When I boarded my flight from Istanbul to Tel Aviv on Sunday, I knew there was a pretty good chance that that the Israeli immigration officials I would shortly meet were not going to love me. It turned out I was only partially correct on that front. They didn't really take the time to get to know me - but they did not love the stamps in my passport.
For those of you unfamiliar with travel in the middle east - let me enlighten you about the visa situation with Israel. Many arabic countries in the region are not very happy with Israel (they actually don't recognise that the state of Israel has the right to exist) and will not allow you to enter their country if you have visited Israel. Countries that fall into this category include Iran, Iraq, Lebanon & Syria.
This means that travellers planning to visit Israel and any of the countries listed above must travel to Israel last, as I am. The trouble is that the ill feeling between the countries listed above and Israel is mutual. Though the Israeli government does not have a blanket policy of denying entry to travellers who, for arguments sake, have visited Syria - they have been known to deny travellers entry to Israel for this reason.
Given the fact that I spent two weeks in Syria, two weeks in Lebanon and then a further four weeks in Syria earlier this year - I was expecting to get questioned and knew that there was a very real possibility that I would not be allowed into Israel. Following the notion that good luck is when opportunity meets preparation, I spent much of the short flight from Turkey preparing my answers for the Israeli immigration officials. I memorised the dates I had visited countries and planned a fictional itinerary for my time in Israel that did not include any visits to the West Bank.
I was quite calm as I left the plane, but when a young man was detained as we entered the terminal I couldn't stop a scene that I had recently read in the autobiography "Son of Hamas" from bursting forward into my consciousness. The Palestinian author was detained for questioning by the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) for months on end. To encourage him to talk, the IDF made him crouch on a tiny chair day in, day out with his hands tied behind his back. The author was not allowed to sleep, move, talk or do anything at all except for 5 minutes a day when he was permitted to leave the chair to eat and use the bathroom.
Eventually the moment of truth came as I handed my passport over to a young woman at the immigration counter. That was when the questions started:
"You were in Syria?"
"Yes."
Long pause....
"You were in Lebanon?"
"Yes."
Long pause....
The questioning continued as I was asked what my occupation is and had to explain how I was funding my travels. After more questioning about how long I was planning to stay in Israel there was another very long pause...Then I heard the blessed stamping sound and was handed my passport and a slip of paper as my interrogator said 'Welcome to Israel'.
I was in! Yay! I was still grinning like a fool when I handed my passport to the official at the next gate in front of the baggage claim area. He handed my passport to another female immigration official nearby - who then proceded to utter the phrase I least wanted to hear:
"Come with me please."
I then had to sit on the naughty chair just off to the side of the baggage claim area with the other undesirables. This really was cruel and unusual punishment as while we waited to discover our fate we got to watch all the other travellers casually breezing through the checkpoint before confidently heading off to claim their bags. Lucky bastards.
The woman sitting next to me did not inspire a great deal of confidence. Rivers of mascara trickled down her face as she sobbed quietly. The woman tried to talk to me, but she didn't speak English and I was relieved as I didn't think talking to others (who could be caught up in God only knows what trouble) was a very good idea in my situation. I understood the situation was out of my control and was determined to remain calmly detatched - unless I saw any tiny chairs in which case I had given myself full permission to collapse into the foetal position.
After 10 minutes the officer beckoned me over to a quiet corner of the baggage claim area for round two of questioning. She was far more skilled than my earlier interrogator and was soon trying to trip me up by presenting slightly inaccurate versions of my travels for me to confirm. Two could play at this game - I matched her friendly tone as I calmly corrected her version of events several times. I was repeatedly asked the same questions, including:
"Did you meet friends there?"
"You travelled there alone?"
"You visited Syria?"
"For what purpose?"
"You visited Lebanon?"
"For what purpose?"
After 20 minutes of this she switched to questions about the bigger picture:
"Do you have a particular interest in the middle east?"
"Yes. It is a fascinating part of the world."
"So you could travel anywhere in the world this year (I had explained my year off work with the deferred salary scheme) and you chose, of your own freewill, to travel to Syria?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I enjoy learning about other cultures and seeing Roman ruins. That does not mean I agree with the political stance of their government"
"I understand. We need to collect your bags now so that we can search them."
Once I collected my pack I followed the official through an unmarked door into a baggage search room with a few undesirables I has not seen earlier. A (different) woman was sobbing hysterically and I couldn't help thinking, once I established that there were no tiny chairs in the vicinity, that she was overeating a bit to having her bags searched and tested for traces of explosives.
After my big pack and daypack were x-rayed, I heard the dreaded phrase "Come with me please" again and I was lead to a separate room with a new female officer. I was not looking forward to the rubber glove treatment - but fortunately I just had to walk through a metal detector (something that I would become very accustomed to during my time in Jerusalem).
Finally, 45 minutes after I first handed my passport over to the lady at the counter, I was free to go. I had to restrain myself from sprinting as I headed out into the arrivals terminal. It was only when the shuttle bus I boarded pulled out from the kerb that I began to relax...I had made it...I was in...Welcome to Israel.
For those of you unfamiliar with travel in the middle east - let me enlighten you about the visa situation with Israel. Many arabic countries in the region are not very happy with Israel (they actually don't recognise that the state of Israel has the right to exist) and will not allow you to enter their country if you have visited Israel. Countries that fall into this category include Iran, Iraq, Lebanon & Syria.
This means that travellers planning to visit Israel and any of the countries listed above must travel to Israel last, as I am. The trouble is that the ill feeling between the countries listed above and Israel is mutual. Though the Israeli government does not have a blanket policy of denying entry to travellers who, for arguments sake, have visited Syria - they have been known to deny travellers entry to Israel for this reason.
Given the fact that I spent two weeks in Syria, two weeks in Lebanon and then a further four weeks in Syria earlier this year - I was expecting to get questioned and knew that there was a very real possibility that I would not be allowed into Israel. Following the notion that good luck is when opportunity meets preparation, I spent much of the short flight from Turkey preparing my answers for the Israeli immigration officials. I memorised the dates I had visited countries and planned a fictional itinerary for my time in Israel that did not include any visits to the West Bank.
I was quite calm as I left the plane, but when a young man was detained as we entered the terminal I couldn't stop a scene that I had recently read in the autobiography "Son of Hamas" from bursting forward into my consciousness. The Palestinian author was detained for questioning by the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) for months on end. To encourage him to talk, the IDF made him crouch on a tiny chair day in, day out with his hands tied behind his back. The author was not allowed to sleep, move, talk or do anything at all except for 5 minutes a day when he was permitted to leave the chair to eat and use the bathroom.
Eventually the moment of truth came as I handed my passport over to a young woman at the immigration counter. That was when the questions started:
"You were in Syria?"
"Yes."
Long pause....
"You were in Lebanon?"
"Yes."
Long pause....
The questioning continued as I was asked what my occupation is and had to explain how I was funding my travels. After more questioning about how long I was planning to stay in Israel there was another very long pause...Then I heard the blessed stamping sound and was handed my passport and a slip of paper as my interrogator said 'Welcome to Israel'.
I was in! Yay! I was still grinning like a fool when I handed my passport to the official at the next gate in front of the baggage claim area. He handed my passport to another female immigration official nearby - who then proceded to utter the phrase I least wanted to hear:
"Come with me please."
I then had to sit on the naughty chair just off to the side of the baggage claim area with the other undesirables. This really was cruel and unusual punishment as while we waited to discover our fate we got to watch all the other travellers casually breezing through the checkpoint before confidently heading off to claim their bags. Lucky bastards.
The woman sitting next to me did not inspire a great deal of confidence. Rivers of mascara trickled down her face as she sobbed quietly. The woman tried to talk to me, but she didn't speak English and I was relieved as I didn't think talking to others (who could be caught up in God only knows what trouble) was a very good idea in my situation. I understood the situation was out of my control and was determined to remain calmly detatched - unless I saw any tiny chairs in which case I had given myself full permission to collapse into the foetal position.
After 10 minutes the officer beckoned me over to a quiet corner of the baggage claim area for round two of questioning. She was far more skilled than my earlier interrogator and was soon trying to trip me up by presenting slightly inaccurate versions of my travels for me to confirm. Two could play at this game - I matched her friendly tone as I calmly corrected her version of events several times. I was repeatedly asked the same questions, including:
"Did you meet friends there?"
"You travelled there alone?"
"You visited Syria?"
"For what purpose?"
"You visited Lebanon?"
"For what purpose?"
After 20 minutes of this she switched to questions about the bigger picture:
"Do you have a particular interest in the middle east?"
"Yes. It is a fascinating part of the world."
"So you could travel anywhere in the world this year (I had explained my year off work with the deferred salary scheme) and you chose, of your own freewill, to travel to Syria?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I enjoy learning about other cultures and seeing Roman ruins. That does not mean I agree with the political stance of their government"
"I understand. We need to collect your bags now so that we can search them."
Once I collected my pack I followed the official through an unmarked door into a baggage search room with a few undesirables I has not seen earlier. A (different) woman was sobbing hysterically and I couldn't help thinking, once I established that there were no tiny chairs in the vicinity, that she was overeating a bit to having her bags searched and tested for traces of explosives.
After my big pack and daypack were x-rayed, I heard the dreaded phrase "Come with me please" again and I was lead to a separate room with a new female officer. I was not looking forward to the rubber glove treatment - but fortunately I just had to walk through a metal detector (something that I would become very accustomed to during my time in Jerusalem).
Finally, 45 minutes after I first handed my passport over to the lady at the counter, I was free to go. I had to restrain myself from sprinting as I headed out into the arrivals terminal. It was only when the shuttle bus I boarded pulled out from the kerb that I began to relax...I had made it...I was in...Welcome to Israel.
Lucky you. My wife and I would have loved to visit Israel/Palestine. My wife is Canadian, But i am Lebanese, and we had been to both Syria and Lebanon. All we got was to overlook the holy land up from mount Neebo in Jordan. would have been nice to travel through Israel/Palestine back to Lebanon than take the long way back through Syria.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the post card Bernadette those kites sound great
ReplyDeleteDanny
You are still making me laugh...OK mainly because I reckon there is no one better prepared for what may or may not happen than you...keep us posted, I'm totally enjoying :)
ReplyDelete