Beit Iba checkpoint: Nablus district

Today, since we were not able to harvest, three of us decided to spend some time monitoring Beit Iba checkpoint. Beit Iba checkpoint controls Palestinian movement in and out of Nablus for many villages to the south and west of the city, as well as movement northwards towards Tulkarem.

The checkpoint is at a bleak spot, in a valley right next to a stone quarry and my overwhelming impression of the checkpoint is one of heat, dust and noise. Beit Iba has a reputation for harassment, especially of students who have to travel into Nablus to get to An Najah University. There is a small enclosed space next to the soldier's room, where anyone who does not pass scrutiny can be detained. Today there was no-one in detention and there were no lengthy queues, since it was past 'rush hour' by the time we got there. We passed through the checkpoint without incident and stood at one end of the 'cattle pen' area to watch people's progress as they approached the checkpoint. Nearby was a group of about 10 to 15 taxi and servees drivers, stood calling out thier destinations to anyone walking through. In their eagerness to get first claim on any likely fare, they continuously edged forward, and every so often a soldier would come over and yell at them to get back. So, they would move back , before immediately creeping forward as soon as they saw the next possible fare. After about the 4th time this happened the soldier who approached aimed his M16 at the drivers and waved it back and forth across the group, yelling at them as he did so. The drivers were not visibly afraid, and his actions had little effect, but it was yet another small act of humiliation.

Later a driver approached us and showed us his taxi permit. This allowed him to collect fares from the Nablus side of the checkpoint, where we stood, but not to drive through. He wanted to be able to work both sides of the checkpoint and said that he had never been in trouble and had no intention of driving into Israel (we were nowhere near Israel at this checkpoint). 'Was there anything we could do to help him?' We phoned an Israeli human rights organisation who works to monitor Israeli restrictions at checkpoints. The woman we spoke to said there was no chance of being able to help this man. 'Why not?' we asked. She sighed: 'Do you know what occupation means?' 

What I saw: a 'quiet' day at the checkpoint 

So what did I see at Beit Iba checkpoint? Well nothing dramatic. but many many images that replay in my mind. There were of course, the narrow turnstiles which opened and shut unpredictably. So, as you queued, and shuffled forward, you never knew whether you were going to be able to move striaght forward through the turnstile, or whther it would suddenly lock shut, trapping you between its spokes for an unknown period of time until it was reopened. Time and again I saw men caught between the spokes, stood helpless or irritated and forced to push continuously against the bars (as there is nothing to tell you that it has reopened again).

And there are also the sawn off thick nails that protrude from the concrete floor by about a centremetre, just as you enter the 'cattle pen' in front of the turnstile. We wouldn't have noticed these if they hadn't been pointed out to us, but during our two hours at the checkpoint we saw several women trip or catch their trousers on these nails. Could these nails have possibly been put there on purpose? It was, of course, impossible to know, but certainly no-one had bothered to remove them or saw them down to floor level.

Ordinary people, leading unordinary lives

There was the father who put his hand protectively against his young son's head, guiding him into the turnstile so that they would not be separated and the boy would not bang his head against the metal.

And there were the two mothers with three young children, who ran up to the turnstiles just as if they were running to be first at the pelican crossing. And the mother's skills in scooping up one child and guiding another so that they all squeezed into one space in the turnstile.

Every so often in Palestine an association pops into your head, unbidden and unwanted. And for me, watching these parents and children, was  a memory of hearing about Jewish families in the ghettos, trying to protect their children from the realities of life around them; trying to normalise an abnormal daily life.

And of course, I saw small acts of resistance as well: attempts to subvert the petty indignities of the turnstiles. A middle aged woman appeared, a large bundle on her head. Rather than walk through the walkway to the turnstiles, she was walking straight along the road; the route by which certain cars, mysteriously, are able to pass through the checkpoint (after searching and showing of permits of course) and others are not. for ages it seemed tha this woman was going to be abel to walk through as the soldiers, preoccupied with inspecting a small lorryload of furniture, failed to notice her. On she strode, heading foe the quarryon the other side of the road from us. then a soldier noticed her and waved her back. She attempted to ignore him and marched on. Eventually two solidiers shouted at her and a furious exchange developed. She finally accepted partial defeat and came back to the ID control point, but still tried to get into positon without going back and through the turnstiles. But the soliders stopped her again and pointlessly made her trudge back up the road another hundred metres to the back of the 'cattle pen'.

When she eventually reached the queue she managed to negotiate her way past the few younger Palestinina women wiaint in front of her. Perhps she wasn't a resistance fighter after all - just a serial pusher in!

And the, there was the helplessness of those without any power. Like the couple pulling along large suitcases on wheels (they were full of olive oil to sell, they told us). they too attempted to walk down by the raodway and to explain to the solider that their cases were too big for the turnstiles. The soldier waved his arms at them in an unmistakable 'its not my problem' and waved them back. they then spetn some time tiping the suitcases onto thier sides and pushing them through the turnstiles one by one. The petty actions of the soliders were quite unneccessary; this couple were not trying to avoid being searched or having thier ID checked.

And finally, we saw a man walking with the aid of a stick and leaning heavily on another man. A catheter protruded from his trousers. He too had to walk through the checkpoint, although he was not made to negotiate the turnstile. Three hours later I was back at the checkpoint, after going into Nablus to do some shopping. As I passed through the checkpoint ID control myself I suddenly saw the sick man beside me - presumably returning form a medical appointment in Nablus. He was leaning even more heavily on his cimpanion now, and I walked behind him as he slowly walked the 200 metres minimum to where the taxis waited. He stumbled twice during this walk and would have fallen without his friend's help.