Qalandiya - a woman soldier in the DCO: I don’t care. Come tomorrow.

Twitter FB Whatsapp Email
Tamar Fleishman; Translator: Tal H.

An ambulance arrived from Jerusalem and joined the ambulance coming from Tubas (in the northern West Bank) to transfer a 25-day-old babyinfo-icon-girl one day after heart surgery performed at the (Jerusalem) Makassed Hospital.

She doesn’t look too good” said the paramedic accompanying the infant and her mother. “She is filled with medication, that’s why she has this bluish color. After she undergoes treatment at Tubas with all kinds of antibiotics, she’ll be brought back to Muqassad, to continue surgical procedures. Let’s hope for the best.”

I am not fluent in medical terminology and the medication mentioned by the paramedic, but I realize and am sure that being passed from one ambulance to another must not take place anywhere by no one, certainly not an infant whose age is still counted in days, that a person is not goods to be transferred from one vehicle to another in a ‘back-to-back’ procedure, and must not be detained even for moment on her way to get optimal treatment without the intervention of the secret services and the presence of guns.

On my way back, in front of the checking post, a man asked me how to get to the DCO, he needs to ask for something, and showed me a pile of documents. Come with me, I said, we’ll go together.

We went together.

The shed in front of the DCO offices was filled with people crowding against the metal bars separating here from there, people who might not get to those who determine what’s what and those who arrive not knowing whether they would receive an answer or be rejected.

I did not try to make my way among people in order to get in. I stood by the back wall and watched them crowd.

  • It’s terrible, I said.
  • Terrible? Commented the man standing next to me. You should come at 8 a.m., then you’d see what’s really terrible.

The man standing next to me had come at 8 a.m. that day, he also came at 8 a.m. the previous day, and might be here at 8 a.m. tomorrow. One of the times he did manage to get inside and attracted the girl-soldier’s attention, asking her to listen to what he had to say, only to hear: I don’t care. Come tomorrow.

So today is yesterday’s tomorrow, tomorrow is today’s, and the day after will tomorrow’s tomorrow, and again and again, until when?

The man does not ask anything that is so difficult to provide – all he needs for his modest request to be met is a bit of good will and a signature on the relevant form. But good will is not a part of the toolbox the soldiers receive from the army, and this man like many others will come again tomorrow to try his luck.