Sadly, it is just another day. Just another day of monitoring Checkpoint 56 to see whether Palestinian children and teachers are allowed by Israeli soldiers to get to school in the morning and home in the afternoon. Just another day of watching boys and girls in their own hometown, laughing and carrying backpacks full of books, suffer the regular indignity of passing in and out of a heavily militarized, barricaded, monstrous gate, at times being stopped and questioned by heavily armed soldiers who hold their fate in their hands. Somebody shared with me their old photos of checkpoints in Hebron since taking a picture of this scene would get me immediately deported, so while the words are mine, the photos are not my own.
School in Hebron - or Al Khalil, as Palestinians call it - is currently only in session three days a week due to lack of funding to pay teachers. Last week, because of anticipated violence by illegal Israeli settlers and the soldiers who protect them, Palestinian schools in Al Khalil were cancelled. Next week, school may be cancelled again due to a teachers' strike. The checkpoints are frequently closed by Israeli military for random reasons. Going to school is definitely not a daily or even regular occurrence for children in Al Khalil.
As we watch the checkpoint, we notice we are being watched by at least five cameras and two soldiers with their fingers on the triggers of their automatic weapons on the rooves above us. Children - sometimes a dozen at a time - are excited to see foreigners in a place where many assume they have been abandoned by the outside world. Seemingly unfazed by the backdrop of violence, they surround us and chat with us excitedly, using the little English they remember from school: "Where are you from?" they ask over and over again. "What is your name?"
We answer back in the little broken Arabic we know. "How old are you?" "What is your name?" we respond. For the most part, the children - ranging in age from 2 to 12 - are delighted by our banter. They ask whether we love Israel or Palestine. "We love Palestine!" we say, and the children are visibly relieved, assured now that we will not attack them. One of them announces with all seriousness, "We don't love Israel because Israel kills children."
Thinking we are done for the day, grateful that there were no major incidents at either the morning or afternoon checkpoint watch, we go and have tea and sage - chai wa maramiya - at a local, mostly empty, coffee shop. Discussing which produce we'll purchase at the local market, we begin the 40-minute walk home.
Suddenly, six Israeli soldiers all armed with live ammunition - one carrying what appears to be a rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his back and another a machine gun - march out of the military base gate and begin parading menacingly down the Palestinian streets of the Old City. They stop at least three Palestinian cars at random, checking IDs and searching trunks. We follow them and film as the soldiers make a loop around the entire market, making their presence known through intimidation and rude remarks.
While we are horrified at this display of violence and abuse, we notice that the local Palestinians do not seem phased. Children continue riding their bikes near the soldiers. Couples continue to shop together for produce. Drivers shut the trunks of their cars after they are searched and drive away.
After about 20 minutes, the soldiers return to the Israeli military base located across the street from the shops of some of our friends. We go to check on them, to see if they are OK. It seems we are more shaken than they are. While they have gathered in our friend's shop to wait out the incident, they are not shocked or even surprised. Ready to move on with their day, they hastily offer us their business card and offer for us to come visit. "This is what we go through every day," they seem to say. Just another day.
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