Cameras in hand, three television journalists suddenly emerge from the thicket of trees, then disappear behind the building. No sooner do they disappear from our sight than an Israeli soldier comes to escort them toward the guard booth where they stand as if awaiting orders.
A boy yells out, ‘Mama, I have to pee!’
I look over to where the voice is coming from and I see a woman holding the hand of a boy who cannot be older than four. He is jumping up and down while clenching his other hand between his thighs as if his bladder was about to explode. This is a place that really deserves to be pissed on. The two of them walk over to a doorless cement block.
From behind the truck, a small robot bursts into view. It looks like a metal spider, with a long skinny arm that sticks out about half a metre into the air, from which dangles a strap. Slowly, the robot rolls forward toward the right of the building. It disappears behind the jeep then pops out again for a few seconds before going into the trees. And then I cannot see it any more. I doubt if anyone else can.
I remember the first time I ever saw footage of a robot. One of the Arab satellite channels was rebroadcasting film from Israeli television. The robot was dragging the corpse of a Palestinian man who had blown himself up. As the robot pulled the body, it painted a thick stripe of blood, which traced down the street all the way until it reached the jeep where the pieces of the body were collected.
The three-person television crew is still there with its military escort. They take a few steps from the spot next to the guard booth where they had been made to stand. Then they all — television crew and escort — sprint toward the main building and disappear somewhere behind.
The woman and child return. After draining his bladder in the outdoor urinal, the boy looks relieved, even happy. He hops and skips all the way back to where they had been standing before.
At exactly 1 pm an explosion shakes the entire area, and my body shudders to feel it. Dense smoke rises from behind the thicket of trees, and with it all traces of the attempt.
The camera crew go back to their spot. An officer comes up to them and stands in front of one of their cameras. He begins to deliver a statement that none of us in the plaza can hear. A spokesman from the Israeli army, no doubt briefing the media on what transpired here this morning.
The camera crew wraps things up and quickly leaves the plaza. They walk right through all of us and disappear. At this point, everyone begins to murmur: ‘Now they’re going to open up the crossing.’
8
I find myself staring at a man sitting in a wheelchair. He is wearing a baseball cap that hides half his face and his hands lie wilted on the armrests. His body is so slight, anyone could lift him and his chair at the same time.
The man swelters in the afternoon sun and is trying his best to gather his body beneath the shade of his hat. After some hesitation, I walk over to him. ‘The sun is too much, sir. Can I walk you over to the shade?’ I point toward a patch of unused shadow extending out from under the sunshade.
The man does not answer. He does not even raise his eyes to look at me. He shows no signs of wanting to see the face of a stranger who has offered to help him. He merely waves me away with his hand. Forget about it.
Is it pride or embarrassment? Or pure recklessness? I think for a moment and decide not to give up. ‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘I’m used to it, man. It’s not my first time sitting here and it won’t be the last. Whenever I go to Ramallah for treatment and try to come back, it’s always the same old crap.’
The loudspeaker interrupts us. I cannot make out what the voice is saying, but it ends my attempt to convince the man to let me help him.
As soon as the announcement is repeated, everybody begins to sprint toward the guard booth. Only then do I understand what the announcement was: that people should bring their identity cards and entry permits to the checkpoint kiosk.
The man in the wheelchair lifts his head toward me slightly, as if taking his leave. He smiles as he begins to roll toward the crossing.
Nearly all the men have disappeared from the plaza. Only women remain. After handing their IDs and permits to their male relatives, they stay with the infants and young children.
A handsome young man in glasses comes over to the man in the wheelchair and takes his identity card. The older man does not stop him as he walks over to the checkpoint kiosk. The man passes the identity card to a tall soldier with a face as red as a ripe tomato. The soldier stacks the cards and permits on top of one another in a large pile.
The young man returns to stand next to me. I am still standing exactly where I was. I have not moved at all, as if what is going on around me has nothing to do with me, or as if I had not been waiting for this moment for hours. I am genuinely confused about what is expected of me. The man in the wheelchair explains that what I am supposed to do is present my papers to the soldier at the kiosk. But as I understand it, the kiosk has nothing to do with me, since VIPs, I thought, were supposed to present them at the VIP entrance, which is on the other side of the checkpoint.
I hesitate before asking the young man next to me: ‘Excuse me, but where do people with passports go?’
Rather than answer me, he asks, ‘What kind of passport?’
‘British.’
He tells me give it to the soldier at the checkpoint kiosk. Then he mentions the fact that he himself carries a UN passport, and that he handed it in along with everyone else when they presented their identity cards and permits.
I pull my suitcase behind me as I walk over to the kiosk. I hand my passport to the soldier, who takes it without looking at me. He puts it in the pile with all the other papers. Then he shouts in Arabic: ‘Anyone else with an ID or permit?’
Another young man walks up to him and hands him two cards. The soldier disappears inside the kiosk while everyone stands around waiting.
The young man with the UN passport joins the crowd outside the kiosk. ‘Now what happens?’ I ask.
‘They inspect them in batches, then they call out people’s names. When you hear your name, you can go through.’
‘And the passports?’
‘They take them to the office over there.’ He points to the VIP office. Hearing this helps me calm down — it means that I am still very important, even if my passport is temporarily sitting alongside the other, less important travel papers in the soldier’s hand.
I go on waiting like everybody else — under the burning sun and with no shred of shade in which to take refuge except for the small one cast by my own body. Close by, I notice a five-year-old boy entertaining himself by kicking the ground with his foot. On his head, he wears a hat that he must have made out of green upholstery. Next to him stands a girl a couple of years older. She holds up her hands to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. And a baby resting on her mother, sucking away at a pacifier, trying to find shade under the kerchief her mother holds over their heads. An old woman wraps her head in white gauze as she sits on the ground. Then I notice her bare feet. I am startled and begin to watch her. She mumbles to herself then lifts herself off the sun-baked gravel. She goes looking for shade under the utility pole.
I walk over to the pole and lean up against it, doubling the size of the slice of shade the old woman now sits in.
When I walk away again, my shadow splits from the pole’s and leaves the woman in full sunlight. As I go by, she looks up, shading her eyes with a hand into which time has etched the lines of her life. The other hand blocks out the light of the sun, and she studies me with a quick glance.