Permits from hell
The only democracy in the Middle East treats Palestinians like caged animals.Lisa Taraki* describes how
It is a hot mid-July day. By 10am, which is the time I arrive, the place is teeming with hopeful applicants. Most have been there since 8:30 when the gate opened. The Israeli "civil administration" outpost at the edge of the settlement of Beit El near Ramallah consists of a few shacks with corrugated tin roofs topped by sandbags, barbed wire, and an empty watchtower that must have seen better days.
No cars are allowed into the compound. Applicants must walk a stretch of the once flourishing Ramallah- Nablus highway on foot after scaling some dirt mounds softened and worn down by countless feet.
A concessionaire has been granted permission to dispense coffee, cold drinks and nuts in exchange for sweeping the courtyard. The public toilets are unspeakably filthy, and a healthy swarm of flies enjoys unhindered access to the teeming multitudes.
There are four windows with faded signs in Hebrew and Arabic indicating where to apply for, and receive, different kinds of permits. A large crowd of men and a few women wait patiently at the windows marked "magnetic cards". The window I approach is a multi-purpose window for various kinds of permits.
There is total chaos. A burly young man who has situated himself at the top of the line by the window acts as a self-appointed translator for the rest of us ignorants. He tries to push the pile of applications gathered from the rest of the crowd through the bars of the "window" so that the soldier-clerk on the other side would begin processing them. By 10:30, he is lucky enough to have the clerk receive applications. I heave a sigh of relief that my application for a permit to use Ben Gurion Airport for a trip abroad is among the papers. Or so I think at the time.
I decide to pass the time by doing an ethnographic study. A good cross- section of society is represented here. I note that the gender balance is quite acceptable, and follow intently the politics of the gendered body. How much space is allowed a woman to approach the window? What weight the age factor has here? What are the benefits and drawbacks of the various forms of dress worn by women? Full hijab, modified hijab, token hijab, full western dress with jeans, modified western dress with skirt, and so on.
The vast majority of the applicants are here to get "internal checkpoint permits", given out for varying durations ranging from a few hours to several days. Some want "Israel permits" that would enable them to enter Israel. Others, like me, are waiting for airport permits. A young couple from Gaza who reside in Ramallah are hoping to get permits so they can visit their families in Gaza. They have not been able to do so for two years even though the distance between Gaza and Ramallah is nearly one hour by car.
At 11:40am, a soldier announces that all his colleagues are going on a lunch break and will reopen the windows at 1pm sharp. Lots of comments about the kind of food to be consumed by the soldiers and wishes for good digestion float about.
At 2:35 sharp, the curtains on the other side of my window rustle. The huge crowd of hopefuls readies their ID cards and wait for their names to be called. This turns out to have been a false alarm, probably a careless soldier brushing against the curtain.
At this point, a young man strategically situated at the window tells me that he just saw my papers with the new pile to be submitted after the window reopens. I am crestfallen, thinking they were submitted with the 10am batch. But one can never be sure.
At 2:45, the curtain is pulled aside. Within 15 minutes, the soldier has received the new pile of applications. The applicants remark victoriously that now that their applications have been submitted, it will be only a short wait until the results are out. By 3pm, the names from the morning batch of applications are called out. But who can hear their name being called out with so much commotion around?
Our tireless interpreter saves the day, shouting out the names. The most common word shouted out after the names is marfoudh (refused). Others who are more lucky are told to buttress their applications with doctors' reports, employers' testimonies, and the like, and to come back the next day.
By 4pm, it is clear that my papers were indeed in the afternoon batch. A quick succession of marfoudhs, and then nothing. A young man reassures me that they call out the rejectees' names first. So the fact that my name had not been called is a good omen.
At 4:50, I hear my name over the din. But how to approach the window with the multitudes of men swarming there -- some have climbed up on top of the railings in order to get a better view of the goings-on behind the iron bars? But the gallant crowd allows the right amount of space for a woman to approach the window.
A soldier barks out something in Hebrew. By this time a new translator -- the first one has departed with his marfoudh -- saves the day. I try English. "You are rejected." Thank you very much. A productive seven-hour day spent in scientific observation and notes for further study.
As I leave the compound, a foreign woman pulls up confidently in her Israeli yellow licence-plated car. The soldiers yell at her to move the car to another place away from the entrance. I know instinctively that she is there to get airport permits for Palestinians who have been invited abroad by her organisation or government. They most likely need a little intercession with the army so they can depart through the airport and not suffer the indignities of the route through Jordan. I had the same idea, of course.
"I am not responsible for the occupation," she says when I point out that I wished the hundreds of waiting applicants had this same privilege. "Well, examine your conscience and see if you are not perpetuating it," was my parting shot as she went into the compound and I set off on my journey back to Ramallah over the dusty trail. For who can be sure she or he will not be tempted to use a little intervention?
But then what's VIP under occupation?
* The writer is associate professor of sociology at Bir zeit University.
