The Final Machsom

I was anxious. My short tenure in Palestine had come to an end, but in order to leave Palestine, one has to navigate the Israeli Occupation Complex one last time. Stakes is high. Not as high as if I were a Palestinian from the West Bank who worked for months to get a visa that is usually denied or a Palestinian with an Israeli Passport, labeled an Israeli-Arab born on the Zionist side of the Green Line, who cannot explain why she doesn’t speak perfect Hebrew as she tries to board a plane to college in the U.S. Stakes were high for me because I want to be able to return and continue doing solidarity work or maybe just visit the family and friends I have made out here.

I spent my final hours with other Internationals and a few Palestinians, in East Jerusalem, quietly admiring their commitment, their love, and their resolve. I packed my bags and stressed out over how to transport fotos that although not very sensitive could prove I am an activist. In this climate of us versus them, subjected to the language of power, activist practically means terrorist. My sheirut picked me up near the hostel I often stayed in. I jumped on and dozed off. When I woke up I saw the tail wings, like shark fins letting me know I had arrived at David Ben Gurion Airport. I almost heard the dun-dun, dun-dun, Jaws theme music throbbing in my head.

I dismounted the sheirut at 1:45 am and took a moment to absorb the thick night air that reminded me of Puerto Rico. I needed to breathe in this warm air and relax before entering the final machsom –the last Israeli security checkpoint.

Once in, I was perplexed by the choice of mazes and the large screens flashing flight numbers like stats on horse races at an OTB. I stood back and tried to buy more time and orient myself before joining a queue; I was early. But, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a female security agent triangulating, surveying me. It was 2:00 am and my ordeal was beginning.

Her approach was awkward, nervous even. She asked me what I was doing there and if she could help me. She was instructed to do so, I presume, through the Nextel she held in her left hand. I spoke slowly, responding in English to her questions in Hebrew and Arabic. She was caught off guard. I pulled out my U.S. Passport and handed it to her and she smiled, probably at her own presumptions. We made small talk, I asked her to show me to my line, and she escorted me. I cleared the first obstacle.

Standing in file, I threw on my iPod, selected reggaeton and decided to bop my butterflies away as I stepped forward. At some point, I was stopped. Only folks with Israeli passports are welcome here; all others are a security risk. At around 2:30 am, I was escorted by a couple of security agents about 20 meters to a table, where I put my backpack down. Two other agents arrived and explained they would ask me questions for my safety and the safety of the flight I was about to board. I was also instructed not to mind the side conversations in Hebrew; this was going to be a training session –yeah, sure.

For over thirty minutes I was asked about when I bought my ticket, why I came, where I stayed, who I met, what I did, how I did it, why I extended my stay, how I extended my stay, when I extended my stay. These questions were asked one after the other and occasionally repeated. Side comments were made between the two women. They started buzzing when I claimed to stay at the Hotel Petra in Jerusalem; I was almost scolded for visiting Petra, Jordan until I corrected them. No, no, the hostel in the old city, not the city in the Arab country. The women weren’t hostile but after standing and answering questions for a little over a half hour, I was getting agitated and visibly exhausted. It was about 3:15 am. I was invited to sit down on the table right in the middle of the main lobby while the agents stepped off discussing my case. Eventually, it was determined that I would move on to the next phase of the gauntlet.

I was asked to carry my bag to another security station in the main lobby where it would undergo a thorough search. Two new women asked me to open my bag as the first two walked away. The next 30 minutes were spent opening every single compartment was and wiping them with a wand-like device which held a disposable cloth at the end. This cloth was then scanned by another appliance to determine if my bag or any of its contents had come in contact with any explosive devices.

The two women were cheerful, if not exhausted themselves. Their superiors were more elusive, giving orders under hushed tones of Hebrew, spoken so that I could not hear the contents of the conversation. The interview agents had apparently instructed the bomb-sniffing agents to guarantee that my bag would be checked in on time; it would not be allowed to fly as a carry-on, the way it came into the country, although I am sure that it was lighter and less bulky than weeks ago.

After the second set of agents finished with my bag and I successfully pleaded my case for at least carrying a few delicate personal items in a small knapsack, I was asked to empty my pockets, including my wallet and passport and place all items in a bucket on the table. I was told I would be searched using a metal detector. A young man approached me with a wand and I opened my arms, but he responded with a hand gesture asking me to follow him. I did expecting to walk through a set of metal detectors Israeli citizens were walking through on the way to picking up their boarding passes, but we passed those. We were headed to the back, to a special room with a brown curtain, benches, and seats giving it the appearance of a cross between a doctor’s office and a police precinct.

After waiting, behind the curtain, for what felt like an eternity, two agents entered and asked me to stand so one could run his hands over my entire body. I was tense and tired and oddly enough it felt like a massage. I had no weapons, nothing to be worried about, so I tried to ease into the invasive touch. Next, I was wanded with the kind of metal detector visitors to Rikers Island are familiar with. Apparently there was too much metal near my crotch and I was ordered to drop my pants so that the wand could pass over my genitals -the joy. My pants were thoroughly searched and my shoes were carted off to another room but eventually I was allowed to dress myself as they apologized for the inconvenience, to which I replied with some lie about how absolutely safe I was feeling already, impressed with this level of security. I said this to try and gain some of their trust, to get through the ordeal quicker. I was being treated like such a criminal, as a friend of Palestinians, to Israel, I guess I am.

I was escorted back to my belongings in the main lobby, around 4:00 am, and it seemed that my ordeal was over. The cheerful bomb-sniffing agents became my hospitality service and escorted me past long lines to get my boarding pass and then through regular security assuring colleagues that I was thoroughly searched and passed inspection and brought to Passport Control where I was bid farewell.

At Passport Control, I handed my passport over expecting an exit stamp. The Passport agent never looked up from her computer screen. Something must have come up when she entered my name; I am not sure what. But before I knew it, I turned around and found myself surrounded by three new security agents. They had my passport and boarding pass, it slipped out of my sight and into their hands. They started to walk away with my documents and I was instructed to follow. I was ordered to sit down while they entered an office, had a private discussion about me, and sent a stone-faced and burly plain clothes agent to watch over me.

When I asked, I was told there wasn’t a problem, but clearly there was. At 4:15 am, I was escorted back through the various gates and doorways I had already traversed and brought swiftly to the same special room where my pants had been removed for security purposes. A new and slightly larger team of 3 – 5 agents were waiting for me and I felt sure I was going to be questioned, but time was ticking and their agenda was never exactly made clear to me.

I was frisked, more invasively than before, with fingers pawing at my flesh’s every crease and curve. My pants were removed once again and I was subjected to the metal detecting wand, while standing there, arms extended horizontally, like Jesus on a cross. The irony of being forced into this position by Israeli guards in the Holy Land stung deeply. They found nothing. I was asked if I knew anyone else traveling on my flight; the answer was no. Then they proceeded to remove everything from my small carry-on knapsack. Rosaries and miniature nativity scenes for relatives, a couple of Kuffiyehs for friends, and Palestinian embroidered artisan crafts were laid on the table as a couple of agents hauled of my iPod, cell phones, digital camera, and memory disks to another room.

Tucked away in my digital camera on a folder that should not be easily accessed I had every foto I had taken on my trip. I shouldn’t have brought them with me, but I can be foolish and pig-headed. These fotos prove that I was in Palestine, not Israel but the Occupied Palestinian Territories. They show me playing with Palestinian children and attending anti-war demonstrations. They depict checkpoints and resistance graffiti. They document non-violent protests against the Apartheid Wall and separation fences as well as the damage that settlers and settlements have done to Palestinian farmers and shepherds land and homes and communities.

Time was running out, 5:00 am was approaching, and there was a buzz in the air. Apparently the various security agents wanted to make sure that I did not miss my flight even though they found me suspicious. A progressive Israeli comrade forewarned me of this treatment and reassured me that they would not keep me; Israel has no interest in keeping International activists in, ultimately I would get through this uncomfortable situation. My concern is that they do to me what they have done to dozens, maybe hundreds, of others; place me on a list that denies me reentry. This may be why they have separated me from my electronic devices a second time, even after determining they never made contact with explosives. They weren’t afraid me blowing aircrafts up, but more about the truth leaking out, in the form of pictures and documents, blowing Israel up as a racist and fascist state. Once they determined that I was not a threat to the flight, I was thanked for my cooperation and brought back to Passport Control, where I was asked to stand outside the office while my exit visa was stamped. Agents escorted me through all gates and with a sneer I was told I still had 15 minutes to shop duty-free before boarding.

And that was it, I was free to leave. I am not sure if I am free to come back. I checked my passport naively wondering if they would leave a note saying don’t think of returning. Perhaps they weren’t sure if they would welcome me, regardless of my smile and the huge heart I wear on my sleeves. Maybe they made copies of my photos and files and some drone will look at them and make a note of me for the future -fernando reals, persona non grata. That’s not really that important. The reality is that I only dropped a few tears into that vast ocean of resistance that has been rising up like a hurricane and washing the Holy Land of all of this institutionalized hatred and violence. I believe Palestine will be free and it will be because Palestinians will liberate themselves.

My only hope is that, Inshallah, I can return when this happens; and if the opportunity to return and resist, in solidarity, alongside Palestinians is extended to me during the final years of occupation, I will gladly find a way back. Palante Siempre, En Solidaridad!

Viva, Viva Palestina! Y La Lucha Clandestina!
Viva, Viva Palestina! Y La Lucha Popular!