Tales from Palestine # 1

October 25, 2007
Jerusalem

While crossing the Jordanian and Palestinian border, in retrospect, I wonder if I should have been less carefree and nonchalant about the situation. I met a guy a little bit older than me at the border, P., who has been traveling for the last three years all through the world and some of his recent ventures were Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and Pakistan. Not really Israel's favorite tourist spots and those with any of those stamps find it increasingly difficult to enter the country. However, I, on the other hand, only had a Syrian stamp (and the Israeli's don’t care about Lebanon). As soon as it came to be my turn to pass through the first round of security, the IDF soldier opened my passport, smiled wide and said, 'You're Indian? Welcome to Israel! Are you Muslim?'

I looked at her, extremely insulted, not because of the religion in question, but she could be so aggressive and obvious about her possible discrimination. Would it kill her to ask me what my religion was, rather than letting me know that it would work against my favor to be Muslim? I told her I was Hindu and she smiled even wider and let me pass. At the second window, though, where I was asked for my email, home address and phone number, cell phone number, etc. So they could run a security check on me, the IDF soldier kept demanding to know if I was Arab. Your name is Arab, she says. I know this is a trick, to see if I am lying, to make me nervous. I give her a bored look and just say, 'I'm Hindu.' End of story. She gives me a once over for the last time, and after we have entered into multiple rapid fire questions and answers, she tells me I need to wait for my security check.

This is OK because most people who have been to Syria require this check, but my main frustration is the inherent racism. I met P. on the bus between Jordan and Palestine, and he has been traveling for the past three years. Some of his latest ventures are Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and Syria. However, probably because he is not brown (there is no tactful way to put this), his security check took just as long as mine. At this point, I was too tired to argue and went through with my non-stamped passport with three months in the country. The last man (all the other IDFs were women, thus far), without looking up, takes my passport and starts speaking in Arabic. Although I understand his greetings and questions, I know it is better to play dumb. I look at him, with my most obvious sad, Indian eyes look and tell him, 'I'm sorry, I don't understand Arabic.' He looks a bit doubtful, tells me that I look completely Arab and then asks me where I am from originally. I tell him, and because he cannot say my name, he calls me India. We establish a friendly relationship until I realize that my huge bag is missing. A few moments later I find that it has been put aside because I brought my laptop and it needs to be checked because the bag is so humongous.

I am almost there, I think, just a little bit more. Another man is standing next to me and the IDF soldier asks him in Arabic for a pen. Without thinking, because I am exhausted, I reach into my bag and hand him a pen. I realize my mistake as he looks me in the eye and frowns. He starts speaking in Arabic, telling me that he does not have time for games and to open my bag. I panic. He then tells me that there is no need to pretend, and if I lie, I will not be allowed in. I just keep shaking my head, saying, 'Sorry, I don't understand you. Please, in English, please.' Finally, I win the struggle and he resigns back to English, looks through my bag, and lets me pass.
By the time P. and I reach Jerusalem, we are exhausted from my big bag and our apparent wrongdoings of visiting Arab countries and looking Arab, respectively.

However, a long, leisurely sit at the steps of the Damascus gate get us through the rest of the evening just fine.