At this West Bank checkpoint, ‘it’s not just movement that’s blocked. It’s time itself’
Waiting to go through the IDF’s Beit Furik checkpoint in the northern West Bank, notorious for multi-hour waits
Nagham Zbeedat reports in Haaretz on 13 October 2025:
At around 1:30 in the afternoon, the line of cars at Beit Furik checkpoint, located southeast of Nablus in the West Bank, was barely moving. Drivers leaned on their horns, the smell of exhaust mixing with the aroma of coffee from a nearby kiosk. Some men stepped out of their cars to stretch or smoke, while others stayed inside, resigned to another long wait.
For the 26,000 residents of Beit Furik and Beit Dajan, this single checkpoint is their only way in and out of their towns. At this hour, people were heading home early – workers who had learned that leaving later could mean spending up to five hours waiting to pass. “If I finish my work at four, I’ll get home by nine,” said a taxi driver in line, switching off his engine to save fuel. “So I leave at one instead.”
Not far away, a delivery driver scrolled through his phone as a man selling coffee passed between the rows of cars, calling out, “Ahweh, ahweh!” – “Coffee, coffee!” A school principal in his private car wiped the dust off the windshield, while a truck driver crouched by his tire, trying to patch a leak before the queue advanced.
Behind them all, the line continued to grow – a moving portrait of a city forced into pause. Nablus, one of the largest cities in the northern West Bank, is surrounded by a ring of military checkpoints that have turned daily life into a test of endurance. The Beit Furik checkpoint, staffed by Israeli soldiers, monitors the movement of residents from Beit Furik and Beit Dajan – the two towns share one road in and out. The checkpoint opens and closes at irregular hours, and even when it’s open, drivers describe long, unpredictable delays.
The checkpoint has been controversial since its installation in 2001, and the Association for Civil Rights in Israel has advocated for the checkpoint’s removal for more than a decade.
In April 2025, ACRI and the Israeli NGO Bimkom – Planners for Planning Rights, filed a legal appeal challenging the stringent movement restrictions at Beit Furik. They argued that the checkpoint inhibits the right of movement for local residents and that the necessity of the checkpoint is questionable, given that the checkpoint only connects the two Palestinian towns – both of which are within Area B. The appeal emphasized that even if security concerns existed, the IDF must balance these with the rights of residents, ensuring that measures are reasonable, proportionate and respectful of human dignity.
The greatest denial of freedom
At a small coffee shop just off the main road, Ahmad Abu Siam, a 32-year-old lawyer originally from Gaza, watched the line of cars crawl forward toward the Beit Furik checkpoint. He has lived in the West Bank for five years now, and every day he drives through this same bottleneck in his private car.
To make it home before dark, Ahmad ends his workday by noon – hours earlier than he should. “The long waiting affects everything,” he said quietly. “My health, my mood, my work hours. When I leave at twelve, I lose four hours of my day. But if I stay until three or four, I won’t reach home before eight. Either way, I fall behind.”
He paused to take a sip of coffee, his eyes following the line outside. “The checkpoint shows a person’s character,” he added. “Whether you can endure, whether you can stay patient. It’s true that the checkpoint is part of the occupation, but how we react to it – that’s ours.”
Abu Siam had high fever, thus he had to step out of the line to rest. To keep his place, he takes a quick photo of his car’s position and asks the drivers in front and behind to hold his spot until he returns. “It’s common now,” he explained with a faint smile. “Especially among taxi and delivery drivers. We’ve all learned how to cooperate in the middle of the waiting.”
He describes the checkpoint as both a divider and a place of connection. “We form friendships here – even business deals,” he said. “We share food, stories and frustration. You’ll see everyone: the minister, the student, the lawyer, the old man. Our worries are all the same. And we still keep some decency – we let the sick or elderly pass first. It’s one of the few beautiful things left.”
But when he speaks as a lawyer, his tone hardens. “Checkpoints are the greatest denial of human freedom,” he said. “They violate every document and law that Israel claims to respect. Freedom of movement is a basic right – yet Beit Furik checkpoint, the only entrance for the towns of Beit Furik and Beit Dajan, takes that away from us. It is the only passage to life.”
Then his voice softened. “Two months ago, my wife gave birth to our daughter,” he recalled. “After eight hours in the hospital, we were finally heading home. Drivers let us pass when they saw the baby, but once we reached the front, the soldiers closed the gate. We waited three hours in the car – my newborn’s first hours of life spent at a checkpoint.”
Not far away, Kayed Sabbah, a 43-year-old truck driver from the village of Jamma’in was crouched by his tire, tools scattered on the ground, as soldiers waved another line of vehicles through the gate. “If I had to describe checkpoints in one word, it’s suffering,” he said. “Sometimes I wait three hours, sometimes six.” Sabbah had already been waiting for an hour and a half; he drives the roughly 52 km (32 miles) between nearby Jamma’in, Beit Furik and Qalqilya (a city near the Green Line) almost every day, and this line has become part of his life.
Like many drivers, he had parked his truck on the side of the road to save fuel while waiting. “A truck like mine, if it stays running while I wait, burns about 20 liters of diesel an hour – around 120 shekels. And my profit from one delivery is only 150. So I stop the engine and wait for my turn, and instead of making three deliveries and more a day, I only make two, this is my last one now.”
Sabbah explained that people have found ways to cope with the long hours on the checkpoint. Drivers often form small agreements among themselves – friendships and a kind of order – to make the wait bearable. “Because of the people here, the locals who got to know each other, things are a bit more organized and there’s solidarity. But that’s not really good,” he added. “It means we’ve gotten used to it, that we found ways to live with something we shouldn’t have to accept.” He passes through Beit Furik’s checkpoint at least five times a week, which means he spends about 15 hours each week – more than sixty hours every month – waiting. “Once, I waited six hours and got home at 2 A.M.,” he said. “Since that day, I decided to shorten my working hours. I don’t want to find myself in that situation again.”
Sabbah’s life has changed sharply over the past eight months. His monthly income once reached around 12,000 shekels (3,650 USD), when he owned newer trucks with trailers for goods. But now he earns less than half – around 4,500 shekels a month. He had to sell the newer trucks and replace them with an older model that he can still afford to insure. “The insurance for the older truck is about 3,000 shekels a year, while I used to pay 22,000. It’s cheaper, yes, and I don’t pay taxes to the Palestinian Authority like before – but it breaks down all the time. Luckily, I used to be a mechanic. I fix it myself. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to survive.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “Leaving and entering through the checkpoint aren’t the same. Exiting Beit Furik toward Nablus is easier because this checkpoint was made to protect the settlers – the occupiers of our land. They move freely, while we, the people of this land, wait for their mercy. All these traffic jams happen because of them.” Sabbah’s voice lowered when he recalled one recent night. “Last week, I didn’t notice the soldier and drove forward,” he said. “They stopped me, searched me and threatened to shoot. These clashes happen all the time. All I can do is apologize – because in the end, he’s my enemy, and there’s no way to reason with him.”
Stories like Ahmad’s are echoed by thousands of residents who depend on the same narrow road. At his office in Nablus City, the president of the village council explained how the closures have reshaped daily life for Beit Furik and Beit Dajan – from students arriving late to school to ambulances delayed at the gate. “It’s not just movement that’s blocked,” he said. “It’s time itself.”
A barrier to education
A few cars ahead in line sat Tawfiq Mohammad, a 60-year-old school principal, behind the wheel of his private car. He had already spent much of his life waiting at checkpoints. Originally from the northern Jordan Valley, he travels dozens of kilometers each week to reach his school in Nablus. His daily route takes him through two checkpoints – the Hamra checkpoint and Beit Furik – both controlled by Israeli forces.
“I sometimes spend eight hours a day on checkpoints,” he said, glancing at the line ahead of him. “Sometimes, I even have to sleep outside my home so that I can make it to work the next morning.” Mohammad has been managing his school for years, and he takes his responsibility seriously. “The students and the school are my duty,” he said. “That’s why, every two or three days I go home and come back. I have to be there.” But reaching the school is not guaranteed. “Sometimes Hamra checkpoint is open only until seven in the morning,” he said. “After that, it closes, and students end up waiting until 10. Many of them simply can’t make it to class.”
At the start of the school year, Mohammad had 70 students enrolled. Only about 50 now attend regularly. “Most days, the checkpoint closes between 7–10 A.M.,” he said. “That means our actual school days are less than three days a week in practice. The educational level has been deeply affected.”
Over the years, Mohammad has counted numerous incidents of harassment and delay. “The violations committed by the occupation – and that’s exactly what they are, violations – prevent us from reaching school. Last year alone, we recorded 25 such cases. This year, the school year has been almost a failure because of it.” He sighed, looking at the long line of vehicles that barely moved. “My job is my source of income – it’s how I feed my children,” he said. “But if a principal can’t be present at his school and fulfill his duties, it becomes a major problem. And that means the students’ learning suffers even more.”
From where Mohammad’s car was positioned, the soldiers and the sniper on the watchtower were clearly visible. They signaled to one car to pass and another to stop. When asked what the inspection process was like, Mohammad laughed. “Even talking to you right now could cause trouble for me,” he said. “They could question me, harass me – they humiliate us with a word, a gesture or sometimes with violence. It’s part of their routine.”
Crippling Nablus’ economy
By late afternoon, the line at Beit Furik checkpoint stretched far beyond sight. Just a few kilometers away, in a small office overlooking the crowded streets of Nablus City, Nasr Abu Jeish, the head of the village council in the Nablus region, has not grown used to hearing such stories every day, but has lived them himself.
Abu Jeish, who lives in Beit Dajan, travels through Deir Furik checkpoint on a daily basis, gets stuck for hours like the thousands of Palestinians who use it to commute “when we talk about Nablus Governorate, first, it has nine permanent military checkpoints, including Beit Furik checkpoint, which has been there since 2000 until now. The eastern area is closed, the southern area is closed, the northern area is closed, and only one entrance remains. The military checkpoints are the nine main ones, in addition to 37 iron gates and 40 cement barriers within the governorate.”
There is significant suffering among the residents of the Nablus Governorate caused by these checkpoints, according to Abu Jeish. For example, Beit Furik checkpoint takes five or six hours to pass, whereas driving from Nablus to Beit Furik normally only takes 10 minutes. “I commute daily to this checkpoint from the eastern area, and I spend four or five hours each day because of the movement,” Abu Jeish expresses.
Pedestrians of all ages, cars and even horses all rely on being able to move through the checkpoint at Beit Furik. Credit: Nidal Eshtayeh
The other checkpoints within Nablus governorate have the same issue, “but sometimes the situation is worse due to the simple restrictions imposed – Huwara, Al-Muraba’a, Bidan checkpoints – all these checkpoints were established by a political-security decision by Israel to cripple the economy in the [Nablus] governorate, and this has also affected education,” he explains.
An-Najah University, the largest national university in the West Bank, today has only 4,000–5,000 students on campus, says Abu Jeish, although the number reached 28,000 in previous years. He links the severe low rate of enrollment to limited mobility for its students.
Reflecting on the economic situation in Nablus, Abu Jeish says it is also damaged. “Many shops and markets have been destroyed due to security measures, and the army enters daily after sunset, disturbing residents.” The agricultural sector too “is affected, especially during the olive harvest season, due to settler militias and the protection provided by the Israeli army for them.”
As for the health sector, Abu Jeish shares that “ambulance vehicles are delayed or prevented from crossing the checkpoints, leading to deaths and assaults.”
Abu Jeish shares that there is very limited cooperation with the army, but it is not enough. “Settlers control the checkpoints and impose their orders on the army, even in cases related to water and agriculture, and they attack residents daily. Cooperation with the army is very weak, especially after October 7, as the army has become less capable of intervention.”
Abu Jeish added one last message directed for both Israelis and the international audience, “As Palestinians and Israelis, it is our right to live safely and with dignity. We want peace and reject extremists who seek to shed blood. Extremists are present on all sides – whether Christian, Muslim or Jewish – but we Palestinians love peace and want to live with dignity.”
‘Collective punishment’
Even though it’s only 5 km (3.1 miles) west, the scene at Awarta checkpoint differs significantly from Beit Furik. While it was common for people to step out of line and take a break from the long wait at Beit Furik, such rituals are prohibited at Awarta. “It’s dangerous here; any movement could cause the army to open fire,” says one young man at the checkpoint who spoke to Haaretz on the condition of anonymity.
As schoolchildren walk home along dusty roads and drivers sit under the sun waiting for hours, a coffee stand owner remarks, “Most of the time, there’s traffic. The checkpoint isn’t always busy, but it’s considered a vital link connecting the northern and southern parts of the West Bank. It’s mainly used to transport medical supplies, equipment, food and other essential goods for our daily lives.”
“People often get stuck in traffic with young children, elders and sick individuals, enduring hours without access to bathrooms or food,” he explains. “I’ve seen many mothers helping their children with schoolwork while waiting at the checkpoints.”
He also criticizes the poor infrastructure, especially during winter, and mentions that the Israeli army forbids any construction on the streets. He recalls that a day before the interview, the checkpoint was closed for five hours “because they suspected a car was carrying illegal content.” He describes the incident as “collective punishment.” “They could have simply pulled the car aside without blocking everyone, but they want to make people stop and humiliate them.”
This article is reproduced in its entirety