“Death at a Checkpoint”
Elizabeth O’Connor
Occupation takes shape in the smallest of ways that become the biggest of inconveniences: having to pass through two military checkpoints on your way to work, making what would be a twenty-minute trip into an hour, or not having tater tots – a fan favorite at other locations – on the menu of your cafe because Israel bans their import into Palestine. And occupation also manifests itself in large, tragic ways: like never being able to return to your family’s home, or the killing of a thirty-year-old barber, whose shop I walked by everyday on the way to work.
~
Around five pm, our bus approached the checkpoint. The city of Nablus was now behind us, and only fields of agricultural land were in sight.
So far, after being there for forty or so days, I passed this same checkpoint each morning and afternoon in a shared cab on the way to and from work without ever being stopped. I hated passing by it though – my hands always became clammier and my heartbeat sped up whenever we drove past the IDF soldiers and their massive guns hanging out in the booth between the two sides of the road.
Suddenly, our bus came to a complete stop and another volunteer cried out, “What’s happening? Why are we stopping?”
Ahmad, our slightly older friend and Palestinian cultural guru, began quickly conversing in Arabic with the bus driver. He ducked to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the bus. The doors opened and we all cautiously stepped out of the bus. Dozens of other Palestinians lingered outside their cars – some just hanging out smoking a cigarette, others yelling ferociously at the Israel Defense Force (IDF) soldiers blocking the checkpoint. Its usually open passageway was the easiest and fastest way to get out of the city.
We gathered around Ahmad as he spoke to a nearby driver lounging against his car door.
“Shou sar?” He earnestly asked the question we all wanted to know: what happened?
“What do you think? Same old, same old. An innocent Palestinian man was shot and killed by an IDF soldier. Allah ya Harmhu. Fuck Israel. Checkpoint’s been closed all day, we can’t get out.”
“Allah ya Harmhu.” God rest his soul. He restrained from engaging in the obscenity that others were shouting out. Classic Ahmad.
~
Months later, it’s still hard to know exactly what happened. According to the Israeli news, the man stopped his car, got out and started running at an Israel Defense Forces (IDF) soldier with a knife. The Israeli soldier shot him in self-defense. According to the mayor of Nablus, the Palestinian city where this took place, the Palestinian man got out of his car after it broke down, hoping to get help from someone around him. He believed that the knife on the scene was placed there after the murder – a practice that occurs often when IDF soldiers kill innocent Palestinians, but need a viable backstory. Neither of these explanations changed the fact that a man had died, or that it was disrupting people’s lives.
~
Twenty or so minutes went on, and no cars were moving. Inner turmoil paralyzed me and I stood watching the action from the sidewalk beside the bus. This was not like a scene of death I had ever imagined. Mourning happens in different ways in Palestine, as it is a much more common part of life there than it is for me. From October 2015 to September 2016, 236 Palestinians died due to the occupation, with an average age of 23. While there is sadness and weeping, none of this occurred at the checkpoint. There was anger because yet another Palestinian was killed by an IDF soldier, and frustration and annoyance that this led to the obstruction of their movement – which is already greatly restricted. Yet there was also playfulness as friends ran into each other, people chatted while smoking cigarettes, all trying to pass the time. One man, in his forties or so, had set up shop a couple meters back. Wearing half of a carved-out watermelon as a hat, he handed out freshly cut watermelon slices to everyone around him. A little snack and entertainment for the wait. It was clear that he had wheeled his cart there before to feed those waiting to pass through a closed checkpoint.
~
Divided into three ‘areas’, each with a different level of sovereignty, the West Bank is tucked between Israel and Jordan and varies between beige, arid dessert and beautiful green hills lined with plush shrubbery and olive trees that give some rudimentary explanation as to why people are fighting so fervently over this land. Now, in 2017, it makes up a dwindling portion of what was Palestine before the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948. Almost seven decades later, intense bursts of fighting and constant struggle still plague these two nations who both feel as though they have a right to the land. Years of Israeli military occupation of Palestine manifests itself as heavily armed checkpoints surrounding major cities and Israeli settlements in the West Bank, and on its borders with Israel proper, making most American’s version of a ‘normal life’ nearly impossible to obtain. Movement is severely restricted, as Palestinians aren’t allowed to enter Israel without special, hard to acquire, permission. As an American, with the significant privilege of travel and free movement, a mere month and a half in the West Bank was taxing. To Palestinians, it was their normal life. The occupation also results in the death of many Israelis and Palestinians, although the Palestinians suffer disproportionately.
~
Brandon, a nineteen-year old from Connecticut, who often proclaimed his hatred of America and love of communism, and Steve, an over 6-foot-tall, obviously American guy in his Carhartt’s, rainbow flip flops, advanced slowly towards the tanks blocking the only nearby exit from Nablus. They pulled out their phones and angled their cameras at the IDF soldiers.
“Where are you from?” One soldier blocking the checkpoint questioned Brandon and Steve.
“America” they responded bluntly, as if acknowledging that their privilege would not get them into any serious trouble.
“Stay back.” The soldier ordered in surprising restraint, using a tone deeply contrasted to the aggressive scolding of all Palestinians who came too close.
Part of what they were doing felt very inappropriate to me. I was curious to walk towards the soldiers to get a better view of them, yet was hesitant to do so for many reasons. Partly because I lied at Israeli customs, telling them I was staying in Israel for the entirety of my visit, and partly because they were wielding huge rifles and have a trigger-happy reputation. Partly because I felt very out of place. A blond American among other Americans and British students, in a land that our countries had so intensely helped mess up. It didn’t feel right to stir the pot by approaching the IDF soldiers.
On the other hand, the playful and angry mood made it somehow exciting, as though we were on the brink of some action. It was easy to forget that the closure of the checkpoint and all the commotion that ensued was because someone had just died.
~
Eventually, cars started turning around, driving away from the checkpoints as their passengers gave up hope that their way out, maybe their way home, would open any time soon and let them through. We waited another thirty minutes or so as the traffic was thinning out, before Ahmad made the executive decision to leave.
Determined to get to our destination, we found another way – a way that weaved through the vibrant green hills full of olive trees, lucky ones that had not been burned down by the IDF, as many of its kind had. Tears filled my eyes as it finally hit me that a man, whose barbershop I had walked by daily, had been killed several hours earlier that morning.
It would’ve been a thirty-minute drive on a ‘normal’ day, but was two and a half hour drive that day.
~~~
