Crossing border is endurance test

[Times photo: John Pendygraft] A family of Palestinians waits in an abandoned building near the Erez checkpoint from Gaza to Israel Monday.

Photo gallery

EREZ CROSSING, Israeli-Gaza border - No matter how you feel about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it's hard to deny the Gaza Strip is like a big detention camp. Palestinians can't leave without Israeli permission - and it's becoming harder for others to get out, too.

Until recently, the process was fairly quick and simple: You showed your passport to soldiers on the Palestinian side of the Erez Crossing and got in a taxi that took you to the Israeli side.

But after several people died in suicide attacks, security was dramatically tightened. That's understandable. What's harder to fathom are the unexplained delays.

After finishing our work in Gaza, photographer John Pendygraft and I reached the border at 4 p.m. Sunday. Under the new policy, Palestinian soldiers now take your passport, phone the details to the other side and wait to hear back from the Israelis.

While the soldiers wait, you wait. And wait. And wait.

The first hint this might take a long time came around 4:45 p.m. when word spread that the border had been closed since 11 a.m. for "technical reasons" but would reopen "soon."

A wave of hope surged through the crowd, which included families with small kids, an amorous European couple and a smartly dressed diplomat. As the minutes ticked by with no sign of movement, friendships blossomed from the sharing of cigarettes and the latest rumors:

"It'll reopen in five minutes."

"It'll reopen at 6."

We struck up a conversation with Sami, an Israeli Arab engineer working on a construction project in Gaza. He goes home to Jerusalem every other week, and he said delays at Erez have become routine: "Two hours, sometimes three hours, I wait."

By 5:30 darkness had fallen, and the scene took on a desolate, Road Warrior air. Gunfire echoed in the distance and half-starved dogs slunk in the moon shadows.

When the 6 p.m. reopening failed to materialize, I was all for heading back to Gaza City. But a friendly CNN cameraman said his "man in Tel Aviv" was pressuring the Israel Defense Forces to let journalists cross. "Ten minutes, we'll be through" he assured us.

An hour later, we were still there. Someone came up with a number for the soldiers on the Israeli side, so we took turns calling to see when the border would reopen. Depending on who answered, the reply was A) "soon"; B) "more than two hours"; or C) "I don't know."

We implored the two young Palestinian soldiers still on duty to get a straight answer from the Israelis.

"The phone's dead - we have to recharge it," one said, and went back to his crossword puzzle.

It was now 8 p.m. - four hours after we arrived. It seemed obvious there would be no crossing tonight. We returned to our hotel, where we had dinner overlooking the Mediterranean. I told John that a least we'd lucked into a beautiful evening, without rain.

Shortly after midnight, I was awakened by a ferocious rattling of windows. Rain was coming down in sheets, and the sea had been whipped to foam by gale-force winds.

It was still pouring at 8 a.m. Monday when we arrived at Erez to try again. Sami, our new friend, and several others huddled in the only relatively dry place to wait, a vacant building open to the elements.

8:30. 9:30. 10 - again, the Israelis had apparently closed the border with no explanation. "Now that Abu Mazen is here," a soldier said, referring to the new Palestinian leader, "maybe this situation will improve."

At 11 a.m., the same soldier warned, "It'll be hours" and suggested everyone leave for lunch. No sooner had he spoken than a colleague appeared with a handful of passports - ours as well as those of four Spaniards and an elderly Arab woman. Of the 20 or so people waiting, the Israelis had cleared just a few to cross.

John and I grabbed our gear and headed down the long concrete tunnel that links the Palestinian and Israeli checkpoints. No more taxis; regardless of age or fitness, you now cross the border under your own steam.

At the Israeli end we came to a formidable-looking gate with turnstile.

"COME," boomed a disembodied voice, like that from behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz.

One of the Spaniards went through first, squeezing himself and his luggage through the narrow turnstile.

"TURN AROUND," the voice ordered. The Spaniard took off his jacket, held up his arms and did a clumsy pirouette to show he didn't have a gun or bomb belt strapped beneath his shirt.

"NEXT," the voice commanded.

Ten minutes later, all seven of us were in a large, cell-like enclosure. Finally, a human appeared - a young Israeli soldier who handed John a glove through the bars and ordered him to run it over himself and the other men for traces of explosives. He gave me a second glove; I patted down the Arab woman, then myself.

Tests negative, the soldier released us from the holding pen. From there it was routine: luggage through an X-ray machine; people through a metal detector; a review of passports. After waiting nine hours over two days, we were on Israeli soil.

One possible reason for our delay, we later learned, was that the Israelis are installing equipment that shows an exact outline of the body so screeners can detect hidden weapons. Given such high technology, you'd think it would be simple to let those waiting on the other side know when and for how long the border will be closed.

Sami, the engineer, may still be there - along with all the others waiting in the cold, wind and rain.

"I heard they're shutting the border for two days," our driver said as - free at last - we headed for Jerusalem.

World and national headlines

© 2006 • All Rights Reserved • St. Petersburg Times 490 First Avenue South • St. Petersburg, FL 33701 • 727-893-8111 Contact the Times | Privacy Policy Standard of Accuracy | Terms, Conditions & Copyright