Qalandiya

Observers: A. K, N. O., and D.
G.

Id el Fitr, the festival that marks the close of
Ramadan.

Qalandia south checkpoint, grinning teenage peddlers offer brightly
colored balloons for sale. Two lines of between 150-200 waiting
Palestinians shuffle slowly forward. Almost everyone has large
plastic bags with gifts for the holiday . The rather elderly
reservists on duty today work quietly and quickly, and most people
soon pass.

But behind the plastic barriers, in the area to the side of the
checkpoint known to initiates as New Jersey, stands a restive crowd
of the "refused"-- perhaps fifty or so men, young to
middle aged, denied the right to travel south and each convinced
that the "easing of restrictions" trumpeted on the radio
must apply to him. The discontent is palpable and growing ever more
threatening. The soldiers become more edgy and nervous by the
minute. Both sides push at the barriers, voices are raised, the
soldiers finger their weapons -- in fear? or in
threat?

We have seen Faris, the sometimes helpful local commander, darting
around the checkpoint. N. speaks to him by cell-phone and
warns:" There'll be a explosion here if you don't do
something!" Suddenly, the seven or eight soldiers become 15 to
20, a substantial reinforcement has been sent in. Faris appears in
front of the crowd. He starts to listen to case after individual
case. Like some modern-day Solomon sitting in judgment : "This
one goes through! That one ,too! This one : 'No! I said, no!, and
back you go. Try Surda, perhaps, but not here!' 'And you: look
here, your pass is not in order, but since it is a holiday, see:
I'll endorse it as valid just for November 25, and tomorrow you go
to the DCO office and get a new permit!" Such glib advice, or
is it the cynicism born of serving the long
occupation?

One family -- father waving a brand-new US passport, mother loudly
protesting that "we all have our Green Cards, what do you mean
we can't go through!" and four or five more-or-less adult
offspring -- are visiting from the US via Jordan. They crossed two
days ago from Jordan to Jericho, where they insist they all left
their Jordanian passports, and have spent "only two precious
hours this afternoon" visiting an aunt in Ramalla. Now they
cannot return because , with the exception of the father, all they
have are Palestinian Authority IDs. The refusal to let them pass
has them becoming more and more indignant. N. invokes the aid of
"the lefty"-- a soldier we have dealt with a few times
recently. He comes over to the "Americans" -- again they
go through the details. With a quick wave of his hand, they are on
their way, hurrying before there is another change of
heart.

And another man in trouble -- a Hebron resident -- who has
"foolishly" (because he must earn a living wherever he
can in these impossible days?) crossed into the Palestinian
Authority with no documents other than his ID: "There's a sign
there that warns you that you will not be allowed back again!"
the soldier says.

The vehicle line, at seven in the evening just before we leave,
stretches well over 100 cars in number, back to the refugee camp
north of the. The wait, we estimate, must last long over an hour,
and it is getting colder by the minute.

It would have been just another dispiriting, endlessly saddening
watch but for a tiny ray of hope: one of the soldiers confided to
N. that he reads our reports with interest -- and "I hate what
I am doing here!"