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."

***

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.

Snippets of the Free Fall: Cape Cod to Beit Sehour

 

View of Beit Sehour, on the walk to and from Bethlehem

Our view overlooks Beit Sehour with its steep winding streets and sand colored houses. It is Friday, and we sit on the window ledge to breathe in the night. Cool, scentless breeze, consistent horns in the distance, and echoes of shouts and laughter.  Sitting here on our second day, facing each other with the window to our side, it seems we’ve already worn grooves in the cushions.

Where did this journey begin? In New York, or Massachusetts? On Muki’s dorm-room bed last October when we both felt the need for some perspective? Did it begin when we heard back from the Holy Land Trust that our volunteer applications had been accepted and we would be working with their partner organization the Palestine News Network—or maybe that was just when it first felt real. Perhaps the journey began at some indiscernible moment, like between when a seed is dormant and when germination begins. It is both one specific point in time and a series of smaller ones that are linked by something that is only visible once the first touch of green has reached sunlight.  But for the sake of this story, let’s begin in Cape Cod.

***

It was Tuesday, July 23^rd. We woke at 4:45am after a few restless hours of sleep, departed at 5:30 and made it to the Braintree subway station by 7.  The train to Boston was full of the usual crowd – commuters plugged into music and phones. Little eye contact.  Got to South Station 13 minutes before our bus was supposed to depart, both had to pee, each with a large backpack on our back and a smaller one on our front, waddle-ran our way to the terminal and slipped on just in time.  Arrived in New York City at noon or 1 and managed to ask our way through Penn Station to the correct train that got us to JFK by 2 or so.  Our plane was supposed to leave at 6:30pm, but we didn’t board until 8 and taxied for more than an hour before finally taking off.  That was how we first bonded with Robert (roll the ‘r’s, emphasis on the ‘e’ and drop the ‘t’), who had been visiting his 2 year-old granddaughter in the states.  He didn’t speak much English, and we knew zero Polish, still, the three of us managed to laugh about how we were evidently driving to Warsaw.  When the drinks came by Robert got a Bloody Mary- “kvava Mary” he said. Muki was surprised about Vodak and tomato juice and all the drinks were free, so we decided to try one. Robert showed us how to dress it with salt and pepper, and we all clinked plastic cups. It was just enough to knock us out and we slept through till breakfast.

***

Our little white gecko friend is scurrying from one couch to the other.  We found her yesterday, our first day, behind the mattress on the window ledge, along with a fat hairy spider. We tried to kill the spider with a shoe but it jumped, and we jumped and it ran under the couch where it has not been seen since. Ghosty, on the other hand, has been sighted multiple times and we’ve written her a few letters, which Muki reads aloud in the hopes she will hear them. They go something like this: “Dear Ghosty, please eat more mosquitos.” (To be fair there aren’t very many and they’re only out at night, and we now have a little light bulb thing that effectively gets them stoned.)  Now the call to prayer echoes through the hills of Beit Sehour.  Outside and across the valley shines a large neon red and yellow cross.  Around town we’ve seen a few bumper stickers and other signs that have a crescent moon with a cross- representing, perhaps, the community of Beit Jala, Beit Lahem (Bethlehem) and Beit Sehour—three towns that blend into each other and have a mixed Christian and Muslim population.  After our walk home today, when we noticed the crescent and cross signs, Muki turned to me and said “you know, you hear so much about conflicts between Christians and Muslims- especially in African countries and in the US and Europe- but then being here you realize that none of the conflicts are about faith. Its all about politics and power.” 

We arrived in Warsaw on Wednesday morning. The day was a chilly grey, and there were flowers everywhere.  Little stands with bouquets for sale, window boxes with geraniums, and one elderly woman selling small bunches of golden and yellow nasturtiums. After waving goodbye to Robert at the baggage claim, a smile wrinkling up his whole face and a little “good luck,” we caught a bus to the city center. We had around 7 hours to explore the city before heading back to catch our 11pm flight. A young man told us to alight at the stop by a roundabout with a single palm tree in its center.  A palm tree in Poland.

***

This morning our hosts invited us up for breakfast before we headed to the office for a brief orientation. The house is owned by an elderly couple, and our apartment is just below them.  Their daughter is visiting with her 6 and 8 year old girls, who live in Malaysia, and previously Texas.  Breakfast was a spread of eggs, hummus, hobbs, (what is called ‘pita bread’ in the US), homemade jams, olive oil, cucumbers and za’atar, a powdered spice mix with oregano and sesame seeds.  As we ate, Mary, the daughter of our hosts, sat with us.

Muki asked “are there protests that happen here?”

She replied, “In Bethlehem? No, not anymore. It used to be that there were Israeli guards here, and there was a curfew.  There were protests then, and a lot of senseless violence. There was a boy in our family, he was 17 years old, and one day he was standing at his window, inside the house looking out the window and the Israeli soldiers shot him straight in the head. He dropped dead that same moment. It was during the curfew time, and he was in the house just looking outside. That was around 1999.”

***

In Warsaw we walked on cobbled streets between ocher houses, trying various cheap Polish foods and turning to each other every few minutes to gasp “is this real?” Eventually we headed back to the airport.  As we walked toward our gate we stopped by the nearest bathroom.  Next to the ladies room there was a door with a picture of a person showering on it. We looked at each other, shrugged, and opened the door. Inside was a private room with one shower, a toilet and a sink.  Dropping our bags we locked the door, laughing the whole time and took an excellent shower, unsure if the door was supposed to have been open.  Refreshed and giddy, we used the remaining time to delete our Facebook accounts and rehearse our story again. A tale about how we were traveling through Israel to visit family and friends (thanks to my Dad’s list of connections there, we could back this part up) for about seven weeks, and had no interest in the conflict or visiting the West Bank. Our nerves were ringing as we boarded the plane, the worst part of our journey being in sight, but we managed to sleep until landing, courtesy of Polish Air’s refreshments.  Arriving in the Ben Gurion Airport at 3:50am on Thursday, we went straight to wash up before having to face Passport Control.

***

At breakfast, Mary continued her story.  “I want to take you down to the piece of land my parents own. It’s outside of Bethlehem, a beautiful piece of property. When they built the Wall it went straight through their land, putting most of it on the Israeli side.  We went to visit the remaining piece a few years ago. My girls were young, and it was a lovely afternoon.  Then this Jewish soldier came over to us, asked ‘what are you doing here?’ I was furious, I told him ‘this is our land, we’re having a picnic.’ He was like ‘we saw someone throwing rocks.’” Mary scoffed, “I was so mad. There I was with my young daughters and my elderly parents on our own land, most of which they had stolen, and here he’s accusing us of throwing rocks. And they won’t let us do anything with the property now, since it’s by the wall. We can’t build, can’t plant, nothing.”

Breakfast in our apartment, at the window seat

We were in the line for “All Other Passports,” when we approached the brunette Israeli guard in a bulletproof box.  We slid over our passports- mine from the US, with Jewish middle and last names, and Muki’s German passport with her string of Muslim names, passed from grandfather, to father, to daughter.  Silence. Keys clicked. Muki said “this is the most beautiful airport I’ve ever been in.” The officer replied “what is your father’s name?” She gave it. “And your grandfather’s?” “Well, I never knew him,” she said, “but I think his name was Mohamed,” emphasizing her American accent. The woman turned to me, “what are you doing in Israel, visiting friends and family?” “Yep” I replied, “and seeing the sights.” A minute passed. She slid my passport through with a 3-month visa card tucked between the pages. “I need you to wait over there.” She pointed to a closed-off area.  “I’m confused, is everything OK?” Muki tried to act surprised, playing the role of a tourist.  “Security check, ma’am.” She kept Muki’s passport and we walked to the room. Three women were already there, chatting in Arabic. It looked like they’d been there for a while. It was 4:37am. We waited.  

***

When we first arrived at our apartment on Thursday afternoon, the little girls brought down a bowl of fruit for our table.  Figs, grapes, and apples. “These are all from our trees outside.” I bit into a sweet grape, and the bitter taste of a seed assured me that all of it was real.  Our abode is 150 years old, cement floor, dome ceiling, one large living area and a smaller, but still large, kitchen with an adjacent bathroom.  The large window faces west, with a broad sill where we sit and eat and write.  It was home by the end of our first meal. The Last Supper hangs on one wall, and a small shrine with aging pictures of Mary and Jesus tell us that our hosts are Christian. An old Mercedes sewing machine serves as a table by the pale yellow door and all the walls are white. The kitchen cabinet is filled with different sets of small tea cups- maybe thirty cups in all.

At Ben Gurion we waited in the room for more than an hour before anything happened.  More people shuffled in, mostly of Arab decent, and some also, eventually, shuffled out.  A young white man came in and waited less than 20 minutes before he was released.  We sat mostly in silence. I knew Muki was nervous and I tried to make light conversation. It didn’t help. Around 6am an Israeli guard came out. “Najaer” was all he said and Muki followed him. I waited. 10 or 15 minutes passed, and suddenly, Muki came back. I was relieved and surprised. “They said to wait some more.” She said they asked her about her family, her studies, why she was coming to Israel, what she would do here, who she knew here, and her father’s and grandfather’s names.  Another white man entered the room. He left in less than 30 minutes. We started getting hungry. The three women who had been waiting the entire time we were there were called in individually and as a group throughout the hours. They told us they are Palestinian, but live in Holland, and come down every year despite the racist treatment. One had been held for 11 hours once, without access to food or anywhere to have a smoke.  She word trendy European clothes, had a stylish haircut, and told us she was fasting for Ramadan. They had been there for a few hours more than us, and she hadn’t been able to take the suhoor, morning meal before the day without food or cigarettes commenced. It is not obligatory to fast when one is traveling, but the woman said she preferred it. Eventually they took Muki in again. She came out after a few minutes and said they wanted my passport. Then she came out again and said they wanted me. We were questioned together by a light skinned woman who asked us about our families, studies, our reasons for coming to Israel, a list of people we were going to visit, with their phone numbers, about where we would be staying, what we would be doing, and where else we had traveled in the Middle East.  She had us write down our US phone numbers and email addresses. Most of her questions were curt. Most of our answers were met with a skeptical cock of her eyebrow.  It lasted probably half an hour. She said everything was fine and she needed to process our information. Another hour went by while we waited.

***

On the ride to Jerusalem later on Thursday it was hard to stay awake.  There were lemon groves in the spaces between the on and off ramps of the highway, and every road sign was in English, Hebrew and Arabic. Dinosaur cranes littered every horizon, pushing new buildings into the soil. New gas stations, new roads, new housing complexes. In the Old City we caught bus 21 to Bethlehem and the landscape changed as we left Jerusalem.  It opened into hills with steep terraces of white rock, held together by gnarled olive roots. Stone houses, built into the hills, marked the towns and cities of the West Bank as we climbed to Bethlehem, which lies at 2,543 feet.  Beit Jala, Beit Lahem and Beit Sehour extend over a few hills, and are connected by roads and houses, making the three towns appear to be just one.  We are on the southern end, in Beit Sehour, about a 25-minute walk from the PNN office in Bethlehem. The streets are narrow, steep, winding, and there are random smells of jasmine, smoke, and food cooking. Walking through houses and past storefronts the buildings will suddenly give way to a view of the city’s hills. The horizon, however, seems to be forever lost in a haze of dust and smoke.  From afar the area seems desert-like and barren, but walking through town there is vegetation everywhere- bougainvillea, pomegranates, figs, cypress, grapes, oleander, limes, large fruit-bearing cacti, olive and walnut trees, and others I don’t know by name. The flora reminds me of southern California, where I grew up, as does the dry heat and the pleasantness of evening.

At 8:45 Muki was called in again, by a different guard. She was asked the same questions. When she realized it would be the same interrogation, Muki told the guard she had already answered the questions twice that day.  He let her go, and within 15 minutes she had her passport back and we were free to leave. Then we looked at her visa and realized it had been issued within 3 minutes of mine- 4 and a half hours earlier.  Infuriated, exhausted, and hungry we found our bags left haphazardly near the carousel and got the sherut to Jerusalem.  (Muki’s extended version of the customs story will be posted soon.) We arrived at our new house by lunchtime on Thursday and spent the afternoon sleeping and rearranging the furniture in our apartment.

***

This morning, Friday, we went to the Holy Land Trust office for a brief orientation- how to interact respectfully with our landlords/hosts, how to navigate Bethlehem and Beit Sehour, etc.  From there we went to the PNN office to discuss what we would be doing and how to do it with the young woman who is currently the sole person working on the English portion of the website. The introduction got us excited to work with PNN, as we realized our tasks are both manageable and will give us a lot of freedom to also push ourselves. It was also nice to feel like they definitely need the extra hands to boost the English website to its full potential. We will begin work on Monday morning.  Walking home from the office afterward Muki turned to me and said, “I think we just passed a bakery.” Indeed, we discovered that on our way home is a little pastry shop that has all sorts of sweet and floury treats for $2/lb. It will be a constant test for our will power, that’s for sure.