Six years ago, teenager Shira Banki was stabbed to death by a religious fanatic who somehow circumvented police security during a gay pride parade in Jerusalem. The police were determined to never be caught napping again, and security got tighter from year to year.
This year, security at the Jerusalem march – held last Thursday – was out of all proportion. Not only were main roads cordoned off from traffic by regular police barriers, but huge trucks and buses were parked across intersections, in addition to linked barriers on numerous sidewalks. One of the more upmarket areas in Jerusalem became a fortress.
Worse than that, pedestrians were not allowed to walk freely, and the only excuse for being permitted to pass a barrier was that the pedestrian was going home or to a doctor’s appointment. Even then, the person in question could not proceed without a police, Border Police or army escort.
There were more people engaged in security than there are for the visit of a US president.
Pedestrians were escorted a short distance so that no point would be left unguarded for more than a few minutes. It was almost like a relay race as pedestrians were passed from one security officer to another.
I had left home to go shopping nearly three hours before the gay pride festivities were due to start. I boarded a bus to go back home an hour-and-a-half later. After the bus had traveled only one stop, the driver announced that he would have to detour because the main road was already barricaded.
Most passengers had not heard or read about the gay pride parade (officially, the “Jerusalem March for Pride and Tolerance”), and thought the barricades were there because there had been a terrorist attack or because someone had found a suspicious object.
Indeed, there was insufficient publicity about the parade to alert the public. Some people also thought that it might be a demonstration against the proposed new government. I stayed on board the bus, thinking from previous experience that the first stop on the detour would be nearer my home. But the driver took another convoluted route in which there were no bus stops for 45 minutes. We went through a part of Jerusalem in which I had been only twice before, a very long time ago, so there was some compensation in seeing how the outer city has developed, though it could certainly do with some more shopping outlets
Eventually, I alighted at the last stop and crossed the road to take the first bus back to town. It took a long time to come, but the journey back on the regular route was much faster, until we hit the corner of Hebron Road and David Remez Street. The driver explained that he was going to Mamilla because he could no longer continue on the regular route.
By then, there was a huge traffic pile-up, and I asked the driver to let me get off at the Cinematheque. He asked where I was going, and I told him which neighborhood. He thought it was too far to walk. I pointed out that I could cut across the bridge, so against the rules, he opened the door of the bus.
COMING OFF the bridge, I had barely walked three meters before I was stopped by a policewoman.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Where is that?”
“Near the Prime Minister’s Residence.”
She downloaded the map on her phone, and satisfied that the street existed, walked me another few meters to the next policewoman, who again took my details, told me to wait a minute, then called a soldier to escort me.
“This is crazy,” I said. “I can understand you closing the road to traffic, but to pedestrians when there’s hardly anyone except security personnel in the street – it doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s what the orders are,” was the response.
The soldier escorted me for some 20 meters, offered to carry my shopping and politely stopped when I was out of breath from walking uphill.
He then tried to pass me off to a rather stout policewoman who knew the area very well and said it was too far to walk to my street. She insisted on taking me to a nearby shady spot, then went to speak to the officer sitting in a police car across the road. She came back to me, walked me across the road to where he would be driving, put me in the front seat, made sure I was comfortable, and told her fellow officer to take me straight home.
At no stage was I asked to produce my ID. I guess my wrinkles sufficed.
Another barrier was pulled aside in Keren Hayesod Street, and as we passed it, we were stopped by more security people.
“This is my queen, and I’m taking her home,” said the driver.
Another officer, who is often on duty in the street where I live, recognized me and waved us on.
When we reached the entrance to my street, it was cordoned off and top-heavy with security personnel. The officer who had driven me got out of the car to ensure that I would have no hassles. I was permitted to walk to my apartment building without an escort, but as I turned into the entrance, one of the security people politely asked if I lived there, and was satisfied with an affirmative reply.
There has been so much written about insensitive, cruel and racist police behavior and the excessive use of force that it was an extraordinarily pleasant surprise to find that every police officer and soldier I encountered from the Cinematheque to my home – approximately nine or 10 – was polite and courteous.
We are so quick to criticize. We should be equally quick to praise when it’s due.