Qalandiya - third Friday of Ramadan

The seeds of hatred

Facts that do not stand out in real time penetrate like acid into stone, like seeds into crumbling soil that will eventually bear fruit, results unknown.

Such were the seeds sown in the two brothers – 5.5 and 3-years-old – who had prepared themselves and were thrilled and happy to greet this Ramadan day, on which their mother dressed them in the identical special, festive, white clothes prepared for this day. But on their way to the Al Aqsa Mosque in a city where their feet had never touched before, on the very first selection station at Qalandiya Checkpoint they were stopped. Their hope was dashed at once, in a reality where those in charge are not their parents but strangers in uniforms with pointed rifles.

In that selection station the women (in the photo) were stopped, and after being chased away remained for a long time by the wall, some of whom asked to be photographed and spoken about, and others who covered their faces not to be exposed. They stood or sat and refused to leave, hoping the tide might turn. But it didn’t, and they had to turn back and leave, their insult wrapped in grief.

The gate that supposedly serves humanitarian cases was reached by a disabled man in a wheelchair, led by his son. The man showed his papers to the soldier behind the glass. The soldier took a look at the man and the boy, and said:

“You may cross, but your son looks grown up to me, he cannot cross here. Your son must go around to where all the other men cross.” But the man, dependent on his son and unable to proceed without him, gave the soldier the son’s birth certificate. “Why does he not have an ID?” the soldier asked. “Because he is not yet 16, only 3 months from now. Look at the birth certificate” the father answered.

“He should go around”, the soldier ruled.

“Please, please” the father pleaded.

The soldier insisted: “Nothing I can do about it. Let him go around.”

I tried too: “Look at him, the man needs his son, he cannot climb the bridge on his own…” But I and my words were empty air to the soldier whose ears were deaf and feelings sealed.

The third Ramadan Friday at Qalandiya was day of sadness and much fear. At the meeting points where in previous weeks tens of thousands had congregated, one could count a meager few dozen.

The scenes of the recent nights at Al Aqsa echoed in the collective memory and became vapors of fear in the hearts.

The few still knocking at the gates did not cause the armed men to soften their hearts. On the contrary, extra vigilance was obvious.

An hour before the gates closed, some order was given to make anyone unauthorized by the authorities to leave – all the photographers and journalists and representatives of international organizations.

When a group of generals arrived and praised itself on managing to regiment the passages to Al Aqsa, I approached them and asked why the new distancing order? What threat is there in photographers or representatives of international organizations?

Their answer was to turn their backs on me and leave.