By NAGHAM ASAL
At the Checkpoint, Palestine
There is a place I return to every day, though I never stay there long. It is not marked on any map, not officially named, and yet everyone knows it. It is the space between where I am allowed to be and where I need to go. A checkpoint, yes, but also something more. A waiting room without walls. A pause stretched into routine. A place where time doesn’t move forward so much as it thickens.
This is where the day often begins.
I stand in line with others; students, workers, women carrying bags heavier than they look. The line moves forward a few meters and then stops again. Cars stretch ahead of us, their engines humming in the hot air. I can smell exhaust through the open window, mixed with dust from the road and the faint smell of coffee from a driver’s paper cup. People check their phones, look toward the soldiers, then look back at the line, as if trying to measure how much longer the wait will be. The air inside the car feels warmer with every minute, and no one knows exactly when the line will move again.
