Qalandia checkpoint is a human-sized birdcage. I have said this before, and this is the only way I will ever see it. I rode the Ramallah to Jerusalem bus excited – except I would not be dropped off in Jerusalem. I would be dropped off at the Qalandia checkpoint.
I have not been to Jerusalem in two years. At the bus stop and on Qalandia, I heard stories of women and old men who have not been there in over twenty. I know people who haven’t been there since they were born and who are now having children of their own. I am lucky. It had only been two years since I have visited one of the holiest cities in the world.
As I walked, I reserved great attention to my footsteps. I looked down at my blue Converse as I stepped on stones and the remains of burnt tires.
A few weeks ago, there were protests at Qalandia for the hunger strikers who have had their basic rights stripped away from them. Tires were burnt. Smoke rose in the air. I, however, was not witness to this. I only found stones and the remains of burnt tires.
This is the aftermath of protests. Black skies and ground. Black. Darkness until one day, when we see light.