On the Road to Nazareth
Quietly I sit with my colleagues, my friends, waiting. A faceless voice within the toll booth looking box takes our passports and informs us that we are not yet permitted to leave, so we wait. We try to chat about inconsequential things like lesson plans and the winter weather; too afraid to talk about anything personal, we wait. The gatekeepers offer no chairs or benches to those of us on this side of the line, so we claim spots on the bare concrete floor, waiting. The grimy beige walls, in need of a wash and a bit of sunshine, offer us no source of distraction as they stand empty except for signs written in languages none of us understands. The only noise we can hear is that of a soldier’s footsteps on the catwalk above our heads as he patrols the perimeter of the building, his machine gun ever at the ready. I can feel a building pressure within my chest as my words and actions are watched and recorded, I am waiting.
It was my idea to go to Israel during our break. With classes cancelled due to the Muslim holiday of Eid, we were left with no one to teach and nothing to do as shops and stores around Nablus would be closed for the duration of the festivities. Not wanting to waste such an opportunity, I began organizing a trip.
"I have passed through Israeli controlled checkpoints before; within the West Bank, several of them slow movement between along roads, but this time it is different. This one is a passageway from what the gatekeepers consider enemy land into Israel itself."
I have had to wait before; this is not my first checkpoint. The West Bank is riddled with them, these road stops, these lessons in half-truths and patience purposely designed to control movement. This time it’s different. Now though, I am asking the gatekeeper to allow passage back into his country from the enemy’s land, something I have never had to do before. Twenty minutes we wait. Annoyance builds as I survey the empty room; with no one else here, it is obvious the waiting is a deliberate act on the gatekeepers’ part. We wait.
Classes and lesson planning kept most of us busy to the point that opportunities to travel outside the West Bank were limited, so to be given an uninterrupted stretch of time was a prospect not to be missed. Having spent four years in university studying the life and teaching of Jesus, I knew I wanted to take advantage of this break and see the land from which he had come.
I stand and attempt to get the blood flowing back into legs that are falling asleep from sitting on the floor when I see what I think is a soldier, another gatekeeper, enter the room. He doesn’t approach us, does not even look in our direction, though we are only yards apart. Instead, he goes and speaks with the faceless voice in the toll booth box. Hoping to be permitted to leave, we pick up our bags and inch our way to the exit, to freedom, only to be brought up short when the man walks away, carrying our passports. Again, nothing unusual; we wait.
I began to talk with my housemates, international volunteers like me who teach English, French or Art for the organization Project Hope, about their plans for the break. I had already spent time in Jerusalem and knew I would again as it is the hub for transportation to most destinations within the West Bank and Israel so I was not eager spend my time off seeing things I had already seen. However, I was just as eager not to travel alone so I was willing to go pretty much anywhere.
I prepare to sit back down on the ground again when I hear a man yell, “Who is the American?” I automatically look around, even though I am the only American in the group, hell in the room. My heart skips a beat, gets lodged in my throat and sinks to the pit of my stomach all at once. Here is the man who had carried our passports away earlier, standing with mine above his head as if it were the starting flag for the Indianapolis 500.
Nazareth was chosen as our group’s destination due to its proximity to home; it was close enough that those interested in a one-day trip could come, yet large enough to make a good jumping off spot to other destinations for those that wanted to travel for a few days. I, along with two others, a Brit and a German, decided to go simply for one day.
I pause a moment waiting for the others to be called over as well. But the call for the German and the Brit never come. My stomach clenches and my hands begin to shake, I must face the gatekeeper alone. Whether it’s due to being nervous or the pins and needles racing down my legs from sitting too long, I stumble as I walk over to the man holding my freedom. Unsure of the reason why I have been granted this unexpected “honor”, the first thing I cannot help but notice is that the man who stands there holding my passport is actually a boy of 19 or 20. Who is he to have such power over me?
Experienced with the delays usually found at checkpoints and road stops, the three of us left the apartment as early.. Multiple taxi rides and the power of our own two feet brought us to what could only be described as a prison-like military complex looming over the flat empty terrain. We had arrived at the border crossing.
The soldier asks, “Where are you going?”.
Feeling as if I am going to vomit on his shoes, I smile brightly and reply, Nazareth. Cheerfulness and a smile are my defense against the mind-numbing terror that he is inspiring. I must give him no reason to suspect that I am something other than what I am claiming to be: a tourist, a religious pilgrim.
“Where did you come from?”
I hesitate a moment before I reply, “Nablus”. Conscious that body language tells a story as clearly as the words leaving my mouth, I try not to show my discomfort, but I can’t help but worry; does this boy sense my hesitation? Can he tell from one brief pause that a dozen different scenarios and outcomes ran through my head as I decided if it was better to lie or tell the truth?
He flips through my passport looking at all the stamps I’ve acquired over the years. He pauses on the ones written in Arabic, dashing my hopes that he wouldn’t notice them wedged between Africa and Israel. He demands to know why I was there.
Out of the corner of my eye I still see the soldier with his gun walking the perimeter of the building. “I know that he can’t hurt me,” the rational side says, yet emotions and fear have a strangle hold on me. Continuously, I see myself being put in handcuffs, being kicked out of the country, being labeled a terrorist and being unable to return. It happened to Sara and all she did was teach yoga.
“Where is your camera?”
I can feel the blood leave my face; under a golden tan I become stark white. What is this soldier playing at? My bags had been taken away, emptied out and gone through. My camera examined as a possible explosive device. What more was there to look at?
“Can I look at your pictures?”
Then I knew.
Our last taxi driver, being a Palestinian, had not been permitted to let us off at the border crossing, so we had been forced to walk the last leg of our journey. The weather was beautiful with a brilliant blue sky over head and not a cloud to be seen. Yet the beauty was spoilt with every step that brought us closer to the fortress that loomed on the horizon. I had never witnessed anything like it before, roughly the size of a football stadium if not bigger, the complex appeared to have been dropped there in the middle of nowhere. The land was desolate, gone were the trees and grass, replaced with sandy rock pebbles and low growing shrubs. Barbed wire fencing surrounded it as if it had been gift wrapped by Santa. I wanted to take a picture to show the people back home because I knew I would lack the words to describe it, but I was afraid. Surely I wouldn’t be allowed to. Yet nowhere was there a sign that said such actions were forbidden. The only sign to be seen showed a gun with a big red X through it; being free of any fire arms, I risked taking the picture.
The gatekeeper hides his demand in the form of a question, letting it appear as I have choice. We both know better. A refusal will cause greater suspicion to fall on me; why wouldn’t a tourist, a religious pilgrim want to show her pictures? Yet I am unable to remember the last time I erased the memory card. Do I still have pictures of the protest, of the rock throwers? My heart pounds in my ears, I must lie, I must lie, I must lie; the voice in my head chants.
Yes, of course, I say. I offer to turn it on for him in a bid to give myself more to time to come up with a convincing lie. And lie I do; I paint for the gatekeeper - the picture of a tourist, young and stupid, who naively finds herself in places she shouldn’t. Mark Twain can be proud of the piece of fiction I produce for this boy.
I am afraid to look closely at the gatekeeper’s face to see if he is buying my story for fear that he will see the truth in my eyes. Nerves cause my smile to widen to the point of breaking. My friends are called over at this point by a different gatekeeper. Unlike me, they are questioned together. I try to listen in on their answers so that I can match mine to theirs, but they are too far away. Their responses must earn them a reprieve from further questioning because I see their gatekeeper give them their passports back and allow them to go to the door, to go towards freedom. I cross my fingers and hope that I too will be joining them.
Convinced by my answers or tired of toying with me, I am unsure which; the gatekeeper finally grants me permission to enter his land. It is still unclear to me why I was chosen to be questioned. Was it due to the picture they saw me take? Perhaps something about the way I carried myself seemed suspicious. Or maybe they just felt like scaring me, making me afraid to keep doing whatever it was I was doing that brought me to the West Bank. Walking over to meet my friends, I pause as my body is raked with tremors and my stomach rolls. The suppressed emotions hit me all at once. Never have I been so scared. As I leave the dimly lit room of the checkpoint I enter into the bright sunshine and look at my watch; what has felt like days has in reality only been an hour. It’s a beautiful day and I want to get busy enjoying it. It is too soon to begin thinking about how we are going to get back home.
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