holy places: i closure u, u riot, i shoot u

The title to this entry is New Profile's succint comment on the situation at checkpoints surrounding Jerusalem last Friday. We are in the month of Ramadan, and every Friday Muslims in the tens of thousands come to Jerusalem to pray by the Al Aqsa Mosque. Just as regularly, every Friday the Israeli army enforces strict regulations on who is allowed to pass.

"Profiling"

The restrictions are actually decided by the Minster of Defence himself on Thursday nights. The Minister of Defence most often decides that only men over 45 and women over 40 can go to Jerusalem on Fridays. The border police won't have time to check everyone going through, so they are instructed to do "profiling" - in other words, go for the usual trouble suspects. In this case that means any Palestian man under 45 years old.

The last two Fridays I've been at two different checkpoints on duty and seen what this policy means in practice. It's the strangest feeling to see young soldiers of 19-20 years lined up, and so much in power. They herd people around with their batons and shout through megaphones at people standing one meter from them. They turn back men with a nonchalant wave of their hand. They turn back boys down to the age of 10. The boys often arrive together with their family, and while their family is let through, they are left standing on the other side. I can only imagine the bitter taste of injustice it rouses in a child.

The women are actually all let through. I find myself grateful to the army that at least they are being lenient on this. My own reaction annoys me. The rules are wrong in the first place - how can I see generosity when the army is just looking through the fingers with already acuteley discriminatory regulations.

"Blanket closure"

The West Bank is under a blanket closure at the moment. Security is up because of religious festivals. Normal regulations can be wavered. A permit that normally lets you into Jerusalem can be judged irrelevant by the soldier standing in front of you. You might be a man of 43 who goes to Jerusalem every day to work, but on this Friday morning, when you want to go to pray, you are per definition a threat, and there is no way you are going to pass through that checkpoint.

You might get through six checkpoints on your way from Nablus but be stopped at the last one because the officer looking at your ID sees on his computer screen that your cousin has been detained by police earlier. Or you might get through, but your father or your husband or your son will be stopped from coming to prayer together with you.

Crowd control

The border police feel the pressure. Crowds of men denied access gather in front of the checkpoints. Sometimes it comes to clashes. When we arrive at Qalandiya checkpoint, the ground inside the car gate is scattered with stone. There has been stone throwing earlier in the morning and the border police have answered with tear gas and stun grenades. A tank with a water canon stands ready for use facing the crowd of pilgrims.

As the time draws closer to 11.30 when the midday prayer starts, the tension increases. At Qalandiya some youngsters of 12 or 14 years pick up stones. The soldiers fire at them with rubber bullets. I stand there and feel quite powerless.

From the minaret in Qalandiya village the call to prayer is heard and outside the checkpoint a group of 30 or 40 men line up to pray, facing Al Aqsa, and behind it Mecca. It is a mindblowing political statement. In front of them is a a row of 10-12 border police in full gear, including two cavalry on intimidatingly huge horses.

As the prayer finishes the police move forward, chasing the crowd off the parking lot they have gathered on. The crowd scatters, knowing what to expect. Five or six stun grenades follow, thrown indiscrimantely into the groups of people moving away. The border police brandish their guns, waving and pointing them at anyone still left behind. I stand safely on the Jerusalem side, observing through a solid fence. The praying crowd are only some meters away, but it's a world of difference today.

Ten minutes later everything is back to normal - as normal as anything will get at Qalandiya. The bread sellers peak their heads out and re-conquere the space in front of the checkpoint. Taxi drivers re-appear from Qalandiya village, back to their cars left stranded on the parking lot. In all its absurdity, life returns and gathers pace, preparing for next Friday.