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Heat, wind, dust, garbage. Cars stuck in line, jammed bumper to bumper - probably a two- hour wait. I squeeze through the few inches between an articulated lorry and the next car. On the other side is a porter shifting two television sets tied to his cart weaving in between the oncoming traffic. Ramallah, Ramallah Ramallah, the calls of a van organizer. I shake my head - and point toward the checkpoint. Up through the first set of blocks, the wind blows up white dust from the quarry, the peddlers clutch their sun umbrellas. I pick up my pace, its rush hour. Through the second row of blocks and I can see the crowd up ahead, spilling out from under the zinc roof and concrete pens of the crossing. I reach them and ask an old man, how long he's been waiting: "From the time I was born".
"Open the way, I have children, where's the women's line? A mother is overwhelmed with a toddler, a baby and a heavy shoulder bag. "There's no women's line today, just chaos", replies a young woman "Did they close it?" A new arrival asks anxiously.
"We can't tell." Comes the collective response. There are maybe 300 people here waiting to cross - too many to be able to see what's happening up front and more people keep piling up behind us. "For God's sake stop pushing" - shouts a young woman, "it's enough what we've got in front of us".
Something sharp jabs my back and I turn - the man looks at me apologetically hugging the culprit - his briefcase. Slowly the crowd are becoming lines up to the turnstyles, but I can't tell which one I'm in yet. I ask the man in front of me if he thinks this is the line for blue I.D.'s today, 'You'll only know when it's the wrong one'.
We're close enough to hear the soldiers now. Irja, Irja - "go back go back" the screeching voice of a woman soldier. Ta'al ta'al "come forward, come forward". We finally get close to our turnstile and beyond it is a glum looking teenage soldier leaning against the side chewing gum. The man in front of me shows his orange I.D....