Racism at the Ben Gurion Airport

As promised in my first blog post, this is Muki's much more detailed recounting of her detainment at the airport when we first arrived.  Other posts that I'm working on: "the words we choose: language, politics & perspective," "the Dead Sea: underneath the mud & feeling funny floating," and "things that are thrown & other musings: stones & teargas in Aida."

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The sun has not come up yet when Jesse and I land at the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv on Thursday.  It is four in the morning.  We know that passing airport security is the biggest hurdle in our two-day journey.  Once we make it out of the airport, getting to the West Bank should be a piece of cake. 

We wash up at the nearest bathroom, apply make-up, and I step into a skimpy dress that will hopefully help me blend into the crowd of culturally insensitive western tourists.  Then, Jesse and I make our way to the passport check area.  The left-most lines are reserved for those with Israeli passports, and the rest are for those with all ‘other’ passports.  Jesse and I approach a brunette and crumpled woman behind a glass shield.  Slip her our passports.  Mine is Belgian, Jesse’s is American.  I watch her eyes narrow on my document. 

     “This is the most beautiful airport I’ve ever been to!”  I say excited, playing the nonchalant, somewhat ditzy tourist.  “And I’ve been to a lot of airports.”

     “What’s your fathers name?”

    “Najaer.  That’s my last name.”  I pronounce it with a heavy American accent.  Can’t let her know I speak Arabic. 

     “Your grandfather’s name?” 

     “I never knew him.  He died long before I was born.”  I’m stalling.

     “What do you think it was?”

     “Mohamed.”  Pronounced Moe-Ham-Med. 

     “You can go ahead.”  She hands Jesse her American passport, with her Jewish middle name.  Rachel.  “You go sit in that room.”  She points behind me.  I’ve been expecting this. 

     “Is everything okay?”  I try to sound surprised and hold my voice between shaking palms, the way a mesmerized and terrified child might hold a dove, afraid it will escape her, afraid to fracture its delicate ribs. 

     “Security check, mam’.”  No eye contact.  Nothing.  Jesse follows me to the waiting area. 

     Several Israeli airport security personnel chat near the entrance.  The room is lined with chairs and brown bodies.  I pick a spot.  Jesse sits next to me.  I put my bag down and note the single white woman with baggy elephant print pants.  She looks more the activist type than a tourist.  Three young women chat in Arabic, and another language I can’t discern.  The rest are silent.  The television plays exercise videos.  I stare through the wall until a security guard comes in a half hour later. 

     “You,” he barks and points in the vicinity of the three Muslim women, two of them in headscarves, “come!”  One of the women follows him.   The white woman with the baggy pants has already been released.  A young man, dark skin and gelled hair, walks in and sits near us.  Two women in long robes, enter, and sit across from us.  A young white man comes in.  Waits several minutes.  Is released.  Another half hour passes.  I’m rehearsing my cover-up story in my head.  At this point, I’ve been rehearsing it for days. 

     “Mohamed.”  I hear my grandfather’s name.  I follow the man to a tiny interrogation room.  A brown-bodied security guard joins him.  Familiar face.  He’s from the Horn of Africa, like me. 

     “Is this your first time in Israel?”

     “Yes.”

     “What is the reason of your visit?”

     “I’m just here to visit friends, tour around, see the country, go to a concert, spend time at the beach.”

     “How long will you stay?” 

     “I’m leaving on September 15th.”  I lie.

     “So one month?” 

     “No, more like two.”  I’m afraid he’ll only give me a one-month visa. 

     “So why you come to Israel?” 

     “I know many people who’ve come, and they say it’s beautiful.”

     “Who are you staying with?”

     “Tonight we’ll be at the Momo hostel.  After that we hope to stay with friends and family members.”

     “What are the names of these people?”  I pull out my journal and give him their names and phone numbers. 

     “What is your grandfather’s name?”

     “I think it was Moe-Ham-Med,” I say, then “I’ve never been asked so many questions at an airport, what’s going on?” 

     “Just security measures.” 

    “Are these security measures for everybody?”  I look him dead in the eye.  His gaze drops.  Lays dead, on the tiled ground by my shoelaces.  He takes a breath.

     “So you have a Belgian passport.  Any others?”

     “No.  Just the Belgian one.”  I lie.  The man from the horn of Africa paces back and forth.  I hope he won’t say anything.  

     “So no other passports?”

     “That’s correct.” 

     “What are you studying?”  It goes on like this for another ten minutes.  Then, “Okay, you can wait outside again.” 

     “Wait for what?”

     “We will continue the security screening and put your information in the system.” 

Jesse welcomes me.

     “What did they ask you?”  The young man with dark skin and gelled hair speaks in a British accent. 

     “Everything.”  I’m exhausted.  Been traveling for forty-some hours.  Turns out his name is Raffi.  He’s visiting the country for six days, hoping to meet cute men at Forever Tel Aviv.  His parents are Indian and Muslim.  I tell him he’ll get shit for having a Muslim name.  He recounts his experience leaving Britain.  A guard followed him around for three hours.  He wasn’t allowed anything but his flight itinerary.  The guard escorted him to the bathroom.  Once it was time to board, he was the last one allowed on the airplane.  A guard walked him to the seat.  The other passengers stared.  He was reseated three times.

     “It was, like, humiliating and weird.”  I am quiet.

     “This shit is so fucking racist,” I muster.

     “Well I guess I understand, it’s just that they want to be sure everything is safe.”  Raffi is unconvinced.  He’s thirsty and goes to buy a coke.  The vending machine is as temperamental as the Israeli airport security.  On the sixth try it spits up peach flavored iced tea.  He takes a few swigs and hands me the rest. 

     The woman with the headscarf comes back.  Another is called in. I get talking to the women.  They are Palestinian and grew up in Europe but they try to come home every year to visit their families.  One tells me she’s been held at the airport for six hours.  Another says eleven hours is her highest score.  It’s all part of the Israeli scheme to keep Palestinians from connecting with their homeland and heritage, she explains.  Or to keep foreigners from witnessing the apartheid Israel inflicts on Palestinians.  I check the time.  It is almost seven in the morning.  Sounds like it could be a long morning.  I take off my shoes and bend into downward dog.  Deep breaths. 

     Raffi is still talking.  He’s asking where we are staying.  Jesse tells him we’re just planning on hanging out.  He invites us to Forever Tel Aviv.  I remind him the party will be attended primarily by men.  He gets called in for interrogation.  I walk to the interrogation area.  Two-dozen airport security are sitting around.  Several are on computers.  The rest are sitting on the desks doing nothing.  I wonder how much they get paid to dangle their legs and occasionally harass anyone with brown skin or a Muslim name.    

     “Hi.  I got questioned two hours ago, and I’m still here.  And I’m hungry and thirsty.  I’ve been traveling for two days.  I need to sleep.  When can I leave?”  I’m playing the angry traveler.     

     “We’re processing your information.”

     “How much longer will it take?”

     “We can’t know.” 

     “Well I’m hungry.  Could you get me some food?”  I walk out without listening for a response.  A few minutes later Jesse and I are called into a larger interrogation room.  They hand me a sandwich.  I take a bite.           

    “Feel free to eat in here.”  The woman interrogating us says sarcastically.  I continue eating anyway.  This woman appears much more alert than the first guy.  She asks the same questions. 

     “Is this your first time in Israel?  How long will you stay?  What will you do?  Where are you staying?  Why Israel?”  And she asks an array of more difficult questions.  “What is the reservation number at your motel?” We don’t have a reservation. I stammer. 

     “When I called they told me a reservation would not be necessary.  They said to just come in.” 

     “What is your religion.”  I tell her I don’t have one. 

     “The religion of your parents?”  I tell her we’re not religious.  She squints at me. I make sure to have food in my mouth whenever she asks a question to buy myself extra time. 

     “Who are you staying with?”

     “After the motel we’ll stay with Hagit, he’s my dad’s friend.  He lives in Tel Aviv.”  Jesse answers this time. 
     “But Hagit is a woman’s name...”

     “Oh, well my dad didn’t tell me.”  Jesse and I exchange glances.  She got us. 

     “So could I call her and ask if you’ll be staying with her?”

     “Well, we haven’t asked her if we can stay yet.  But you can call David, my dad has talked to him.” 

     “Do you plan on visiting the West Bank?”

     “The West Bank...is that like the Gaza Strip?”  I love playing stupid.  The woman squints again. 

     “I heard that’s really dangerous.  Like terrorists and stuff, right?”  I continue.

    This woman is smart.  Quick eyes.  I don’t know if she buys our answer.  After a half hour, she asks for our e-mail addresses.  I give her mine with minor spelling mistakes.  Jesse does the same.  The woman lets us go. 

     We wait another two hours.  I go and complain again. Same story.  I’m hungry.  I’ve been sitting here for four and a half hours.  I’ve never been treated this badly at an airport before.”  The room full of airport security stares me down.  Nobody says anything. 
     “When can I leave?  And who is looking after my bags?” 

     “Your bags will be okay.”

     “So when can I leave?” 

     “I’ll talk to someone.” A young man answers me. 

     Ten minutes later I get called into another interrogation room.  “What is your reason for coming to Israel?  How long will you stay here?  When will you go back?”

     “Why are you asking me these questions?” 

     “Security measures.” 

     “No, I mean, I’ve already been interrogated twice.”

     “Oh.” 

     “Then why are you asking me this again?  I’ve been here for four and a half hours!”

     “We are sorry for the misunderstanding.  You can go back to the waiting area and I’ll bring you your papers.”   

     A few minutes later he brings me my visa and passport.  I look to see if they issued it for three months.   Three months.  Perfect.  I sigh and check the time. It is just past 9:30 AM.  The visa was issued at 4:33 AM.  Just two minutes after Jesse’s.  They were just playing games with me.  Harassed me for five hours.  Punishment me for the crime of my grandfather’s first name.  My mouth tastes like yellow gone chartreuse.

     Raffi is released at the same time as I.  The three of us go to retrieve our bags.  We find them on the ground beside a non-revolving baggage carousel.  They’ve been there for hours.  Jesse decides Raffi deserves to know our real story.  We’re not tourists.  We’re here for work and activism.  He looks shocked. 

     “So you guys were prepared for the interrogation?”

     “Yeah.  We’ve been preparing for a long time.  But lets get the hell outta here before they find another reason to stop us.”  Jesse and I catch the 21 bus to our new home in the West Bank. 

*All names and identifying details in this article have been changed to maintain the anonymity and safety of the individuals.