I thought that it was quite similar, once back in Germany, when we had nowhere to go, when we did not even want to leave, because this was our country after all… The place we had always been, at least since generations. Why should we go? And to where? Nobody would take us in. And who would take the Palestinians in if they suddenly had enough and wanted to leave? But no, why should they? They have always lived here, since generations and generations, this was their land, and they loved it – not “we,” the Jews.

Now that I know a little more about Palestine and Palestinians, their history, their culture, their music, art and poetry I realized that what Israelis call “attachment to the land” is very superficial. I don’t think that many Israelis really “love” this country with its history, with its colors, its vegetation, and its way of life. Some surely do. But most of them try to “import” European or American culture to the Middle East, in order to feel that they belong. Belong, not to this land and its native culture, but to a society and way of life from far away, that has no roots in this land, imported, made in America, cheap, loud, floating without attachment to anything from here.

But in fact, I want to tell about something else, something completely different. There I was in Bus #18 from Jerusalem to Ramallah and, as it often happens, something (who knows what, and by the way: who cares?) has once again disturbed the trip. We had to leave the busses regular route to finally be stopped some 150/200 meters away from Qalandia – the Israeli checkpoint (literally “barrier”) right in the middle of Palestinian neighborhoods and villages… without the Wall, Jerusalem and Ramallah would soon be linked in a continuous urban territory… It’s almost like this already now, but the Wall, like in Berlin, separates Palestinians from other Palestinians, just like the Berlin Wall separated Germans of the West from Germans of the East.

So, here we are. No choice. I have to take my bags, climb out of the bus, and walk. The checkpoint seems to be open, people can walk through, just not drive through. Why? No idea. No reason anywhere to see. Nothing visible. The road from where the police officer stopped the bus to the checkpoint is completely empty, except for people walking on it, people who were in previous busses and had to walk as well.

Photo of the middle of the road we had to walk, looking back to where the busses had to stop and the cars were turned away... to where?

I looked at the police officer. Just one guy. Stops the traffic of hundreds of returning cars. Cars and busses full of people returning home from work, tired, fed up, once again.. just something to annoy everyone, daily routine… The policeman shouts (in Hebrew) at the Palestinian bus driver that he couldn’t stop where he had stopped, that he should drive further away, not to block the traffic. I think: What? We should walk even further? Why at all do we have to walk? Why do you (pretentious guy, superior ‘race’) have to shout in Hebrew; are Palestinians supposed to understand you?!

Well, in fact, very often they have no choice. Understand or not, they are told in Hebrew what to do or not to do. Then they try to guess, just to be shouted at a little more in Hebrew. (Arabs! Idiots! I tell him to step back and he doesn’t understand…) usually these so-called soldiers at the checkpoint are some 17-18 year old brats, never heard of manners or politeness. And who needs to be polite when you have a gun?

Well, to their credit must be said that most of the time they know some basic Arabic, just for the job… like to shout: Wakhad, Wakhad (one, one) to signify the people waiting in the endless queue that they shouldn’t push and try to go 2 by 2 through the turning door of iron bars that is barely big enough for one person with a normal bag. Some women have kids. How to get them through? Wakhad, Wakhad…

Yeah, tell that to your 4 year old who doesn’t want to leave mom when she has to squeeze through with the baby and a bag… But who cares? Surely not the Israeli brat in uniform who sits comfortably and courageously behind bullet proof widows, in a kind of cell that looks like a highly isolated room in a laboratory where they deal with hazardous biological material. Viruses, Microbes, bugs – whatever… disgusting stuff for sure. The cell is really air and bullet proof, no danger that the brats inside get contaminated from outside. Outside are we, Palestinians and crazy Israelis like me, some Internationals. Disgusting, dangerous bugs, microbes… who knows what? Better be safe in the isolated box and shout at these bugs not to push… Wakhad, wakhad… Don’t think you would be allowed to come 2 by 2. WE have the guns – WE decide what YOU do! You just shut up and don’t reply!

From the middle of the road looking towards the checkpoint

So I walk. Tired, angry, frustrated. I cannot do anything. Any complaint will lead to some annoyance or worse, to punishment, if the complainant should be Palestinian. But Palestinians know better than to complain. To them what happens here is nothing special, just every day routine, this way or another. Why get angry? Useless! Nobody will care. Your bags are heavy; you’re a bit sick and can’t walk so well. Well, who cares? Walk or stay here – just choose! As usual I have three bags, heavy this time, but guess what? If I want to cross and go to Ramallah as I had planned… just shut up and walk. Don’t complain. Useless. Don’t get angry. Useless as well. And besides – really, this is NOTHING, compared to when you have to get home through teargas canisters shot around you, when you have to wait 3 hours because the checkpoint is completely closed, or even be sent back because for some reasons the checkpoint won’t open so soon, so better go and find some place to stay overnight.

Useless. I just walk. Follow the others. My bus ticket is lost, like those of all the other passengers of all the busses that are stopped, for no apparent reason, 200 meters away from the checkpoint.

We walk through the checkpoint. On the Israeli side the cars on the regular road are stopped at a little distance, on the Palestinian side the cars stand at the checkpoint and behind… An endless queue. In the middle of all, an ambulance. Just one car behind the empty space where it could drive and bring the patient to the hospital. But no. Some soldier shouts (in Hebrew) at the ambulance that they had better leave, there is no way through, maybe another way (at least 10 km away), but they are stuck between the cars and cannot go anyway. A Palestinian nurse shouts back at the soldier that there is someone sick in the ambulance and that they must get through. But the soldier doesn’t care. No way through. Either you turn back or you wait. The ambulance waits. I take a picture. I’m not sure, but I feel that the shouting of the soldier now is turned to me. This time he shouts in Arabic, but I don’t understand, and I don’t care. I know that (as an Israeli) I’m allowed to take pictures there, I know that the soldiers think I’m not, but I just don’t care. If they stop me, we’ll see. For now I just continue my way.

The ambulance attempting to reach a hospital in Jerusalem.

Now I need to take a taxi to continue my trip from Qalandia to Ramallah. If everything had been normal, I would already be there, sitting in front of a cup of coffee, talking with my friend. Now I’m late, we won’t be able to do what we planned to do. Well, this is only the first meeting of many planned. We’ll just talk. Next week I’ll try to come earlier, before everyone comes home from work. Maybe next time things go smoothly and I will not be late.