The Wall

On Saturday we traveled to Qalqilya, a city of 43,000 people in the western West Bank tightly enclosed on all sides by the "Security Fence." Qalqilya is almost completely encircled because the wall snakes dramatically in this area to capture the (illegal) settlements built to the north and south 5, 10, and 15 km inside the West Bank, while keeping Qalqilya inside the West Bank. There is now only one road and one checkpoint in and out of the city, and if it is closed for any reason, or if you lack a permit to pass through it, you cannot leave Qalqilya.

Since the wall has been built, everything requires a permit. Before the wall, most people in Qalqilya either farmed for a living or depended on employment in Israel. Permits to work in Israel are almost never granted now, but more importantly, 95% of the farmland that formerly belonged to the people of Qalqilya is now in Israel, meaning Qalqilyans need a permit to visit their own property.

We spoke to one young man who told us that his grandfather is the only member of the family who has been issued a permit to visit their farmland. His grandfather is 75 years old.

Permits are also required to leave Qalqilya for medical care. There is only one hospital for the 43,000 people of Qalqilya. It is run by the U.N. and offers only basic care (no surgery, etc.). But despite obvious need, permits to travel to Israel or Jordan for more advanced care are still very difficult to obtain. Another young man told us about his father who, as a member of the legislative council, was allowed to go to Jordan for heart surgery, but noted that this was very rare and very lucky. If you are just a regular guy, your chances of being granted a permit to go abroad for surgery, chemotherapy, or any kind of advanced medical treatment are very very low.

We arrived in Qalqilya hoping to see the infamous Wall but with little idea of how to get there or who to talk to. We headed for the mall, the largest building we could see. After loitering awkwardly for a few minutes, we were approached by a young, well-dressed Palestinian asking if we needed any help. When we told him that we wanted to see the Wall, he offered to take us himself as soon as he found someone to watch his store while he was gone. He invited us into his (air-conditioned) shop to wait and served us coffee. When we told him his store was beautiful, just like an American store, he took this as an exaggerated compliment. ("Like a store in Jordan maybe. I've been to Jordan. But America, no. I don't believe you.")

His name was Sari and he and his friends freely volunteered stories and information about Qalqilya. A frequent refrain from all of them in response to talk of the Wall, of the unemployment in Qalqilya, or the absurdities of the permit system, was a resigned, "What can we do?" After Sari found someone to watch his store, he walked us out to the Wall. The Wall surrounding Qalqilya is the tallest section in the West Bank at 8m (24 ft). When we asked Sari how the Wall made him feel, he said put his thumb and forefinger together to indicate 'small.' And it does make you feel small, and watched. Even if there are no soldiers in the watchtowers that punctuate the wall, you feel like there are. The only thing that lessens the shrinking feeling the wall engenders is the colorful graffiti along the bottom, messages of resistance in every language – Spanish, German, French, English, and of course Arabic.

Some of my favorite slogans:

"This definitely is NOT a 'fence'."

"This IS apartheid."

"Israel makes me ashamed to be American."

"They can shut up our body & our land, but they can't shut up our fight."

"The only peace Israel wants is a piece of my land."

As we walked, Sari pointed out several houses that had been abandoned. The Israelis apparently forced their occupants to leave when the wall was under construction. For those who still live in the houses along there, Sari remarked, 'All they see is the wall now. When they look out the window, that is all they can see."

Aside from the serious issues of loss of land, lack of health care, and the suffering economy (six shops in the mall had closed just in the past few months), the trapped Qalqilyans suffer from the basic and inevitable problem of claustrophobia, of simple boredom. Sari was a very intelligent man who spoke excellent English with a degree in Management Information Systems, stuck in a shop selling ties and dress shirts. He described his routine, "Going to work, going to home, going to work, going to home. That is all I do. Very boring." The longer we stayed by the Wall, the more Sari talked of the feeling of being caged. "We are like animals here – we eat and we sleep. That is all we are permitted to do." When asked if he would like to remain in Palestine or relocate elsewhere, Sari was desperate to go to Sweden, Canada, Turkey, anywhere but Palestine. He talked fondly of the years of the Oslo Accords (1993 untill 2000, the beginning of the Second Intifada) before checkpoints, before the Wall, before the expansion of the settlements, when Palestinians were able to travel freely and Arab Israelis often came to shop in Qalqilya, but despaired that there would be no return to those days. "If I had even a little hope, I would stay. But I have none."

After we came back from the Wall, Sari took us up to the roof of the mall to show us the view of Qalqilya. The owner accompanied us and told us how the IDF had invaded the mall only a few months ago. He showed us doors that had been broken, kicked in, tile that had been smashed. He was baffled and angry that the army would invade a shopping mall: "They know people come here to shop. They know that is all they do. But still they come." And from Sari, the refrain, "What can we do?"

On the roof, looking out over Qalqilya, Sari said with a smile, "Now, now we are bigger than the wall."

Love,
Gabriella