For the past year and a half, Israel has imposed an increasingly suffocating system of checkpoints and roadblocks across the entire West Bank. During the ceasefire in Gaza this January, the entrance to my village of Umm Al-Khair was barricaded, as were the entrances to all West Bank cities and villages as a form of collective punishment. With no nearby grocery stores, a basic task like buying a kilo of salt in Yatta — the closest city to us — went from a 20-minute errand to a two-hour ordeal. Though the main entrance to the village eventually opened, there have been repeated closures since. 

But a checkpoint is not just an inconvenience; it can be the difference between life and death. Back in September 2024, I was six months pregnant. With no hospital or clinic near us, I had to go to the UNRWA health center in Hebron for a standard checkup. A neighbor drove me and my mother to the entrance of the city, and fortunately, the checkpoint was open. From there, we took a taxi to the city center. After hours of waiting and undergoing medical examinations, we left. I made sure to remind the medical staff that I am from a remote area and thus had to return quickly — you never know when a military checkpoint will suddenly be erected.

But on our way out of Hebron, I was told that the checkpoints were closed to cars and there would be no way to drive back to our village from the city: the only option was to walk one kilometer on foot and then take a taxi. I had no other choice — I wanted to go home. I could not wait to see when the checkpoints would open again. It could be an hour, or later that same day, or the next. You can’t predict when.

We started walking through the checkpoint, and at first, I did not see any soldiers. But suddenly a passenger car entered the checkpoint and overtook us within a few seconds. I saw a group of about six soldiers running towards us, screaming at the top of their lungs. I felt as though the blood in my body had stopped flowing. I tried to walk but, paralyzed with fear, I simply could not move. My mother pushed me, saying “Come on, we will be shot if we do not move. I can barely carry my things or myself. I am in the same shock.”

When one of the soldiers caught up with the vehicle which had breached the checkpoint, he began shouting and hitting the window with his weapon, ordering the car to turn around several times. My mother tried to keep walking in spite of the terrifying scene unfolding in front of us, but I had no control over my body. We moved away from the commotion and I put my things down.

Then I heard voices telling me, “Come on, come. Walk. Don’t stop.” I had no idea where they were coming from. My mother told me not to look back and pick up the pace. We finally got to the taxi waiting for us at the entrance to Hebron, and in the car, my mother told me the voices we heard were coming from the military tower above us. When we got home, I tried to rest but I continued to have nightmares about what happened. I hoped no one else would feel how I felt at that moment.

‘Fear and oppression overcame me’

Shortly after, a close friend of mine had her own terrifying experience with road closures and checkpoints. She was on the way to the nearest health center in the city of Yatta to give birth. When they learned that the most direct route was closed, they had no choice but to take a rough dirt road that was not suitable for the rental car, much less any passenger vehicle. 

During the drive, my friend could not bear the pain of labor, and she gave birth to her baby girl in the middle of the road. What pain is greater than this? What greater terror can a woman experience? 

It wasn’t until she finally reached the hospital, where she stayed for more than two days, that a doctor was able to examine her and reassure her about the baby’s health. I went to support her throughout the stressful period. She later told me that the fear and anxiety she felt during labor were far more painful than the birth itself. She thought giving birth to her first child would be easy — that the doctor would deliver the baby into her hands and then she’d hold her to her chest. “Fear and oppression overcame me in the moments that I had always longed for,” she told me.

One cold December night, exactly at midnight, I went into labor. I woke up and went to the bathroom. The pain became more and more unbearable. I remember very well that I debated whether I should alert my husband or not.

“I cannot tell him, there is nothing he can do,” I thought to myself. “He will want to take me to the nearest hospital in Hebron, but the road to get there is frightening and full of settlers and army-controlled checkpoints — especially at night.” I decided to keep the pain to myself and wait until morning.

But after two hours, the pain was so bad that I couldn’t stand up. The morning finally came and I immediately woke my husband, letting him know I needed to go to the hospital. We arrived there at exactly 8 a.m.; the last thing I remember is the doctors scurrying around me.

When I woke up, I tried to listen for the breath or voice of my baby. I couldn’t move my body left or right to see him. I asked over and over about my little one, and finally they told me the nurses were preparing him. After an hour, the doctor came by and asked, “Why didn’t you come to the hospital sooner?” I explained that the trip was very difficult — and my fears of confronting the army and settlers during the night.

“Thank god we delivered the child at the last moment,” he said. “He is tired and needs a little oxygen, but he will survive.”