Keep Terminal Clean. Terminal? What a euphemism. I was back at Kalandia checkpoint. It is so hot. Again I am soaked in sweat. Maneuvering my way under the iron structure to the metal detectors I start getting irritated. Though the line is not too long it is moving so slowly. Beep. Beep. Beep. I’m tired. The sound of the metal detector is pissing me off. And then there’s that sign. Keep Terminal Clean. Let’s call this what it is: a dirty checkpoint with metal bars and barbed wire that makes it difficult for you to move.
When I think of a terminal I think of the airport, exciting, clean. This, well this is not a terminal. This is as I have said before prison. People are getting impatient. This man has walked through the metal detector maybe ten times and it still keeps going off. At this rate he is going to have to be naked to pass through without setting this thing off. Was it this difficult before? A woman tries to cut in front of me. No Miss I’m sorry I’ve been standing here far too long and it seems that no one is getting through. Plus I am so tired. I want to sleep. The man next to me says to me in flawless English, “I am waiting for my friends…Can they come in front?” I smile. I can’t say no, can I? “I guess that’s fine.” We wait a few minutes. “Why is this taking so long?” He responds, “It’s Friday.” I look confused so he elaborates. “Friday, our day of prayer. They heighten the detectors’ sensitivity to dissuade us from trying to go to Jerusalem to pray at the Dome of the Rock.” “Seriously?” He laughs. “Its part of their effort to Judaize Jerusalem. The women soldiers are the worst.”
Wait, what? Did he just say that he is going into Jerusalem? We are trying to leave Jerusalem to go back to Nablus. We can’t be in the West Bank already…we never passed through any checkpoints. Wait, what? Did he just say they want to Judaize Jerusalem? Is such a policy possible? Isn’t that a violation of some kind? Wait, what? I turn to the group, “Uh, I think we’re in the wrong line.” Jack, our team leader, says, “But we didn’t go through any checkpoints.” I turn back to the man. “We’re trying to go to Nablus.” “Nablus?” He looks shocked. “Not Ramallah?” “ No, no.” “Wow, you’re far from Nablus. Definitely not heading in the right direction. You want to catch a bus outside. You’re going back into Jerusalem now.” I thank him. Smile. But, what I really want to do is yell. Yell why the hell have I been waiting in this line so long?! It’s fine. Whatever. It’s cool. Don’t lose it. There’s no point. I grab my bags turn around and start to march out of the prison. At first it seems like there is no exit. How the hell do you get out of here? I feel claustrophobic. It’s too much. I need space. I need air. Oh okay this turnstile turns the other way. Freedom. There’s no one outside. We need to find a bus to Hawara checkpoint. A man approaches us. He wants to charge us three times the regular price. Listen, I don’t think so. It’s hot. I am so hot.
A bus pulls up. Hawara? “Aiwa, yes.” We get on. We start driving. There are people on the side of the road. We stop. It is a family. A dad, his wife, and two young girls and a baby. The oldest of the girls, she must be a little older than four, and the dad sit next to me. He has a two year old in his lap. I put my I-pod away. I smile at her. She’s probably thinking what is this girl doing? I pull out my notebook and make her a paper boat. She smiles. She moves a little closer to me. Her tiny arm is resting on my thigh. She takes the boat and grips it hard. She is wearing a party dress. It looks old. Maybe it is a hand me down. The cotton in her shoes is coming out. They are falling apart. I smile at her again. She smiles. Her eyes. She is somewhere else. A light is missing in her eyes. Does that make sense? Her eyes communicate trauma. She is scared, confused. I have to win her trust. I start teaching her hand games. I make her a paper plane. Nothing. I draw a flower on the plane like the one on her dress. And then, for a moment, the light comes back. Her eyes glimmer. She is a kid again.
Her dad smiles. He tells me her name is Beesa. She is a little over four. I smile. My guesstimate was right. I introduce myself, “Ilona.” He does not speak English. I do not speak Arabic. We struggle. We mime. He points to the tattoo on my wrist. I nod and smile. I know that tattoos are probably haram. Suddenly, he lifts his shirtsleeve. He too has a tattoo. We share a look of understanding. My face screws up as if in pain. He laughs. He nods. Yes, it is painful. He points to Beesa and then to the writing on his arm. It is her name. He pretends to be holding a baby. He points at her again. He then makes as if his hands are in handcuffs. When Beesa was a baby he was arrested. Prison for four years. I put my hands up, why? I know, so rude. I berate myself, I need to be more sensitive. The motion kind of sort of just slipped out. He mimes some sort of accident. He points to a passing car. Car accident, maybe?
That does not make much sense. He shows me his collarbone, broken. It is clear he loves his daughters. He dotes on them. He keeps kissing them on the head. We smile. I keep playing with Beesa. Right before Hawara the bus stops. They are getting off here. Beesa and I wave at one another. She slowly hops off the bus. Her dad catches her. I smile and wave bye to the dad too. He waves back. Beesa smiles. As the bus drives off I turn back to catch one last glimpse of her through the back window. She is staring at the bus. She has not moved from where we dropped her off. Her family has already started walking. I wave one last time. She waves back. And then she’s gone.