Airport "Security"

Friday, August 22, 2008, writing from Ben Gurion Airport

3:50am: I wake up. I feel a bit like I've been beat over the head with a mallet, but then I look at Nora and realize she clearly feels worse than I do. This trip has been a whirlwind of getting the most out of everyday and I'm exhausted. Not to mention having not gotten a solid night of sleep since I've been here.

4:21am: We leave S----'s house (He is the kind cousin of a friend who has generously put us up for the day and night in Tel Aviv and regaled us with stories the night before of the protest at Nilin, near Bilin in the West Bank, where he goes each week to take an Israeli stand against the occupation and the building of the Wall.)

4:29am: We are pleased with ourselves for quickly locating a taxi to the train station (where a train will take us to the airport) for only 25 skekels without even having to bargain

4:34am: The taxi driver drops us off. We are surprised that the train station is so close and wonder why we paid the equivalent of $8.

4:35am: We realize we've been dropped at the bus station, which is closed. We are told it will cost us another 30 shekels to take another taxi to the actual train station and we realize we will probably be too late to catch the 4:39am train. A new taxi driver tells us he can drive us to the airport for 140 shekels. We pool our 103 shekels and beg. We win.

4:50am: We arrive at the airport and go our separate ways, as I'm flying Air France and Nora is on Continental. Waiting in the line to get to the first bag x-ray machine, I'm asked what I was doing here [teaching dance], have I been to Israel before [yes], did I teach dance last year [yes], do I have any friends in Israel [yes, I stayed with a friend last night in Tel Aviv], what is his name [S----- P-----], do I have have any family in Israel [no], do I speak any Hebrew [no]. I'm good to go.

5:05am: My bags begins the process of being put through the first of their x-ray experiences today.

5:09am: I am instructed to enter a new line to the area where bags are checked more thoroughly. Last year I was sent directly here since the first question I’d gotten at stage one was “Where have you visited on this trip?”, the answer including towns in the West Bank which led to some chaos and my immediate sentencing to the line I was in now. I wonder if I should have offered that information this time even though I wasn’t asked; if it would have expedited this process since I’ve ended up here anyway, after the earlier line. This line today seems to move at a snail pace and I look ahead to where bags are opened, contents spread out across the long inspection tables, a new meaning to airing one’s dirty laundry. Jokes had been made over the past few days of leaving a fudge-cicle in ones drawers, armed with the explanation “I figured best to do all the washing when I get home!”

5:34am: I finally reach the head of the line. I am called over by a female inspection officer. Damn. I was hoping for a male, since observation has led to the conclusion that the women seem to be harsher and more strict in their searches, both at checkpoint and all security. Mine seems nice enough however, despite her obvious annoyance that my hiking pack has so many zippers and pouches.

To my right, a Japanese family of husband, wife, and son who looks to be around 19 years old are having a taste of my experience last year. A search of the son’s baggage has yielded an Arabic-English dictionary (in fact, the same one on my bookshelf at home) and a security officer who seems to be “head-honcho” is practically yelling. She demands answers: Why do you study Arabic? Why not Hebrew? Why would you want to speak Arabic? The young man speaks almost no English (and certainly no Hebrew) so his father steps in with something about him being a student and he himself being a professor. The security agent's tone suggests more that she is offended by the very fact that this kid would want to study Arabic, than that she is following routine protocol. I can't possibly imagine this scrawny Japanese kid to be much a thread of any sort to Israeli security, other than perhaps holding up some lines while officers try to communicate to him unsuccessfully. I suppose I should rejoice that this time it's not typical racial profiling--not the Arab or Muslim getting held apart, however it's profoundly disturbing to watch so much animosity rise up within this woman at the mere prospect of someone wanting to study Arabic.

I turn back to my bags as my inspector urges me to empty out its contents, but I’m reminded of the similar conversation I had last year at this airport where I was forced to explain why I was studying Arabic, as if it were a crime and why I would want to study Arabic in the West Bank as if that too were a crime. Earlier this morning, just before Nora and I parted ways, we’d wished each other “good luck” on the security check. She then thought for a moment and asked “Well, there isn’t anything we’re not being truthful about, is there?” We’d briefly entertained the thought of saying we’d spend the night in Tel Aviv at a hostel if our host had preferred not to be named, but he didn’t mind so now of course we were simply planning to answer truthfully to all questions asked. I suddenly realize anew how strange it feels to be afraid of telling the truth. Is there anything I’ve done wrong?, I ask myself.

I’ve taught dance to youth who otherwise wouldn’t have the opportunity to learn this dance. I’ve provided them the tools to express their thoughts through video.
I’ve visited a part of the world that is currently in turmoil.
I’ve been interested in a people, a culture, a language; all different from my own.
I’ve broken bread with old and new friends.
I’ve photographed and written about my experiences, both in factual form and evaluating my thoughts.

I can’t seem to see what is wrong with anything I’ve done. Perhaps I’m missing something?

I feel glad I sent the mini-DV tapes by post, mostly because it’s one less thing I have to explain (especially since I have no video cameras on me, as they were donated to be left at Aida Refugee Camp’s Rowwad youth program).

5:52am: I am packing my bag for the second time today, returning its contents to their places, unmentionables and all.

5:54am: I enter now the ticket check-in line, the part where this process usually begins in all other airports I’ve been to.

6:01am: I am through but am now instructed to walk to an elevator where my checked luggage is to be dropped because it has “too many straps”. I place my luggage in the elevator, thinking “insha’allah it makes it to the plane!”

6:10am: I’m in line for the carry-on security check. This line is populated by irritated people, and still more irritated personnel. Again, we move at a snail’s pace. I notice that none of the staff here seem any older than me. Do they all retire at 30?, I wonder. I watch as a Muslim mother and father watch nervously as their son passes through this section of security, this point clearly being the last at which friends and family may accompany the passengers-to-be. I wonder how many times they’ve been questioned for hours upon trying to leave via air.
Last week, I’d asked my Palestinian-American friend’s 15 year old nephew about his experience entering through this airport. After his family had been left to wait in a tiny interrogation room, security came to retrieve the parents for further questioning. After inspecting their tickets, they’d overheard the officers on walkie-talkies giving the seat numbers and instructing someone on the other end to inspect those seats for possibly weapons or bombs left there. He told me that when he turns 16, he’ll be eligible for a personal questioning, apart from his parents.

6:49am: My carry-on bags finally go through the x-ray machine (again). There seems to be a problem and I have to empty out all electronic devices from my bag and send it through again. I pass the test.

6:58am: I pass through the doors, thinking I’m finally free only to find myself in yet another line. This one looks strikingly similar to that in which I waiting on my entry into the country—this is the passport check line. I enter a “foreign passports” line and wonder, Is this where they’ll finally get me and send me to an interrogation room? Will I finally be asked for a day-by-day play of my activities? I’m sure they won’t be ecstatic about my visits to Jenin and Balata. I’m fairly certain that the desire to visit those places is a bit of a crime here.

7:10am: After what feels like just an extension of the continuous line I’ve been waiting in all morning, I am passed through, just like my entry two weeks earlier, with no words uttered.

7:58am: The final straw is when for a moment, upon boarding, I’m held back because of a problem with my boarding pass. I think, Aha! This is where they’ve caught me, on my indiscretions of travel to no-no-land! However, I’m passed through.

I marvel at the fact that arriving almost three and a half hours early gave me just enough time to make my flight. And this is without any further inspection. As far as Ben Gurion Security knew, I hadn’t even ventured outside of “Israel”. I think, if I were Israeli I doubt I’d ever fly anywhere simply due to this hassle of leaving this country. And if I were Arab-Israeli I’d be even less inclined to do so. I wonder if Nora’s faired the same or been tripped up by the sticky questions of “Where did you visit?” (and consequently “Why would you want to visit there??”) If so, I wonder if she’ll make it on time for her 11:00am flight.