 When I was in Bethlehem in 2011 I met a professor. We interacted a lot with university faculty. I met a professor and I asked her to tell me a story about checkpoints and she told me this story. It's called Checkpoint Bethlehem. When the soldier boards the bus in your land bearing an AK-47 you move toward the front. He herds women and children the old and finally young men off into the cold metal structure that is your prison and your freedom. The bars and gates horizontal and vertical red light and surveillance camera strip you to nothing. Another 18 year old boy in fatigues behind glass stairs but no eyes meet. He locks on to the monitor scanning your body for evidence of weapons beyond being merely Palestinian. At 65 you still cannot accept this. How a boy barking at you in Hebrew can render a woman a professor invisible and conspicuous. His voice like a man scolding a dog remove watch and belt place your purse on conveyor belt you stand frozen waiting for green light and then push the turnstile with everything you have. Getting back on the bus to Jerusalem where you'll apply for a visa to visit your brother in America becomes an exercise in resistance and hope. On this Sunday while most in Bethlehem sit in church you attend this other ritual of faith. The boy soldier with his feet on the table waves you past the gate until you stand before him silent. When you shove your black ID in the slot beneath the window he says nothing. He turns and waves to another soldier a young woman with short braids and two tight pants. They quietly exchange words and she rests her hands on his shoulders begins to massage him leaning into his ear to giggle and whisper. You wait again imagining 15 or 20 minutes pass while you stare hard at the floor this touching and flirtation a hostage taking. These two could be your students your grandchildren even but you arrest your rage knowing that to protest will only prolong your weight and getting to Jerusalem on your five-hour permit is the only relief.