Are You a Terrorist, Sir?

I had been off my flight from Tbilisi to Tel Aviv, Israel for less than a minute when three security officers took me aside.  Why did you come to Israel, sir? a young woman asked.  Tourism I lied.  My lying wasn’t just a stupid miscalculation.  A week before coming to Israel I had learned that, because I had a Syrian stamp in my passport, I would have to go through additional security in the Tel Aviv airport.  According to some backpackers with personal experience, I’d have to strip entirely--I suppose to make sure I wasn’t hiding a tattoo of the Palestinian flag near my loins--and someone would yell at me in Arabic to see how I reacted.  When I arrived in Israel I had already decided not to say that I was doing research about World Bank projects in the Palestinian territories.  I thought this would avoid an industrial-sized can of worms, and it’s not like they could prove I wasn’t there for tourism.  Right?

Why did you decide to come to Israel in particular?

I always wanted to see Israel.  My mom came here and loved it.

How long are you staying?

Two weeks.

Where are you going?

Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

You mean you’re here for two weeks and you’re only going to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem? Here a pattern began in which she restated my answers in question form as though to make me sound ridiculous. 

Yes.

Where are you staying in Jerusalem?

I don’t know yet.

You don’t know where you’re staying?

No.  I’ll arrange it later.

When are you going there?

I don’t know yet.  I have two weeks.

Why were you in Georgia?

Tourism.

You were in Georgia for tourism?

Yes.

How long were you there?

Two weeks.

Do you have an itinerary?

Yes.

Can I see it?

Yes.

She saw that I had flights from Phoenix to Macedonia to Africa to Georgia and then to Israel.  She began shaking her head and her eyes got wide.  

When did you leave for this trip?

May 31.  

From where?

Istanbul, Turkey.  

She threw up her hands and spoke to one of the other guards in Hebrew.  I knew that May 31 was the date when nine Turkish citizens were murdered aboard the Gaza aid flotilla, but it was also truthfully when I left Turkey to start my circumnavigation.  I could have just said Phoenix, Arizona.  My itinerary didn’t say Turkey, only my passport would.  But to be honest I was kind of enjoying my interrogation, and some second-hand Turkish nationalism made me want to engage them on this front, but only so far.  For example, I didn’t reveal to them that I had actually interviewed the director of IHH, the NGO that sent the Gaza aid flotilla in the first place.

Why were you in Turkey?

I was studying abroad at Bogazici University in Istanbul.

She returned to my itinerary.  Where did you go in Africa?

Bangui, Central African Republic.

Where? I am by now very used to people not knowing CAR.

It’s a poor country in Central Africa.

Why did you go there?

Tourism.  

I really began having fun at this point.  Clearly my itinerary was full of places that most people don’t visit for two weeks, but as long as I stuck to my story the guard just became more bewildered while I enjoyed my game more and more.

Why did you go to Macedonia?

I reeeally wanted to see Macedonia.

Do you have guide books for any of these places?

No.  I mean I don’t have room for a bunch of guide books in my backpack.

Then her eyes got really wide, looking at my 18lbs red backpack.  That’s your only backpack?

Yes.

So you’re traveling for ten weeks to all these different countries and you only brought a little backpack?  Her hands, head, and eyes now rolled in circles simultaneously, which I gathered meant that she thought I was lying. 

Yes.

You’re traveling all over the world to all these different climatic zones . . .

Well, actually they’re all hot, I interrupted.  You can search my bag if you like.

No that’s fine.  Who’s paying for all this?

The Circumnavigators Club Foundation in New York City.

So they’re paying you to go all around the world to these different countries just for tourism?

Yes.

Did they send you here?

No. I chose all the places I wanted to go.  They’re just paying for it.

Do you have any documentation from them?

I showed them the business cards the foundation supplied me with, but I didn’t mention the letter of invitation the foundation had provided.  I thought about whether the letter mentioned my research.  I couldn’t remember. They’d just have to find it and I’d deal with it if they did.

Exasperated, she left me with one of the other guards for the next ten minutes.  I got tired of standing and sat on the floor with my legs crossed.  I started whistling unconsciously, but I decided to keep it going as a sort of arrogant and unnecessary measure of civil disobedience.  Then a higher-up came and rushed me through passport control toward a special security screening area.  We went through a grey door in the baggage claim.  The entry was hardly noticeable, lacking any marking except a coaster-sized “Do not enter” symbol.  I expected that here is where I would derobe. I walked in and saw two female guards in the room--for the first and I presume only time in my life I had to wonder: Which of these two women will force me to take my clothes off and which one will be yelling insults at me in a language I don't understand?

They began to empty my backpack and put individual items through an x-ray machine.  I thought about the things I had that might be suspicious.  My laptop bag had more than $300 in USD and Euros--my reserve for if my wallet got stolen and I was in an emergency.  That might not look good, but it could be explained.  I also had my tape recorder--not an everyday piece of equipment for a tourist, maybe something a bothersome journalist would have.  Certainly the interviews on the tape player would support that conclusion.  

Impossibly, they missed both of these things.  They took my laptop out of its bag without noticing the cash inside it.  And I had placed my tape player, by chance, in a small pocket in my backpack, the only one the guard hadn’t opened.

After twenty minutes in this windowless cave, I was told Ok.  You can pack up and go.  Enjoy your stay in Israel.  As I thanked my handlers and victoriously replaced all my things, the irony occurred to me. They never noticed the stamp from Syria.  They were so pre-occupied with my suspicious around the world travel that they had rushed me through passport control and missed the clearest sign that I was a security threat.  Somehow by pulling me aside they had removed me from the standard procedure in which I probably would have gone through hours of interviews, not to mention the great revelation.  

So that’s my story of coming to the Holy Land.  I guess it started with a blessing.  Two weeks later I left Israel through the same airport, and I went through more interrogations.  For legal reasons I won’t write exactly what happened, but I’ll say that I won round two as well.