The taxi stopped right before the checkpoint. We got out and walked with a smile on our faces. It is Eid El Fitr (a festival that marks the end of the holy month of fasting, Ramadan), and my friends and I were enjoying a day out in the city of southern Lebanon city of Saida.
We saw the Lebanese army soldiers spread around the checkpoint, each assigned a certain “mission.” One stopped the cars and took information, another registered the names and car numbers in a small room, and others watched people going in and out of Ein el Helweh camp (the most populated Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon).
Since we had to cross through a gate to enter the camp, the soldier there asked for our identity cards; many people were entering and leaving and he was trying to focus on all of us. Darine’s blue ID was checked and she entered the camp; the same for Zahra and Hiba. They all stepped through the gate and waited for me. The soldier took my ID from my hand and tried unfolding it, since it was wrinkled from being in my bag. He had a surprised look on his face as he stared at my white A4-paper ID. The soldier didn’t pay an attention to the “Palestinian State Embassy” heading at the top; instead, he was blinded by the huge size and different color and style of the ID. He read it while I looked at my friends on the other side of the gate, with a smile on my face; other people were waiting for me to finish so they could get in or out.
As if the situation wasn’t discriminatory enough, the soldier looked at me and asked: “What’s your entry permission number?” I found myself defensively explaining, “I’m not Syrian; It’s just that my father is originally from Gaza!” The soldier handed my paper back and continued his procedure for checking other IDs as I stepped into the camp, joined my friends and kept walking with a smile on my face.
This is the life of a Palestinian in Lebanon. We are “sorted and classified” rather like objects. Having my large kind of ID distinguishes me from the 1948 Palestinians (the Palestinians whose families were forced to flee when their land was seized as part of the creation of Israel). We “1967 Palestinians” (we are known by the year our families originally entered Lebanon) lack the official refugee ID granted to those who came earlier. While none of us are allowed to work in many types of jobs, I also am not allowed to get a passport and travel. Because our number is so small compared to the 1948 group, the soldier assumed at first I must have come from Syria. (Syrians have their own kind of IDs and must get official permission from the government to enter the camp; while they are treated better than Palestinians, they have many problems of their own.)
It’s difficult to smile when you are turned into a number, a certain type of “paper.” Yet it is very important to do so. My smile encourages me to keep on going, lessens my pain and pushes me try to change for the better and then the best.
Posted September 24, 2015
