Our friend was dressed as a sultan but had his business suit on too. As men with machine guns were coming to erect a gate across the cultural gateway, a "checkpoint", he ripped off the curtain that had been hastily sewn together in a robe-ish gown that had survived him getting across a territory. A woman shoved the heap of good material into an oversized basket-purse. He stood with his briefcase and spoke in just a raspy whisper to one of the guards in German. He refused to move his feet from the chalked line where the gate must go.
Children streamed past the little knot of us. "You used to be so nice," said a tiny woman in black garb. "NOW I KNOW," the man said. "Those blow up."
As we worked to get the explosives like plastic puddy off of them each quarter's children were given health checks, identity cards (dependent of which nation), and snacks which would be taken at gateways, so you better eat it up. Some spit on us. Others were vomiting. Most were crying once they reached the field tents. Terrorism experts swarmed twin tents to sort plastic explosives from explodable devices. Children who'd been forced to swallow fuel and batteries and wires and a ticking device or two were brought to special care. Attendants gave real-time updates on what people--mostly women and children--were being told to say, to live from checkpoint to checkpoint. Stuff like, I just want to be loved. Interpreters and translators strung themselves out between bunches of people and individuals making way.
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