Occupation 101 - Meet the Israeli army

Eleven P.M., at the infamous ‘Container’ checkpoint on the Bethlehem-Ramallah road.

Two soldiers. The first, early thirties, appears to be over-compensating for many, many things;the second, barely out of puberty, is still struggling with his pimples.

Let’s call them... Grumpy, and Dopey. (Ou Grincheux et Simplet, pour nous autres petits francos!).

Mona at the wheel, me riding in the passenger seat. As we line up behind other cars, waiting for their Highnesses to usher us to approach, we switch the cars’ lights off. Headlights are to Israeli soldiers what a red cape is to a wounded Spanish bull.

Grumpy flashes his white flashlight into my eyes. Says something in Hebrew which I totally miss.

“What?”

He sighs.

“Me eifo atem?” (where are you from?).

None of your mama’s fucking business, is my first impulse. I smile as I think of that answer.

Mona promptly answers before I say anything stupid. “We’re from Ramallah, and we’re travelling back to Ramallah”.

He sighs. Says “Hawiyya” (I.D.). I hand him my passport, open on the visa page - I am foreigner and have a diplomatic ‘service’ visa.

The flashlight is off my eyes for a few seconds, then back to me - then back to the same visa, as if Grumpy was hoping my valid visa would’ve been a mere illusion and that he’d get to play a little longer.

Light back to me - I’m getting used to it by now - then Grumpy decides to flip through my passport (which, with my passport, generally takes a while.)

Grumpy is still grumpy, muffling something in Russian to Dopey.

(hmm, so they’re Russians? And THEY are fucking checking ME? Irony...)

“Me eifo ata?” (where are you from?) asks Dopey, pointing at my passport.

“Egypt”, with a big smile, also pointing at my passport.

The passport open at what must be my entry stamp, Grumpy mumbles to Dopey “something something something Ben Gurion”, of the name of the Tel Aviv airport. Upset I got a permit to travel through Israeli soil, perhaps?

Dopey whispers a question back - still in Russian, pointing behind his back.

Now acquainted with the flashlight, I notice a dozen of Palestinians, standing in the street, as the soldiers keep them waiting indefinitely. Suggesting that I join them, perhaps?

Ok. I’m getting tired. It was fun for the first three minutes, but Israeli soldiers are just so devoid of imagination it gets boring. I get my UN ID out.

“I work for the United Nations. Ani oved ba-OUM”. (‘OUM’ is the acronym for OUmot Meyouchadot, United Nations in Hebrew). Grumpy directs his flashlight to my ID.

Simpleton’s whisper displays a tiny bit of anxiety (I’m guessing their orders are to NOT hassle internationals? You don’t want the world to know think the Israeli army are racist pricks..) and he points behind his back, now down the road.

Grumpy is still, well, grumpy (this nickname suits him so well!) and eventually hands me down my passport. Actually, he THROWS IT in my lap. Hijo de puta.

“Go”.

We take off.

Now here's the thing. I'm shielded from that nonsense when I travel in white cars with large initials inscribed on the hood. And even when I’m in a bus, the soldiers who check my ID are unintelligent but they’re generally more bored than rude.

I cannot imagine having to go through the above experience twice a day, though.
Nor seeing this happen to my father as I am forced to shut up, in fear of receiving the butt of a rifle in the jaw.

You can get used to the presence of a Wall separating you from your field of olives. To the presence of a Jews-only highway on that very field. Perhaps even to losing a child, or the use of both your legs. And so on. We get used to one-off injustices, as awful as they may be: our power to adapt is surprising. (and they are counting on it).

But it’s the repetitive, never-ending never things that you never get used to. And when all hell breaks loose - it’s going to be over them.