Kalandia

I decided that handwashing my clothes everyday will get tiresome very quickly with what I have here. So a little shopping venture into Jerusalem for maybe a pair of pants and a shirt was in order. What better place to do it than the most North American of malls in (Jewish) West Jeruslem. All the Americans who have come to Israel over the past few decades, I am convinced, would make my shopping trip a little easier. While buying groceries and ordering food ect. is easy for me in Ramallah - I just decided that I needed a little bit of good ol' western consumerism for this particular quest. Also, my apartment mate A. has been desperate for some fresh Rosemary and we've been unable to find it anywhere here in the West Bank.

I left around noonish yesterday and got back early enough at 5pm. There were, in fact, a few glitches in my plan. As I was trying on a pair of pants my fiancee called so I quickly left the mall (past the guards and metal detectors that protect each entrance) to talk. When I went back in 15 minutes later the stores were closing. It was 3pm and Shabbath was starting. Shit! I quickly ran back in and got what I needed from the Pharmacy and A.s precious Rosemary from the grocery store that stays open a little later. So, in essence, only a half failure of a trip.

But the most dominating experience of my day yesterday was what I had to do to get to Jerusalem...

Leaving the service taxi stand in Ramallah, my van weaved through the trash lined streets past groups heading to the Mosque for Friday prayers, on its way to the Kalandia checkpoint that stands between the West Bank and East Jerusalem. There, I got out and followed the group from my taxi. We made our way through the huge floor to ceiling turnstiles up to the part where we would actually be "processed". There another turnstile allows four or five people through at a time (this function is controlled by the Israelis in the booth). Once through, one at a time we put our bags ect. on the large x-ray machine that sends a feed into the booth, who I see is staffed by four young IDF soldiers. Before I get there though, I hear them yelling commands through the microphone in Arabic to the group ahead of me - it seems that the kids had been seperated from their mother by the arbitrary jamming of the first turnstile. Once that's sorted out they let the mother through so she can show them the proper documents for the girls.

I and four others are buzzed through and I put my bag on the conveyor belt and pass through the metal detector to stand in front of the IDF booth, reinforced with what I can only assume is shrapnel-proof glass. There in front of me is a young soldier probably 20 years old. I hold my passport up to the glass - he inspects it - asks to see the visa page - I show him - he inspects it - he waves me through. I don't have to wait long before we are buzzed through the next turnstile into a hall that leads to the exit. After we have cleared the security area, the next group is let in. This is how it is for anyone wishing to go from the West Bank into Jerusalem for whatever reason. My first thought is of the people who don't have the right documents, or the sick, or my teacher S. who cannot leave the West Bank and hasn't seen his father in Gaza in six years. This process is the singularly most dehumanizing thing I've ever done and as I made my way by cab through the broad streets of West Jerualem towards the mall, all I can think of is Ramallah, my friends there, and how I feel like I don't belong even here, in the most North American of settings.