiers were terrorizing us and they showed concern and compassion for a stranger among them. One man, who could have been in his mid to late 40’s, told me in Arabic don’t be scared my daughter this is part of our daily lives. Everyone in the cab, began to mummer that yes indeed this happens everyday. Another said in Arabic “Hatha Al-Hiat” “This is life”. My heart began to break for these people; I wanted to cry because they seemed to be immune to the terror I had experienced. To them it was routine rather than brutal behavior. As the soldiers walked away, the nice older gentleman told me look here my daughter. I turned as he raised the pants on his left leg, and saw a huge bruise with dry blood, and what looked to be a very serious wound that could have been hours or a day old, I could not tell. He told me that some Israeli soldiers had done this to him, beatings are now part of the daily routine. I did not know how to respond I was horrified, outraged, and saddened. Again, I wanted to start crying, but I could not because the beautiful people I shared a cab with, acted with so much courage and dignity. We waited in the cab for ten minutes, but the soldiers did not return with the keys. The passengers began to get out and walk. People asked me if I knew how to get home, and wanted to help me. I told them I was fine. The last ten minutes had robbed the driver, a young Palestinian, of his dignity. He could not do anything to defend himself against the brutal behavior of the Israeli soldier; for fear of being shot. The people who went through the humiliation and degradation of passing through the checkpoint were forced to face another humiliation. They were all forced to walk to their destinations. Although the Israeli soldiers may attempt to use security as a defense for their behavior, such is a weak argument since all the passengers had cleared at least one checkpoint if not two. On the contrary, the soldiers’ actions are part of the Israeli government’s strategy to make life intolerable for the Palestinian people. As I began my walk home, I thought of the children I saw at the checkpoint. A young boy had to worry about crossing the checkpoint and the consequences of forgetting his birth certificate. I thought of my brother, an eleven year old, who is in Michigan enjoying his childhood playing baseball and football. Then I thought of the little girls I had seen at the checkpoint with their father. I prayed and hoped that they were speared the ghastly scene I had experienced; yet I doubted it. I began to cry, because the innocence of another Palestinian child had been shattered. |
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