Rose Asaf
Occupied Palestine ’48
Zochrot
I have never experienced checkpoints, apartheid, and occupation as poignantly and viscerally as I did in Khalil, also known as Hebron. Khalil is where the occupation and apartheid exist in their most exaggerated and blatant form. Khalil’s Shuhada Street, a once-thriving city center and marketplace, is now defined as a ghost town. Where Palestinian merchants used to sell their goods is now a Jewish-only street.
Khalil is marked by its intense segregation, network of internal checkpoints, heavy military presence, and settler community. Khalil is divided into different jurisdictions, as well. There is H1, or Palestinian-controlled Khalil, and H2, Israeli-occupied Khalil.
In H2, settlers and Palestinians often live side-by-side, but not in a way that represents coexistence and cohabitation. Instead, settlers, who are aided and abetted by soldiers, frequently harass and sometimes physically harm their Palestinian neighbors. Even though the settlers and Palestinians live side-by-side, it is crucial to note that different legal systems exist for each of them. Palestinians are subject to Israeli military rule, do not have freedom of movement on their own land, and have no say in the Israeli administration that governs them. Settlers, on the other hand, are treated as Israeli citizens and can thus vote, are protected by the state, and have the military essentially acting as their private security force.
I spent a good amount of time in Khalil this summer. I have friends living both in H1 and H2 who I have worked with in the past and visited this summer. To go between H1 and H2, one must pass through Checkpoint 56. Every Friday in front of Checkpoint 56, there are weekly clashes between youth resisters and soldiers. I found myself caught in these clashes twice.
One Friday, I was leaving H1 after lunch with a friend when we stumbled onto clashes unawares. We saw heavily-armed soldiers throwing grenades and pointing their weapons at Palestinian youth armed with nothing but rocks. Standing with international journalists, my friend and I filmed and documented the ordeal, sharing what we saw on social media. Then, after a soldier fell after trying to throw a flash grenade at the youth, the journalist group I was with laughed, which apparently did not please the soldiers, as within minutes, we teargassed. My friend and I bolted across Checkpoint 56 with general ease and saw children no older than six years old running as well, covering their faces with their shirts and tin foil. This was clearly not the first time they had been teargassed.
Another Friday at Checkpoint 56, the soldiers decided to arbitrarily close the checkpoint. As I approached, there were probably 20 Palestinian men waiting to get through. One of them told me that he had been waiting over an hour already. Two Palestinian elders were clearly fatigued and dehydrated. They were begging to be allowed to cross so they could reach their homes just a few meters on the other side of the checkpoint. In Hebrew, I asked the soldiers what was going on and why the checkpoint was closed. He responded, “The checkpoint is closed for them. Not for you and your friends,” motioning to the three other white international women I was with. We, of course, did not take his offer, and waited another two hours with the others to get through. This is the reality of how different bodies are governed and treated in this space. This is the reality of occupation and apartheid.