A segregation system that obliterates your existence in Jerusalem with almost a welcoming smile
Since the explosion of events that followed October 7 of last year, I have been struggling to keep myself on track with logic that insists that no matter how the darkness of a long, harsh night persists, rays of daylight will definitely find their way out to a new horizon of hope. Sadly, this hollowed, vicious night refuses to shed its darkness, but I keep reminding myself that the rays of sunrise will definitely find their way.
Amid all this, it is impossible to think of a future that reveals optimism of peace and justice. Everything seems so far away from even permitting the use of such words, but again, this is not a privilege; there is no escape from finding ways where peace and justice prevail. Ultimately, we do not have an option but to live together on this land. After eight decades, Palestine-Israel has become home not just to those who sought refuge in Palestine. Still, it remained home to those who stayed and who were forcibly expatriated and exiled from Palestine.
We will live together; there is no other option. But first, maybe we need to start by seeing one another, even if only as threatening others. I thought even that could be a step toward mutual recognition.
For Palestinians, the Israeli is often perceived as the soldier at the checkpoint, the policeman enforcing oppression, or the official perpetuating injustice. For Israelis, Palestinians are mere, unneeded additions to humanity that do not fit in the modern civilized world. Edward Said once remarked, “Universality means taking a risk to transcend the comfortable certainties provided by our backgrounds, language, and nationality, which often shield us from the realities of others.” Maybe it is time to practice an Edward Saidian recipe for thought amidst this backdrop of division and animosity, for there are fleeting moments of unexpected clarity and connection…
I saw the light… I thought playfully when I made an appointment with the Ministry of Interior to renew my Identity Card as a Jerusalemite resident. The system has reminded me of making an appointment for many months before my ID expires next July. Each time I received the flash of a reminder, I panicked, thinking about the consequences of not having my ID renewed in time. As a “good”, “nice” citizen-resident, I obediently followed the system instructions and booked an appointment with the offered Ministry of Interior office. I cannot describe what nightmares awake when it is time to visit the Ministry of Interior. I am serious; the experience is indescribable. This time, I thought to myself, grow up, girl, your issue is issueless; it is only renewing your ID. It will take no time, and the options are nicely listed for you to go to almost any office you choose. Options were not necessarily fitting to my needs; where I only needed to select an office in Jerusalem, the options were only the office in the city centre; other options were in settlements, and it seemed irrelevant. I would have chosen the office closest to my residence, which is also in the city centre but on the eastern side of the city, but it was unavailable.
I went to my appointment in the city centre office, and I had to wait for almost thirty people until my number would pop onto the screen, which allowed me to observe and reflect. I was thinking that, finally, this is a place where each “other” will see the “other” in what looks like a shared interest of a forced presence. Everyone needed to be here for a reason that was not political, social, or economic, a mere “residence” reason. Everyone was here because he/she believed he/she wanted to make sure that he/she is at “home”. It was pretty amazing to observe people sitting waiting for their number to be called. Youngsters and elderly, men and women, and religious people suddenly seem similar. There was a Jewish religious woman whose dress was identical to a Palestinian religious dress code; I could not distinguish her from her religious husband, whose dress code cannot be that of a Palestinian.
I was thinking that if we just make people gather in such circumstances and they start looking at one another, how much they will realize the similarities—the humanity they share. I thought that this place was, at this moment, serving what all peace encounters failed to provide. People are watching each other in an “otherness” that reflects something similar to who they are.
If we could see through our similarities, I mused, smiling splendidly when my number flashed on the screen unexpectedly.
I was hooraying the equality I was experiencing. Here we are, Jews and Arabs of Jerusalem, receiving services from the state without distinguishing or differentiating. This was almost 100 minutes of waiting, which is the most inspiring in these tough times of living in this place, I thought.
When I reached the counter, a nice, smiling woman welcomed me, asked me what I was there for, and, before even showing her my ID, told me firmly: “You cannot get service here!”
I was like, “But the system gave me this choice with no indication that I could not.”
She said, with her smile fading and her eyes about to turn into a severe gaze: “There is nothing I can do; your ID needs to be renewed in the office east of the city.”
I tried to interject with a “but” here and argue a “but” there. I attempted to explain that the system does not even give me the choice to select the east office because it does not appear.
She explained firmly, “There is nothing you can do. Keep trying the system until availability opens in that office.”
“But my ID may expire if I don’t get the system to show that office on its screen soon,” I insisted.
“Keep trying, it may appear,” she replied before turning her face and buzzing for the next customer in line. Realizing the futility of my arguments and not wanting to waste more time for those waiting in line, I left.
Stepping out, the noise and images of people began to fade from my mind, replaced by the disheartening reality of segregation that lurked beneath the surface. While not immediately apparent, the lines of division etched themselves into my consciousness. It wasn’t merely about physical barriers or visible signs of oppression; it was the subtle, insidious ways in which segregation permeated our daily lives, reminding us of a system designed to oppress and dehumanize.
As I walked out onto the bustling streets of Jerusalem, the feeling of being cast aside lingered. Denied the fundamental right to access essential services in my city, the lines of segregation, though invisible to the eye, were palpable, serving as a constant reminder of the oppression and division that defined our existence.
Nadia Harhash, Palestinian journalist and philosopher