Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Troubles Entering Palestine

Sky Cohen is a friend of Rob's over at the Lowdown currently enroute to the West Bank to build playgrounds for Palestinian children. So far he hasn't had much luck but this was his last update.. from Jordan.

A riveting first person account.


How Friere’s ‘Pedagogy of Hope’ Almost Saved Me, but Ultimately Was One of the Implicators of My Status as a Thought Criminal.
By Sky Cohen

The King Hussein Bridge, which is the only land crossing that permits internationals to travel into the West Bank from Jordan, is located about 20 miles from my residence in Sweilah, Amman. This drive to the isthmus takes one through the entire spectrum of geographic that is offered by Jordan. From the bustling metropolis that is Amman, through the impoverished residential area of Salt, under the towering gaze of limestone hills and past the Dead Sea; this idyllic, picturesque, drive is one that will calm anyone’s nerves.

Going through customs on the Jordanian side of the boarder is less than an arduous task, that is, if you have a grasp of the Arabic language or are traveling with someone who does. As I watch internationals, baffled, walking in circles I feel thankful that I am traveling with Imad and that we are able to get through customs without much of a hassle. At one point a Jordanian customs guard, in jest, accuses me of traveling with my ‘brothers’ passport, (my passport photo is of me with beyond shoulder length hair, which I have cut since arriving in Jordan) but with a smile waves us through. As we are waiting to board the specialty bus designed to take us to the border of the West Bank (Israel), I notice that the bus depot is partitioned into two sections: one for International-Tourists and the other for Palestinians returning home.
The number of internationals, roughly 30 people, barely fills a quarter of the extravagant, grandiose, air-conditioned bus. As we travel down the mile long stretch of land that separates Jordan from the West Bank (Israel), I look out the window to see nothing but desolate tract: this desert purgatory is a cavernous maze of dehydrated dwarf plants and barbed wire. About half way down we stop at a check point, and the bus is boarded by a toll guard who checks our passports and takes our bus tickets. As the bus continues on, I see we are coming to another security check point where scores of buses are waiting; I notice that the road is divided into two paths and rather than waiting in line, our bus takes the empty route and is allowed to pass without any further inspection. As we roll by the line of busses I look from the comfort of my air-conditioned seat and see that each one is full to its carrying capacity with Palestinians, luggage protruding out windows (obviously not air conditioned), little children sitting on their mother’s laps, and few are conversing. I see the acceptance of the unfortunate situation in the eyes of the people; the apathy marred with contempt is obvious in their gazes, I lock eyes with a young girl and as I raise my hand to acknowledge our mutual existences she violently spits out her window and I apologetically avert my eyes.

It becomes obvious when we cross into the Israeli (occupied) side of the border; there are dozens of Israeli flags lining the walk way, parallel to where we are driving; female soldiers are wearing Kevlar vests that seem to be a size too large for them; and their males counterparts have automatic weapons dangling from their shoulders, I marvel as I see the Israeli flag being flown for the first time in an official capacity. For an instant I forget that this land I am now on is being occupied by Israel and that Palestinians are subjected to that occupation on a daily basis; but strangely feel a sense of pride that this land – these people (the Israelis) - would accept me as one of their own merely for my cultural heritage. In the hours to come this belief would prove to be nothing more than an illusion.

As the bus pulls to the front of the terminal our luggage is out onto a conveyer belt and we are ushered through an Israeli security check; our belongings are once again x-rayed and we are put through a metallic device that jets high pressure air strategically on our bodies. Imad passes through before I do, and as if scripted, three plain clothed IDF soldiers take him off to the side of the room and begin to interrogate him: out of a bus of roughly 30 internationals, he is the only one questioned. Israel’s paranoia, whether justified or not, has produced the world’s most reactionary security system.

After a few minutes of questioning and Imad’s release we proceed to a row of security booths; the majority are designated for Palestinians but a few are saved for internationals. At the booth I am asked a series of questions and I regurgitate my rehearsed answers: I am going to the West Bank for tourism; yes, I am staying with my friends grandmother; I will be staying in Nablus; no, I do not have her number; why? Because we are being picked up at the boarder; yes Nablus. The woman behind the booth takes my passport and enters my information into her computer: she tells me to sit down and wait for my name to be called.

Sitting, waiting for my passport is the first time that I am truly able to observe some of my fellow travelers; there is an organized tour group of Indonesian Moslems waiting to pass through customs; I notice that more common than luggage, the Palestinians are carrying multiple 5-10 gallon containers of fresh water: Imad tells me that they do this because Israel has control over the allocation of water that flows into the West Bank and that it is regularly shut off. After about an hour of waiting Imad’s name is called and his passport is returned to him, I also hear my name called and I stand up to procure my passport, but I am greeted by a woman in a pink shawl accompanied by two IDF soldiers. In accented English she says to me: ‘Sky? Please come with us.”

I follow the three officials through a labyrinth of security coded doors and past a numbers of closed-circuit security cameras. The woman in the pink shawl gestures that I enter a room and sit down; sitting across the table from me she begins to ask me questions. She asks about my parents and their occupations; about my reasons for traveling into Israel (she constantly referred to the West Bank as Israel and for a while it threw me off); when I explain to her that I had done fund-raising for a school in Nablus, she tries to get me to admit that I am going with political motivations and am planning on attending anti-Israel protests. When I adamantly deny these claims, she shrugs as if not fully convinced. I’m starting to believe that this woman has already judged and convicted me of something. But, this interrogation experience is so foreign to me that I don’t know if she’s serious or not. After about half an hour of questioning she ends with “Are you carrying any books or religious scriptures?” I am careful not to disclose the entire truth, but I keep from lying. I tell her: “Yes, (in my backpack) I am currently carrying Paulo Friere’s “Pedagogy of Hope”. For the first time in the interview as if acknowledging her exposure to Friere, she smiles and says “Ok” and I am convinced that when I am let into the West Bank it will have been Friere’s doing.

She leads me out of the room and into a hallway where she tells me to sit and wait. She sits me down near a cylindrical ashtray and disappears back through the security enabled doors. Disgusted by the smell of cigarettes, I get up and walk slightly down the hall to another set of chairs; and as soon as I sit down a door at the end of the hallway slams open and two IDF muscle men come barging out with their hands on their holsters and scream me down in Hebrenglish; they communicate to me that I need to be seen by their security cameras, and I realize that where I am sitting just happens to be located in a blindspot. I thought maybe they would thank me for finding a weakness in their security zone, but, no, they weren’t in the mood for showing their appreciation.

They leave me in the hallway for another 2 hours. Just as I decide this is as good a time as any to get some sleep, a security guard comes and tells me to bring all of my belongings into the back room. He accompanies me as I retrieve my camera, laptop, backpack and suitcase. We enter a room which has nothing in it except a metallic table; the security guard tells me to put all my belongings on it. The woman in the pink shawl and her two friends enter. After they put on rubber gloves, they begin to dump all of my belongings onto the table. They place all of my literature (including Friere, I am carrying Edward Said’s ‘The Question of Palestine’ Jimmy Carter’s ‘Peace Not Apartheid’ Rachel Corrie’s “Let me Stand Alone” the Japanese translation of ‘The Little Prince’ and Arlo Guthrie’s 1966 anti-war classic ‘Alice’s Restaurant’) notebooks, magazines, note cards and any other scraps of paper I have into a separate plastic bin.

After they shake the last bits of detritus from my bag, the security guard escorts me yet again into an isolated interrogation room. He asks for my wallet and after I give it to him he begins to strip it of all the cards, currency and the fortune I received from a cookie from that Thai restaurant in downtown Olympia WA foretelling that “(My) ideas will be needed to solve a problem.” He looks me dead in the eyes and points to my shirt; as I stare back into his cold eyes, I realize what is happening: I’m being subjected to my first official strip search. There is a moment of static in my mind, and as I begin to lift my shirt, off in the distance I start to hear the ascending notes to Right Said Fred’s 1992 one hit wonder “I’m Too Sexy”. My shoulders begin to inevitably bounce as I hand him my shirt, and at first my movements are concealed and he pays them no attention, but by the time he is feeling the lining of my shoes for concealed weapons and flattening my socks looking for my drug stash I am smiling and my upper body is going though controlled miniature convulsions.

Agitated, the security guard exclaims: “No dancing!”
Slightly shocked but unable to control the sounds in my head I respond: “No dancing for me?”

To which he forcefully and without hesitation proclaims: “No dancing for you!”

I keep myself from breaking out into laughter and realize that this Dance Nazi is serious about making my strip search as unpleasant as possible. I respect his demands but that does nothing to curb Right Said Fried's dirty-‘too sexy’-English voice from looping in my head for the duration of the search.

Fully clothed I am once again taken to the hallway and left alone with the security cameras. This time I make no hesitation and place my head down on the seat beside me. Before long one of the plain clothed IDF soldiers walks past: I sit up and ask him if I am being arrested; he casually responds that I am not, I ask then why exactly it is that I am being detained; he answers “We have had some problems in the past with some of the books you are carrying, and we are making sure you are not dangerous”. After another 2 hours of being curled up in an uncomfortable fetal position the woman in the pink shawl wakes me, returns all of my literature and tells me to gather my belongings and follow her.

I follow her to a security gate and she hands my passport off to a customs agent and I see the agent stamp my passport: ‘Finally’ I let out a sigh of relief ‘this has not been entirely fruitless, they are letting me into the West Bank. I will think of this as an inauguratory greeting, and all is well.’ The woman in the pink shawl turns in my direction, hands me my passport, and says: ‘Today you will not be entering Israel.’
Perplexed I ask her why and she answers “You have been deemed a security threat to Israel.” Keeping myself from overreacting I enquire: “Are you not granting me permission into Israel because of my choice of literature? Was I wrong in assuming that Israel is a democratic state?’ She pauses to think but rather than respond to my inquiries she reiterates her previous statement: “You have been deemed a security threat to Israel.” I realize that any further attempt to defend myself would be fruitless and before turning to walk away, I take one last look at her and say: ‘I wasn’t even trying to go to Israel, I was wanting to go to the West Bank.’

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