Kunnen wij Nederlanders die regelmatig naar Gaza gaan klagen over de manier waarop we worden behandeld, het aantal keren dat we er niet in of uit mochten, de uren die het soms kost en het onaangename gevoel als criminelen behandeld te worden. Het kan nog erger. Je bent bijvoorbeeld een Amerikaan, maar wel een met een Palestijnse achtergrond. Probeer met je Amerikaanse paspoort Israel binnen te komen om je familie in Ramallah te gaan bezoeken. Dat gaat ongeveer zo. Met dank aan Dorothy Naor, die onvermoeibaar en dagelijks berichten doorstuurt.
\n
\nDena Takruri
\nWritten in Al-Bireh, Occupied Palestine<\/p>\n
*Jordan River Border
\nDecember 16, 2007
\n*
\nIn line to check our bags through security, I make small talk with the young
\nPalestinian man standing in front of me with his Israeli passport in hand.
\nWe speak in Arabic and he tells me he’s from Haifa and was just visiting
\nrelatives in Amman. He asks me if I’m also originally Palestinian and I tell
\nhim yes, but born and raised in the states. Smirking, he replies, “in the
\nend we’re all just simply Palestinians.” I smile, yet soon enough I’d see
\nexactly what his words imply.<\/p>\n
*What do you do in America?-Where do you study?-How long have you been
\nstudying altogether? Count all the years-What exactly did you study in
\nundergrad?-What does that mean?-And now you’re studying the same thing?-Who
\npays for your studies?-Who paid for your plane ticket?-So what will you work
\nwhen you graduate?-Media? But why? That’s not what you’re studying.-Have you
\nvisited any other Arab countries before coming here? Syria, Lebanon, Iraq?
\nAfghanistan, Pakistan, Iran? Have you carried anything for someone?-Are you
\ncarrying any weapons now?*<\/p>\n
*Why have you come to Israel?
\n**Why have you come to Palestine?
\n*Vacation.<\/p>\n
*Vacation?! Why would you come here for a vacation? Why not somewhere nice,
\nlike California?
\n*I’m from California.<\/p>\n
*Where will you stay in Israel?*
\nRamallah.<\/p>\n
*Who will you see there?*
\nMy grandparents. They’re very old.
\n*Feels like a safe enough answer. What could be more benign than
\ngrandparents? They must hear that one frequently…No wait. I forgot that
\nit’s our grandparents that possess one of the most formidable weapons:
\nMemory.
\n*
\n*So why exactly do you come to Israel?*
\n*I didn’t know there was a way to get from Amman to Ramallah without having
\nto cross into your state. We don’t choose to pass through the occupier in
\norder to get to the occupied, you know.*
\nI have a break from school, so I’m seeing family.<\/p>\n
For a moment, I pause to contemplate the face of the border soldier sitting
\nbefore me. She can’t be any older than me, I think. I try to briefly strip
\nher of her role and imagine her life beyond the uniform. I ponder how she
\nspends her nights off, what novel most moved her, what she might
\naffectionately call her lover. Yet such thoughts are all too fleeting and
\nsoon enough I resume my inability to see anything beyond the repressive
\nestablishment she represents.
\n*There’s a reason I shudder each time I see someone wearing army green and
\nfeel instantly defensive and inferior each time I hear an Israeli accent.
\nYou’re it.*<\/p>\n
*Write down the address of where you will stay.
\n*I can’t. They don’t exactly have street names.<\/p>\n
*What is their phone number?*
\nI don’t know it.<\/p>\n
*Write down the names of the people you’ll be staying with.*<\/p>\n
*Now write down your name, address in America, cell phone number and email.
\n*
\nShe furtively talks to the other border soldier sitting beside her.
\nDiscreetly, I listen and try to make out as much Hebrew as I can.<\/p>\n
*I was fourteen years old when I first began to study Hebrew. The only
\nPalestinian in a class full of American Jews, I spoke of how I believed in
\npeace, in tolerance, and in coexistence. But deep down lay another reason I
\nwas not so candid about. To learn the language of the oppressor was crucial,
\nI knew. You taught me this lesson at a very young age. It was always
\nreinforced at the border, where I had my first experiences with racism,
\npower, and oppression. I was six years old at the Allenby border when you
\ncrushed before my eyes a gold necklace pendant shaped as the map of
\nPalestine with a small Palestinian flag painted on it. It was a gift. “This
\nis my homeland,” I anticipated telling all of my classmates, excited to
\nfinally prove to them that where I come from really does exist! I thought if
\nI could plead with you in a tongue you best understand you might exercise
\nsome mercy. Somehow I doubt speaking Hebrew here and now would work to my
\nfavor.
\n*
\n*You can go take a seat on one of those chairs.
\n*
\nThe entire border crossing is empty with the exception of me. Periodically,
\na new batch of 1948 Palestinians with Israeli passports enters. They check
\ntheir bags through the security process, get stamped and go. The whole
\nprocess takes no longer than 10 minutes. Meanwhile I sit alone and wait.<\/p>\n
One hour passes-
\nI try reading a few pages of *Love in the Time of Cholera* but to no
\navail-the anticipation prevents concentration on anything else.<\/p>\n
Two hours pass-
\nIt could be worse, I think. At least I’m not feeling the vicarious shame of
\nwatching my mother being strip searched like the several other previous
\ntimes at the Israeli border.
\nFunny how we learned the word for “terrorism” in Hebrew but never learned
\n“occupation.” I’d say the two are synonymous.<\/p>\n
She comes back out and sits beside me. In her hand is a form that has all
\nthe information I gave her neatly compiled. She points to the names “Bahjat
\nTahboub” and “Yusra Tahboub.”
\n*Who are they?
\n*My grandparents.<\/p>\n
*What is their address and phone number?*
\nI told you, I don’t have them.<\/p>\n
She leaves.<\/p>\n
I wonder what my grandmother would think if she knew the Israeli Airports
\nAuthority was busy researching her identity at this moment. Poor Tata, what
\nthreat could she possibly pose to the state of Israel? She’s a frail old
\nwoman who weighs no more than 95 pounds and depends on a walker to move
\nabout. No one in the family will admit it, yet we all know she’s depressed.
\nShe stubbornly refuses to leave the house unless a trip to the hospital
\ndemands of it. Perhaps she’s sparing herself the disappointment and anguish
\nof seeing her country’s landscape marred by uprooted trees, an apartheid
\nwall, checkpoints, infectious settlements and splattered bloodstains of
\nfoolish infighting. By staying inside, she avoids having to juxtapose those
\nimages to her imagined ones of ‘what could have been’ were it not for the
\nopportunism, concessions, and corruption of her very own. This is how she
\nescapes her people’s dismal reality-this is where it’s safer.<\/p>\n
And yet although she decided long ago that home would be her permanent
\nrefuge, nothing can mitigate her concealed pain of never being able to see
\nher first-born son, who has been forced to live in exile for the past 30
\nyears. The passing of the years never healed the wounds, for how can one
\npeacefully reconcile not being allowed into Palestine indefinitely or not
\nbeing permitted to see her own flesh and blood? And so the years passed with
\na torturous vacancy haunting them both. She missed his wedding and he missed
\nher maqbluba. She missed the birth of her grandchildren and he missed her
\n70th birthday. She missed the grand opening of his new business, and he
\nmissed spending the eids with his mother and family. Next month she’ll miss
\nthe first wedding of her grandchildren, his eldest daughter. God only help
\nhim when he has to miss her funeral\u2026<\/p>\n
Palestine is where we learn how love is painful, justice is an abstraction,
\nand nationalism is a crime.<\/p>\n
Another half hour passes. I’m bored and hungry.<\/p>\n
*”Where do you like more, Dandoona? Palestine or America?”* This is the
\ninevitable question I am asked hundreds of times by hundreds of people each
\ntime I visit. I hate that until now, I’m too scared to search myself for an
\nanswer\u2026<\/p>\n
Another 40 minutes go by. I begin to feel as though I’m in the waiting room
\nof hospital waiting to hear an update from the doctor of a loved one in
\ncritical condition. No, no, I feel more like a wrongly accused criminal in a
\ncourtroom awaiting my sentence. What offense I’ve allegedly committed, I’m
\nnot too clear about (I sense it has something to do with being Palestinian,
\nthough). It is at the Israeli border where I feel most vulnerable and
\nimpotent. Here, we’re just balls in their hands for them to play with as
\nthey please. We put our tails between our legs, answer their invasive
\nbarrage of questions, and hope it earns us entry into the homeland.<\/p>\n
By now I’m antsy and start pacing. I approach the window to ask what is
\ntaking so long, especially considering that the entire border is empty.
\nBefore I can ask, she opens the door and accosts me. It’s about time. She
\nlooks at me accusingly and addresses me curtly:
\n*We found your Palestine ID. You cannot enter from here. Try the Allenby
\nborder.
\n**My heart instantly drops, as I am aware of the consequences of that
\nstatement. Having a Palestinian ID comes along with all the restrictions
\nthat most Palestinians must suffer. It means I can no longer fly in to Tel
\nAviv, visit any Israeli city, or enter Jerusalem. The latter, of course, is
\nthe biggest blow of all.
\n*I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was born in the US and the
\nAmerican passport is all I’ve ever held.
\n*We can’t let you in from here.* (she points) *Go get your bags, you have to
\nleave.*
\nNo, I won’t leave. I always enter with my US passport and you have no right
\nto turn me around. You have to respect my US citizen rights.
\n*I told you, you have a Palestine ID and we found it! You can’t enter from
\nhere.*
\nWhat difference does it make which border I enter from? Plus this is the
\nborder I last exited from! I understand that is your policy. Why must you
\ncomplicate everything?
\n*If you have a hawiyya, you can’t enter from here! This border is only for
\nforeigners and Israelis.*
\nSo what does my US passport mean to you!?!
\n*It doesn’t matter. You have a hawiyya.
\n*This is unfair! Who are you to tell me what *my* identity is?
\n*Okay tell me, where were your parents born?*
\n*I’d love to know where yours were born\u2026
\n*Here!
\n*Aha! There you go then.*
\nI’d like to talk to somebody else please. You’re denying me entry and not
\nexplaining anything to me.
\n*You cannot talk to anyone else. Go get your bags, you can’t stay here any
\nlonger.*
\n*I’ll hold you accountable for the sins of your grandparents so long as you
\nperpetuate the crimes of the present.*
\nI won’t leave until someone explains the situation to me.<\/p>\n
Reluctant and annoyed, she returns to the office to bring someone else to
\ntalk to me. Out storms another female officer, also probably my age or
\nyounger. She’s angry.
\n*What? What is it that you want?! I’m in charge now!*
\nYou don’t need to speak to me like that. I haven’t said or done anything
\nwrong.<\/p>\n
She catches herself and defensively puts up her hand.<\/p>\n
*Ok, ok. What do you want?*
\nI’ve entered with my US passport several times and I left last time from
\nthis border. Why are you pulling this now?
\n*You have a hawiyya and you’re not allowed to enter. This is the policy.*
\nI don’t have a hawiyya.
\n*We have your number!*
\nI was born and raised in the US and I’ve lived there my entire life. This is
\nhow I’ll enter.<\/p>\n
She snaps and raises her voice even louder.<\/p>\n
*Listen, don’t stand here and talk to me about a diplomatic passport! You
\nhave a Palestinian hawiyya number and that’s that! We have nothing to do
\nwith the Sulta! Go deal with this at the Allenby border.*<\/p>\n
I try to think of what to say next but am stifled by my frustration and
\nexasperation. Instead, I absorb the scene that has unfolded before me and
\nthe blatant asymmetrical power dynamic between us: three women of the same
\nage with claim to a same homeland, two somehow possess the right to let her
\nin and third possesses only ability to hope and plead. How triumphant they
\nmust feel to watch me stand before them and deny my Palestinian identity
\n(card). Ashamed and conflicted, I regret the thought that has just occurred
\nto me: Have I just betrayed Mahmoud Darwish by telling them instead to
\n“Record!” my American identity while rejecting my Palestinian one? This is
\npainful\u2026 I tell myself to calm down and not to dare allow them the
\nsatisfaction of seeing that they’ve gotten the better of me, but the
\ncombination of sleepless jetlag, disappointment, and powerlessness prevails.
\nResistance, in *this* case, is futile and my eyes start to tear up. As they
\nstare at me, their demeanor and facial expressions momentarily change. They
\nare used to mistreating Palestinians and Palestinians are used to being
\nmistreated, but to see a Palestinian so visibly upset seemingly catches them
\noff guard.<\/p>\n
*There’s nothing else we can tell you. Go get your suitcases and we will
\nwalk you out.
\n*
\nI’m defeated. In a somber procession, I push the cart holding my suitcases
\noutside of the border terminal to the bus stop across the street. From there
\nI’ll have to take a short bus ride back to the Jordanian border to cancel my
\nexit stamp and reenter Jordan. I demand to hold my passport, they tell me
\nnot yet, I have to wait. Only when they are assured that I am seated
\nsecurely on the bus do they return it. I quickly flip through the passport’s
\npages to find these agonizing words stamped in cruel red ink: “*Entry Denied
\n*.”
\n*You don’t have to pay for the bus ride, we took care of it.*
\n*Just fuck off and leave me alone\u2026<\/p>\n
“Home is an addiction, it throws us against death, detaches us from
\nforgetfulness, and yet we cannot be without it.”*<\/p>\n
*Allenby Border
\nDecember 17, 2007
\n*
\nAllenby is full of Palestinians and Jordanians eager to cross in and spend
\nthe holidays with their families in the West Bank. Although the abundance of
\npeople means waiting longer, I’m at once put at ease by the fact that I have
\ncompany this time.
\nYesterday’s protocol and interrogation replay themselves. This time it takes
\nonly 20 minutes for them to come out and inform me that I have a Palestinian
\nhawiyya number and that I must take a seat and wait for them to figure out
\nwhat to do with me.
\nIn the meantime, I enjoy chatting with the people around me. Everyone shares
\nhis or her story of why they are being barred from entering. Collective
\nsufferings prompt interesting conversations; I’m astounded by the stories I
\nhear.
\nI also notice that Palestinian holders of foreign passports have also been
\nheld for hours without any explanation. It is clear that Israel wants to
\nmake their process of entry as difficult as possible to deter them from
\nwanting to return again.<\/p>\n
Finally a young soldier comes out with my passport and calls my name. His
\nname is Moshe and he explains to me that my mother recorded my name under
\nher Palestinian ID number long ago and that I cannot enter Israel without
\n“tasreekh.” He says my mother should have this paper and that I should go
\ncall her in San Francisco because without it, I cannot enter. I tell him:
\nThis is ridiculous. You’re talking about a piece of paper from over 15 years
\nago. She won’t have it, and anyway there’s no way I can get it from her. Let
\nme enter and I’ll do all the paperwork from there.
\n*But how can I trust you?*
\nAre you afraid you’ll let me enter Israel and I won’t leave?
\n*Yes.*
\n*Wow. At least he’s honest\u2026*
\nThat won’t be the case. I’m a student in America, I’ve shown you my
\nuniversity id. I’ve just come for a vacation. And anyway, if you’re scared
\nI’ll stay, why are you forcing the hawiyya on me? With that, I have a right
\nto live here permanently!<\/p>\n
Moshe tells me he’ll see what he can do. What follows is hours of waiting
\ninterrupted by intermittent reappearances by Moshe. Each time, he gives me a
\nnew contradictory piece of information and each time I fire back responding
\nthat what he’s requesting doesn’t make sense and that the situation is a lot
\nless complicated than how they’re treating it.<\/p>\n
After over five hours, I am finally handed back my passport and a form
\nfilled out in Hebrew with my picture and information on it. This is to
\nsuffice as a temporary *tasreeh* until I can get a proper one along with a
\nPalestinian identity card from Ramallah. I receive no visa. Instead, my
\npassport has a large new stamp that reads in Hebrew. And under my name is
\nthe following number which from here on out defines my existence in this
\nsmall land that causes such a big commotion: *948523815*.<\/p>\n
In the taxi ride from Jericho to Ramallah, I talk to a fellow passenger who
\nis a professor at Birzeit University. I tell him about my last two days and
\nhe responds with the following:
\n“You should be very happy and proud that you have the Palestinian hawiyya
\nnow. This is a small victory in our large struggle. We’ve just increased the
\nnumber of Palestinians by one, and soon you’ll pass on the identity number
\nto your children and our numbers will continue to multiply. I know this
\nexperience was frustrating and difficult, but it’s good in that it has
\nincreased your sense of belonging here. Now you’ve suffered like we suffer,
\nyou understand our plight better and have strengthened your commitment to
\nending it. So don’t be upset. Thank them for returning you to your roots.”<\/p>\n
His words move me, yet I still can’t help but feel an unsettling
\nambivalence. Were we foolish and arrogant to think all of those years that
\nwe were the exception with our mighty blue American passports? Who am I to
\nlament being prohibited from entering Jerusalem when there exists an entire
\npopulation that has lived in Palestine its whole life and has long been
\nforbidden from visiting it? But at the same time, don’t we pay our US taxes
\nthat help fund this vicious occupation that slowly seeks our obliteration?
\nTo be recognized as American citizens and given a visa seems but a meager
\nconsolation prize to expect to help us allay our guilt. I can’t deny how
\nangry I am. What I have just experienced demonstrates the unjustified
\ndiscrimination routinely practiced by the Israeli state; this is the epitome
\nof racism. It is outrageous that Israel gives itself the right to completely
\ndisregard any other nationality or passport that a Palestinian holds. I am
\nsurprised, yet not shocked, as this latest episode is but a microcosm of the
\nlarger phenomenon of institutionalized Israeli racism and denial of rights
\nto Palestinians. Today, the lesson is clear: to Israel, any Palestinian is
\nnothing beyond a loathed Palestinian and must be oppressed accordingly.
\nSadly, the young man from Haifa I first talked to at the Jordan River Border
\ncaptured it most accurately: “In the end, we’re all just simply
\nPalestinians.”<\/p>\n
*The Author is an MA candidate in Arab Studies at the Georgetown University
\nSchool of Foreign Service*<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Kunnen wij Nederlanders die regelmatig naar Gaza gaan klagen over de manier waarop we worden behandeld, het aantal keren dat we er niet in of uit mochten, de uren die het soms kost en het onaangename gevoel als criminelen behandeld … Lees verder