An unusual arrest

Sept. 2002

About six months ago I was arrested by the border police who work under the auspices of the Israeli military. Picture this, Yale alumna, BK '83, High Tech Professional, mother of 5 driving a pick-up truck (we live on a farm) - not exactly a serious threat to the community. It was a dark section of the north bound feed into main Tulkarm-Netanya road that is famous in the world arena for being the narrow belt across the middle of Israel that is acutely problematic to secure.

An hour earlier, a call came into my husband's mobile phone. He was abroad so I answered it. It was Machmud, a man who had worked with my husband in the construction of one of his building projects. Over the years the men had become friends. I knew my husband respected Machmud for his commitment and responsibility as well as the great skill he brought to the job. He is a father of five and a Palestinian living outside Nablus.

He said he'd wanted to ask my husband a favor. Travel for Palestinians was becoming very difficult. It was increasingly complicated to find work as fewer and fewer men were given permits to enter Israel. The local Palestinian economy has always been highly dependent on access to revenue from Israel. Machmud explained that he was in financial straits; An Israeli Arab living not far from my moshav owed him money. He'd made his way to an Israeli Arab village a few miles away and asked if I could take him to pick up the money. Knowing the importance of honor and self-respect to this man, I realized how difficult it must have been for him to ask such a favor - especially of a woman.

Although it was illegal to hire any worker without a proper permit, it was, as far as I knew, ok to drive with them in one's car. As it turned out, that was not true.

We were stopped along with all the other cars at a makeshift roadblock - the kind that appear and disappear throughout Israel's roads. This once unheard of phenomenon has become part of Israeli's daily lives. One never knows if it will take 20min or 2hours to go from point A to point B due to last minute warnings of suicide bomb threats in any particular area of the country.

I sat comfortably in my car, knowing that the man with me was an upstanding citizen. Unfortunately, the border policeman didn't care. He told me to pull over and step out of my car. Surreptitious communications were rapidly carried out over mobile phones that double as walkie-talkies. They sent the Palestinian to stand a few meters away. They then informed me that he is Palestinian. I said I knew that and I know him. I explained what I was doing with him in the car and tried to ascertain the problem. It seems that a new rule had been established about 2 months earlier that prohibits Israelis from having Palestinians without work permits in their cars. This rule was created as a result of concerns that Israeli Jews or Arabs might wittingly or unwittingly transport terrorists from the territories to Israel proper.

As a result I would be taken back to the military base, finger printed, a statement would be taken and my car would be confiscated. But I had 5 children sitting at home expecting me back already. Not of interest to the border police. But my husband was abroad. Irrelevant.

During an extended wait by the side of the road, the border policeman tried to pit the Palestinian and I against each other. He spoke to Machmud, then returned to me, cocked his head as with a knowing look and told me that Machmud said he'd come to work for me. Fascinating, these guys were well trained. At first I was taken aback. For me the entire experience was completely surreal. I felt like an actor in a terrible play. But this man with his gun and army jeep was very real. I said that I had no idea what Machmud might be saying but it was absurd to even consider such an idea.

Finally, I was told to follow the jeep back to their military base. The military and border police at the base were relatively polite to me. Much less so to my Palestinian partner in crime until they checked his record and found it clean as a whistle. I understood their concern. They were just doing their job. Intifada had been raging for over a year, but it had not reached the lethal level marked by the Passover Seder massacre.

Machmud was released, free to go home. He was warned to leave Israel proper immediately. Without money, his only option was to walk out and slowly make the very long trip home. It was 10pm. I was sitting in an army base, with stained fingers explaining to a Druse investigator why I was not crazy. He tried to convince me that I had endangered my life with this act. I explained that I knew this man. And just because many Palestinians want us dead or to just disappear, doesn't mean we have to lose our compassion and humanity. At the end of the day, we are people; he and my husband worked together, he knows my children, we send things to his children. They are good, hardworking people. How can I be afraid of them? If I am, what does that mean for the future of this country?

Finally they let me go. Knowing I had no way to get home from this isolated spot, they allowed me to leave my car at a public location closer to Haniel, where I could get a friend to collect me and bring me home.

It was a traumatic and harrowing experience. It was emblematic of how deeply each and every citizen of the miraculous country feels the effects of national politics in their daily lives.

Carice Witte
BK '83