Letters from Palestine (12 page)

At 9:00 a.m., it was my turn. The soldier
waved me forward with his finger. As I do every day, I stepped out
of my car to hand him my ID. On the side of the road, a soldier
whose face was partially hidden beneath his helmet pointed an
automatic rifle at me, his finger on the trigger. I opened the
trunk, and he returned my ID to me without a word.

I left the checkpoint wondering whether my
generation will witness a day when Palestinians write novels about
the old days of suffering under occupation, as Ahlam Mosteghanemi
did. What stories will we tell about the checkpoints? Will they be
stories of bitterness or steadfastness, pain or hope?

Letter from Tasneem

_PHOTO

My name is Tasneem Turk. I was born and
raised as a Muslim Palestinian in America and currently live in
Arizona. I am eighteen years old and attend Arizona State
University. I am majoring in business communications and plan to
obtain a bachelor’s degree. I love to spend time with friends and
family and love dancing the Palestinian traditional dance called
dabke
. It is a folklore dance that many Palestinians perform
on special occasions. I speak three different languages: English,
Arabic, and am acquiring Hebrew.

* * *

Dear Ken,

Today is Friday, known for the day that
Muslims attend their Holy Sacred Mosque, called the Dome of the
Rock, located in the Old City in Jerusalem. It’s early morning, and
I am getting ready to leave my cousin’s house in Ramallah and head
out to the mosque. There are so many yellow cabs and taxis, and
they all want you to ride with them. It is a busy day out here
since everyone is trying to attend the prayer service. However, the
Palestinians who live in Ramallah and carry Palestinian citizenship
have no access in entering Jerusalem. I look at the crowd on the
street that passes by to the local mosque by our house. I think to
myself, “They do not have the right or privilege to go pray in one
of the Muslims holy sites.” It is sad to see that they cannot move
freely around their occupied land. They are imprisoned in their own
land.

Nevertheless, I ride the bus that is
strictly for Palestinians who do not carry Israeli citizenship. I
am now heading toward the main Israeli checkpoint, called Qalandia
checkpoint. It is the main checkpoint that separates West Jerusalem
from the West Bank by the apartheid wall that was built by the
Israeli government for illogical pretenses. There is a massive
crowd, and the lines are long.

If only you could see how much Palestinians
have to go through to get to a place that is less than twenty
minutes away in a car. We were probably about three miles away from
the checkpoint. Cars were trying to squeeze into small areas so
they can pass by, but there was no way to get out of this traffic
jam. Usually, a traffic jam in America would be during the time
that people are off from work and heading home. However, a traffic
jam in Palestine results in Israeli soldiers blocking Palestinians
from passing through and giving them a hard time. You can see there
is a clear difference in what Americans go through and what
Palestinians go through.

After about maybe two hours or so, we make
it to the front of the line of the cars. You would think this would
be the end of it; however, all passengers must get off of the bus
and go through the security checkpoint. Let me give you an example
as to what this checkpoint looks like. It is similar to the
security checkpoint you would go through in an airport. You have to
take off your belt (sometimes shoes), put all belongings in the
scanning machine, and pass through a body scanning device. As I
approach the checkpoint, the line is about a third of a mile long.
I never thought one would have to go through all of this to go pray
in their holy mosque. While the Palestinians have to go through
this disastrous procedure to get through to Jerusalem, those who
are Israeli or Jewish do not have to go through anything. Instead,
they are allowed to pass with no questions asked. It is hot,
sticky, smelly, suffocating, and frustrating as I am waiting for my
turn to pass the checkpoint. It has now been three hours, and I
still haven’t gotten into Jerusalem.

After a long period of waiting, my turn
comes, and I now proceed to the bus. As the bus heads off, I think
to myself what any person on earth would say about this crisis that
the Palestinians have to go through. Jerusalem was only twenty
minutes away from my house, yet it took me three hours to get
there.

Finally, I arrive in the Old City,
Jerusalem. As I approach the Damascus Gate, I find that there are
Israeli soldiers and police officers blocking the way for the
Palestinians to pass. I ask a fellow Palestinian who was denied
access why they wouldn’t allow access for Palestinians. He tells me
that they only allow those that are fifty years of age and older. I
was shocked! You would never believe what I saw. They did not allow
access for younger Palestinian men, women, and children to go pray.
I was allowed access only because I carried an American passport.
If I did not have possession of this document, they would not have
allowed me in.

I have been through many rough times here in
Palestine, and I hope you feel what I am going through. I wish you
could see what many Americans do not see in this country. I am now
staying in West Jerusalem to prevent this hectic process that I had
to experience. It is hard to avoid something so big as the wall and
people so ignorant and heartless as the Israeli soldiers.

This is a typical day in Palestine. I hope
you had a revealing insight from my story of what life is like for
Palestinians who are simply wishing to pray at their scared
mosque.

Long live Palestine!

Letter from Muzna:

_PHOTO

My name is Muzna Shihabi. I was born on
February 10, 1973, in Tripoli, Libya, and was brought up in Morocco
from 1980 to 1997. Both parents are Palestinian refugees: my father
from Haifa, my mother from Acre. After high school, I majored in
English literature in Rabat, Morocco, after which I worked for two
years at Al Akhawayn University in Ifrane, also in Morocco.

In 1997, I “came back” to Palestine, or part
of what remained of it, in Ramallah in the West Bank. Since living
here, I worked at a pharmaceutical company until 2004 after which I
undertook new challenges, working for civil society organizations
such as the Palestine Monitor and the Palestinian Medical Relief
Society. Meanwhile, I started graduate studies in international
relations at Birzeit University. In 2006, I joined the Palestinian
Foreign Ministry, but left after ten months of volunteer work. I
then went to the London School of Economics and obtained a master’s
degree in media and communications. Finally, I came back to
Ramallah in June 2007, and since then I have worked as a
communications advisor for the PLO.

* * *

When Anna and I were in Ramallah with Ghassan
in late November 2008, he introduced us to a personable young
friend of his named Muzna Shihabi. We met at a pleasant little
outdoor cafe in downtown Ramallah, and while sitting across a
picnic table eating our fare, we first learned about the dilemma
that Muzna and her husband were facing concerning the forthcoming
birth of their first child. Muzna herself will tell that story in
what follows, so all I need to say here is that Anna and I, at that
moment, found ourselves very emotionally involved and concerned
with Muzna and her baby. I have stayed in touch with her ever
since.

During the Israeli assault on Gaza during
December 2008 and January 2009, and for a time afterward, Muzna
sent out a great many news items and YouTube videos about the
invasion because that terrible collective ordeal weighed heavily on
her, as it did on Anna and me. During this time, the warmth of the
personal notes that Muzna and I exchanged was just as evident as
Anna’s and my concern for her. But with the passage of time,
necessarily, Muzna had to pay more attention to the decision she
and her husband would have to make about the birth of their child,
who is due within a month of the time I am writing these words.

Now you will be reading Muzna’s story in her
own words, and you will learn just what she—and other couples in
similar circumstances—have to face when one member of the couple is
Palestinian and the other is not. Just another little known, but
deeply and unavoidably distressing, fact of what it is like for
Palestinians to live under the cruel and capricious strictures of
the Israeli occupation.

March 31, 2009

When we got the news that I was pregnant back
in October 2008, the first question that arose was not (as is the
case in any other part of the world) the sex or name of the baby.
No, it was “Where will I deliver?” Why was this a concern for
us?

I have the West Bank identity card (although
it is a Palestinian card, it is provided only by the Israeli
occupation authorities (IOA)), and it specifies that I live in
Ramallah. With this ID card, I need a special permit to travel
outside of Ramallah. If I want to go to Nablus, I cannot use my car
without a special permit from the IOA. If I want to go to
Jerusalem, I need a special permit to cross (on foot only) the
checkpoint leading to Jerusalem.

Luckily, I have a permit because I work for
the Negotiations Support Unit, advising the Palestine Liberation
Organization on communications. But the permit has limitations: I
can only cross certain checkpoints on foot; I am not allowed to use
it to go to Gaza or to Eilat or to travel through the Tel Aviv
airport. The permit also has time limits: it is renewable every
month or every three months, and it has certain hours that I must
respect, from 5:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. and from such a date to such a
date. The permit is no longer valid if there is a Jewish holiday or
if Israel decides to impose closure on the occupied Palestinian
territory (OPT), so nothing can be planned in advance.

In other words, all our life rests on the
decision of the occupier or the behavior of the Israeli soldier at
a checkpoint. For example, when the Israeli war on Gaza started
last December, I had to give a presentation in Jerusalem to a group
of Jewish Canadians. I parked my car before the checkpoint, started
crossing on foot, and the soldier shouted at me angrily (as if we
were the ones who killed hundreds of Israeli children and women the
days before in Gaza!) and ordered me to return. So I was not able
to give this presentation.

This means that we can never plan or guess
what might happen at a checkpoint, even if we are lucky to have a
permit to pass. This poses a problem for us: my husband, Benjamin,
is French, and when we asked the French Consulate about the time
needed for the baby to obtain the French passport, the answer was
that if you deliver in Ramallah, it will take many months, but if
you deliver in Jerusalem, you will get it faster. Now, the problem
is how to guarantee entry to Jerusalem, even if I had a permit. I
always have to cross on foot as the Israeli army refuses permission
to enter with my husband in his own car. So even if they let me
enter, I will have to cross on foot while having contractions,
bearing in mind that queuing at the checkpoint might take hours and
hours. We would like our son to get the French citizenship quickly
so as to be able to travel with us, as our family lives abroad
(between Morocco and France).

Delivering in France?

Should we deliver in France? This option was
valid, but we quickly ignored it because of the hassles we
encounter while crossing the border with Jordan. I am not allowed
by Israel to use the Tel Aviv airport, which would have made things
easier for me. Rather, I should go to Amman (a one-and-a-half hour
drive from Ramallah), but the way takes hours because of the
Israeli army at the border, which has several checkpoints and
machines to check us in a very aggressive manner (by shouting and
humiliating Palestinians), and the many buses Palestinians have to
take and change while being checked time and time again. The last
time I travelled with my husband, it took us fourteen hours from
Ramallah to Cairo (door-to-door). Instead of simply flying from Tel
Aviv to Cairo, which takes around one hour, I had to take this
route through Jordan.

Coming back from a recent trip to Egypt and
after crossing the border through Jordan, I was forced by an
Israeli police officer to go through a machine which throws air on
the body. Even though I told him I was pregnant, he refused and
said this is for security and to stop Palestinian “terrorism.” (It
is important to note here that nobody knows how this machine
affects the body; even various human rights organizations have
tried to inquire about it, but the Israeli authorities refused to
cooperate.) The Israeli officer said he had never seen any Jew
going into Palestinian buses to kill Palestinian babies. I replied,
“You don’t need to: you bomb them from the air.” He said, “Yes, we
kill Palestinian babies and sleep well at night.”

Of course, I had no other choice but to
cross because the Israeli officer told me I would not go home if I
didn’t go through this machine. So I crossed angrily, worried about
my baby. And this same officer told my husband: “How can you marry
an Arab and have Arab kids?”

The Israeli racism is not something hidden:
it is institutionalized. Even Israeli officials express it openly,
as happened with me at the border and as shown in this Al Jazeera
International report, showing how Israelis are proud of killing
pregnant women and babies:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mJp5d3ffP8
.