Why do Palestinians hate yellow?
- Iris Gur
- May 15
- 5 min read
Beyond the fence, in a place the Israeli regime prefers we don’t look at, people live a different kind of life, different from anything we know - in which the State of Israel rules with a heavy hand over millions of people, controlling both the smallest and largest details of their lives. There, it’s permitted to enter people’s homes without legal or other oversight, to take people from their homes and make them disappear, to lock people in their towns so that no one can come or go, to curse, to beat, to set fires, to steal – with no one to address these crimes. On the contrary, the criminals, the attackers – meaning, the settlers - receive backing from the state through the army. The Wild East.
Iris Gur describes one such morning, when they simply “stole” half her day, for no reason. Imagine if this was what your everyday life looked like.
Ayala Shalev, Editor, That’s About Us
Why do Palestinians hate yellow? / Iris Gur
From your experience at checkpoints, I’d love suggestions for how to pass the time without going crazy, and where do you go to the bathroom?
I sent this question to my Palestinian friends when I found myself sitting in my car for five hours! Yes, five hours in a long line of cars, waiting my turn to cross the checkpoint and continue home.
For five hours, I had the “privilege” of experiencing a tiny part of the daily routine of Palestinians living beyond the Green Line. I admit, I chose of my own free will, with military permission, to enter an area beyond the red sign that says “Entry for Israelis is forbidden”, for a protective presence shift that the villagers need to defend themselves from the settlers’ constant aggression. No other authority provides them with this basic thing: living safely in their homes. In fact, the day before, I was only allowed through after a lengthy negotiation with the checkpoint commander, a young woman, fully equipped from head to helmet, in combat uniform, with a rifle and a tired, bored look.
The night passed relatively quietly, the next shift arrived, and we, two Israeli women, set out on our way home.
About three kilometers before the checkpoint, I notice the line of cars standing still. Experienced with traffic jams on Israeli roads, I tell myself, it’s not so bad - half an hour, an hour at most, and we’ll get through and each go our own way. I’m heading South, my friend North.
It’s 9:00 a.m., 23 degrees Celsius. There’s already a truck behind me, and behind it another car. With each passing moment, I see the line getting longer in my rear view mirror. Minutes go by and we’re not moving. I notice that no cars are passing, neither out nor in. The checkpoint is within sight, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s open or closed. In principle, the checkpoint is staffed by soldiers 24/7 and is supposed to allow passage from 3:00 a.m. until 9:00 p.m. But in reality, you never know when it’s open or closed; Palestinians share this information in their WhatsApp groups.
There are close to 300 checkpoints scattered throughout the West Bank, between and inside Palestinian cities and villages. The vast majority of these checkpoints have no connection to Israeli territory. Some are permanently closed, especially since October 7, 2023; some open occasionally for a limited time; some are staffed by soldiers and open at the commander’s discretion, and at those you can see the long lines waiting for inspection and permission to pass – and this is inside the West Bank, remember? It’s not a border between two countries. Yellow is the color Palestinians hate most because it’s the color of the checkpoints.
I get out of the car to stretch my legs, move around a bit, and try to understand from the other drivers what they think about the situation. “Min Allah” (from God), one of them answers me, with a look of resignation. Is it like this every day? I ask. Almost every day, less so on Fridays and Saturdays, he replies. The oppression has been internalized, I think to myself. How do they endure this disruption to their lives, this constant daily uncertainty, where they can never know if or when they’ll reach their destination? How can anyone maintain a normal routine like this?
Oh, it looks like something is moving. A truck comes from the other direction and sneaks into the line; the driver gives a half-victorious, half-sympathetic smile to those waiting in the cars.
Another hour passes and finally our side starts moving too. What joy – with every car that passes through, we move forward a few meters. My friend is timing things: for a car with a white (Palestinian) license plate, it takes 10 to 15 minutes at the checkpoint. Sometimes the driver is signaled to get out of the car next to the concrete block, asked to lift his shirt, turn around, then slowly approach the checkpoint for inspection, and only afterwards return to the car and move on. Sometimes, the car moves forward first, then all the passengers are taken out, the car is checked, IDs are checked, and then they pass. And again – this is a routine, no crime has been done, no suspects of anything are present, just another day at the office. A car with a yellow plate goes through in 2 minutes. In between, there are breaks of several minutes.
The hours go by; it’s already 12:00 and it’s terribly hot outside. There’s no shade, and the car’s air conditioner has been running for hours. I think about the wasted fuel, the air pollution, but there’s no way I’m turning it off. The temperature rises - it’s already 33 degrees outside, and progress is slow to nonexistent. Occasionally, someone gives up and turns back. He probably realized he won’t get to work at a reasonable hour today, or to his doctor’s appointment, or any other plan he had. I’m canceling all my meetings too. There’s no chance of arriving on time. Every half hour I go for a walk, to get moving and to watch the other drivers. Some sit in their cars, some sit outside, looking for a bit of shade under trucks. Almost all the cars have white Palestinian Authority plates, a few have yellow plates - Palestinian citizens of Israel, maybe visiting family. After each walk, I quickly return to the AC in my car.
I start to feel pressure in my head, my stomach bothers me, my brain is slowly melting.
I feel like screaming at someone. And around me there is silence. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people, and total quiet.
How are they so quiet? my friend asks.
What can they do?! That’s how it is, like a battered woman, you get used to the blows. For them, the main thing is to get through another day, not to get detained, not to get beaten, and certainly not to get shot in the leg or the head.
That’s it. My turn arrives. I wait by the concrete blocks for the soldier’s signal to move forward. I sense the tension in my body, just wanting to understand her signals. Yesterday, when I moved forward before the signal, weapons were pointed at me from two directions. That was a frightening moment.
ID, please. Where were you? When did you enter? Go.
I’m on my way home, to a shower and a big glass of ice coffee.
Leaving behind me millions of people locked behind checkpoints, denied freedom of movement, denied life.
Iris Gur is a human rights activist and former school principal.
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