The Crossing: A Novel By Ziad Abdul-Fattah
Entering the crossing point from the direction of Rafah is to begin a journey that drains your mind, your spirit, your very humanity. You feel you are being brought face to face with a process whose whole shameful purpose is to make you feel less important, only to stand face to face with those higher on the scale. Is that what they have been brought up to accept and taken for granted?
As you make the journey you look back over your own history, culture, the source of your thoughts and morals. You discover that light years separate you from those before you. And despite all this you take off your watch and bring out your pen, not to write anything but simply to put in the inspection box along with your mobile phone and the glasses you are forced to wear through age, years of reading and what you have seen and witnessed though this amazing life.
You walk through the electronic booth, thinking you have got rid of all your things. And without forgetting your belt. Just in case, you take it off because you do not want to find some pale expressionless face ordering you icily to go back, get searched and walk though again.
Then you find that a metal coin has somehow fallen into one of your pockets without you realising. You curse the coin and curse yourself for forgetting it. And now, relieved of all your burdens, you can go through setting off the alarm. But you do set it off! You look at your shoes. Theres no metal in them. No, but right in the mid of the sole theres a little piece of brass or iron. You remember. They were expensive shoes, so keep hold of them.