huwara checkpoint

huwara checkpoint

trashy place, looks thrown together

cattle shed roofs, a cage

of bars and concrete barriers 

narrow turnstiles

crammed with hands and faces

bursts of angry voices

now and then

banging.

every person passing through

has an automatic rifle 

aimed at face or chest,

men or boys, 

old women,

children.

the boy soldier's finger

roams across

the trigger of his gun

constantly.

it has two magazines

joined with fraying

duct tape, jammed inside. 

like the ones

i see carried on the street 

or on the busses or the train,

each one is slightly different

personalized. 

like boots.

or hats.

it rained the night before

the pavement has a soup 

of thin mud smeared across it

like trampled chocolate pudding.

a car is stopped. searched. the driver

and passengers wait in the drizzle 

while the sneering soldier girl directs

her sniffer dog

to rummage through the car

jumping in and out, wet poking 

nose, it's a game for the dog

to muddy the seats

the floor, the trunk

the packages, the bags.

he enjoys his work.

and there's nothing to be found 

but the car will need to be cleaned

their clothes changed before prayers,

weddings, births or funerals

because dogs are unclean animals.

so the girl soldier goes back to smoke and joke

with the other kids at the checkpoint 

gathered round the coffee urn

and the bag of rolls, assault rifles

casually slung on their shoulders. 

at the service window:

one by one the people approach

identity documents in hand.

a boy who's looking very bored 

types in a number on a laptop

and a picture and some data

materialize on the screen 

a nod and then the next one 

inside the steel revolving cage

walks three steps up to the window

and the same procedure starts again 

until it stops.

for no apparent reason, none that i can see 

none that the checkpoint watcher 

can determine or explain......

maybe that's the point: no point

these people just don't matter 

why don't they just stay home, 

have the baby tomorrow

or on the ground,

find work another day, 

or even better,

why don't they just leave?

then this crappy little shed

and the concrete barriers could disappear, 

be dismantled in a day.

like the people,

the spilled shopping bags swept up,

this road between two villages

crossed in three minutes, not three hours.

maybe that's the point.

and then we leave, it's warm in the car 

and at the green line, there's no problem

when you have the yellow license plates 

and cactus accents.

and the ones who didn't pass,

well, come back tomorrow

try again, after all,

that's the point.