



Lucky
for us, the judge decided today he would come to work. He doesn't every day,
apparently. So our papers were signed, witnessed and stamped and we had to give
them to some guy who would take them to another office in another town to get
stamped by another judge. And then maybe they have to go to Ramallah for
another judge. Maybe. Who knows.
Then
we had to go to the civil court, to get a paper stamped to say that Rahel
exists, that she is here, that we are her parents and that we are married. Then
she can get a Palestinian birth certificate. Maybe. This took less thank half
an hour, but cost more money. Rahel was very interested to see the cells where
the prisoners are kept before appearing in court; they are in the main
reception area.
So
now we have to wait for the first lot of papers (our third wedding certificate)
to come back. They do a few hours later. Unstamped. The reason? Because Rahel
was born "out of wedlock". First they refuse to accept our Islamic
wedding we had in the
Perhaps
I should explain why we are putting ourselves through so much aggravation.
Rahel is British, born in
This
registration is as much for the Israeli authorities as it is for the Palestinian.
It will give her the right to live here should she want to in the future and is
also vital should there be any future settlement for Palestinian refugees.
Jamal's
huwiyyah – an Israeli issued identity card - marks him out as a West Bank
Palestinian. It offers no rights, no benefits. It just ensures that he is on
the Israeli database, and is therefore subject to the control mechanism used to
enforce the occupation. Rahel needs to be added to this ID card.
It
is now 10pm and still no stamp and no formal recognition of our marriage and
Rahel's existence. It seems to be all about the money. Nothing is done without
money changing hands. We know people, people who can help, but even so we still
cannot seem to get the stamp we need so that Jamal can update his documents.
And without a Palestinian passport, which he needs to renew and cannot without
all the other ID documents, he cannot even leave. Tomorrow we have to start
this process all over again. And more hands will be waiting for more shekels to
help progress our case.
When
at the civil court Rahel needed the lavatory. I took her to the facilities
provided and was disgusted. Three stalls, the loos all broken with no seats, and one covered
in shit. No locks on the doors, no loo paper and they didn't flush. Three
sinks, none with water. This is the main court for the area, part of the
'sulta' (authority) yet they couldn't even manage (or be bothered) to keep the
facilities clean and working.
Sadly
it sums up the state of
Arrival
As we landed I was filled with so much emotion. I always feel like I am coming
home when I arrive. Everything has a comforting familiarity, despite not being
able to read the Hebrew signs. But, as always, a feeling in the pit of my
stomach of the anxiety I also felt. Still, we were here and that was all that
mattered.
Rather surprisingly, the most hassle I had was trying to get the pushchair off
the plane and getting from Ben Gurion to
Our taxi was irritatingly absent (it was 3.30am when we arrived) so after a
long wait I decided to catch the Nesher (service taxi) to
As usual, we were last to be dropped. Before getting to the checkpoint the
driver had one other couple to drop off. This resulted in me having an
impromptu "tour" of one of the most recent settlements to be built
around
Jebel abu Ghnaim was a beautiful spot where families, mainly from Beit Sahour,
used to picnic every Sunday. The area was owned by three or four local
families. It was expropriated in the late nineties and earmarked for a new
settlement.
The picture above (pipes in the foreground) was Jebel abu Ghnaim in 2001. Today
it is a sprawling suburb of Jersualem and construction is ongoing. I was really
shocked to see how much it had changed. The settlement also faces directly the
town of
Finally we were dropped at the checkpoint. Another bizarre experience as it has
changed so much. The checkpoint is part of the barrier/wall, the construction
of which has left a number of families and businesses on the wrong side. This
cuts them off from their work, schools and university, the hospital, and of
course their community. More about this later....
Outside the checkpoint quite a few men were sitting, smoking and waiting for
the service taxis to come and take them to
One taxi stopped and offered to take me through the checkpoint for 50NIS. It
had just cost me 50NIS (well, 100 really as Rahel demanded her own seat) to
come all the way from the airport. But again, there are few tourists to help
boost income so they have to make what they can from any opportunity. Still, I
am not strictly a tourist, nor am I naive, so I declined. I walked up to the
terminal and was waved through the turnstile by a cheery soldier who thought it
was great that I had come from
I keep calling it a checkpoint but it is so much more than that. It is a cattle
shed, a holding pen, a vast system of control which demeans the people who have
to use it. The men were desperate to get the OK to go through. Having struggled
with a rucksack, a pushchair and Rahel to get through a turnstile designed for
one person I went out the door, only to be confronted by another, more secure
turnstile which was impossible to negotiate with any sort of luggage. I stood,
confused for a brief time (I'd not slept for 24 hours and was feeling pretty
crap) when a man appeared and managed to help me get everything through - him
one side pulling and me the other, pushing.
I was now in what seemed to be a car park, with men sprinting and shouting
across from one metal to shed to the next. These men had clearly got through
their first hurdle and need to ensure their place at the next. The checkpoint
gets closed with no notice, so there is a desperate urgency in these mens
frantic rush. Their lives controlled at the whim of a soldier.
Another barrier confronted me which was impossible for me to get through.
Further up was the roadway where vehicles pass. Two or three soldiers milled
around, with not very much to do. It was the only way I could get out so of we
went. All he asked was where was my husband.
Finally, after a short walk, some negotiation with a taxi driver I finally
arrived at Jamal's mother's home. What a relief!! I had a drink of water, a fig
that had just been picked from the tree in the garden, and went to bed feeing
very relieved.