Dear all,

I just wanted to tell the story of what happened when I left Palestine.  I hope you find it interesting.

As you know, I left Palestine in late February.  To be exact, I arrived at Al-Jelamaa checkpoint at 6:09am on February 28.  For some reason, I still remember the digital clock read-out on the taxi driver's dashboard.  I arrived early because if you cross with the Palestinians with work permits, you can save money by getting shared transport with them to Besan (aka Beit She'an) and this is near the Jordanian border where I was headed to get my flight back to the States.  Well, I kind of "missed the bus."  I stumbled out of the checkpoint 11 hours later, being told that I would never be permitted back into Israel, or, at the very least, that I would have "big problems" if I intended to return.

Things began normally, I was quickly whisked into secondary inspection like any foreigner crossing Al-Jelamaa.  But when I thought I was being let go just a minute later, a checkpoint employee came and took my baggage and led me down a maze-like series of indoor walkways to a small, blast-proof cell.  There were three hydraulically-operated doors.  One of them led to the hallway, another to a room I would later put my belongings in, and another to a small room which had a few soldiers in it watching screens of the video monitors in my cell.  There was a small window on this door with the thickest bullet-proof glass I have ever seen.  They looked at me through this window, and communicated to me through loudspeakers.  First, there was the inevitable, "Take your weapons from your bag and place them where we can see them."  So I took my pocket-knife which is my weapon of choice for cutting tomatoes on picnics and put it in plain sight.  Next came the expected strip-search.  I was told to remove my articles of clothing, which they named one by one and then, once I was completely naked, was told to wrap myself in a filthy, used bathrobe lying on the greasy floor of the cell.  I complied without complaint.  I thought that at least the robe would cut the freezing cold temperatures.  Then they had me unpack everything from my bag, piece by piece, and place it into plastic tubs they had lying around the cell.  They told me to shake out each piece of clothing, each book, each pencil, and then show then each side of the item before placing it in the bin.  They watched attentively through the window as I, naked and shivering, did what I was told.  Once everything was in the plastic bins the door opened to another small room and I was told to put all my belongings inside.  Then I came back to the cell and was told to sit on the plastic chair and wait.  After twenty minutes, two soldiers came in, metal detected my clothes and told me I could get dressed but had to give them my shoes and socks for further inspection.  I did and then I waited.  My feet were on the 40 degree concrete floor of the cell.  There was a space heater which I tried to use but it made noises which sounded like trucks without mufflers and so I had to turn it off, especially when the soldier on the other side of the glass, who was sitting in his comfortably-heated room told me the noise was bothering him.  I told him that my overwhelming need to use a bathroom was bothering me but it wasn't until an hour later that he finally rustled someone up to take me to the bathroom after my fifth request.
At about 10:00am (though I am estimating as my cellphone and watch had been taken from me), I was led down another series of hallways and was again strip-searched before being taken into an office with a casually-dressed Israeli man.  He had a couple small plastic bins filled with my personal items that he had found interesting.  A pamphlet from an anti-wall group, a Palestinian flag, notebooks from my whole trip, my computer, my camera.  He asked me about who I was, what I did, where I'd been.  He had a series of paper scraps he'd found in my bag with e-mail addresses or numbers written on them.  Some of these could have been in there for years, and I couldn't even explain most of them.  He asked me the names of the people in the pictures, I gave him fake ones.  He seemed satisfied.  He asked me who I knew in Israel, I answered truthfully.  He told me, "You know, you seem like an O.K. guy, I don't get a sense that you mean anyone harm, and you can make this a lot easier on yourself if you tell us what we need to know."  I asked, "O.K., what do you want to know?"  He said, "Well, there are some things you're not telling us, and some things you're telling us that we don't believe."  I said, "What aren't I telling you?"  He replied by saying, "Why don't you tell us about the explosives factories you visited, or what kinds of guns you trained to fire, or about Islamic Jihad camps."

At this point, I realized my problems were more serious than I had expected.  I had already explained, pretty truthfully, what I was doing in Palestine.  That I had been visiting an olive-oil producing cooperative, that I had been learning about olive-farming, etc.  He was asking me questions that were so irrelevant to my life, I didn't even know how to approach them.  Guns?  Bombs?  Islamic Jihad?  I had never touched a gun, never even had anyone mention anything even slightly related to a bomb-making plant or an Islamic Jihad camp.  They asked me about the people I knew in Faquaa, why did I trust them they asked.  I answered his questions as truthfully as I could, trying to make clear, with every sentence, that I had not been involved with explosives factories, weapons, or any sort of violent conflict.  I was and had been a peaceful, unarmed civilian.  He returned me to my cell.

As I sat there for the next couple hours I kept trying to decide how serious the situation was and how serious it could become.  I sort of just assumed they wanted to make my life difficult and eventually they would let me out with minimal negative consequences save for the money I would lose having to pay a private taxi fare to the border.  I was brought in for more questioning, this time my picture was taken and I was asked about things I'd written in my notebook.  Amazingly enough, I had been paranoid enough to make sure that every name or piece of information that could point to a specific person was not visible in the notebooks.  I think that when the soldier realized his intelligence-gathering was going to fail with me he became more angry, and wanted to make my life more uncomfortable.  He started making barely-veiled threats saying things like, "I want you to catch your flight home, I want this experience, which I assume is uncomfortable for you, to end as soon as possible and I can do that.  But I can also do whatever I want, and you're not making it easy."  WHAT?!  I just didn't know what the hell I could do to make this situation sane again.  Everything had just gotten so out of control.  I was going home after five months of traveling and helping olive farmers in Palestine.  Suddenly I was being investigated as a terrorist and being treated like a terrorist.  I hadn't even acted suspicious or dodged questions.

I was put back in my cell.  This time the head honcho guy walked me there and kept saying, "Have you remembered anything you want to tell me, isn't there something you'd feel good if I knew."  I had to remind myself I was a not a two-year old being spoken to by some creepy guy trying to lure me into his car for free candy.  That was his tone.

During the next several hours, I was brought back and forth between the cell and questioning.  At one point they sat me down in the main checkpoint area where everyone goes through the last "normal" or "routine" identity check before being admitted into the other side (Israel or Palestine).  They gave me a chicken schnitzel lunch.  It was all very strange.  I tried to eat to look less suspicious even though I was nauseated by fear.  It's hard to have a relaxing lunch while there are two or three soldiers watching you closely and pointing there M-16s just inches from your face.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at having had soldiers assigned to watch me, and keep their guns trained on the chicken fillet in case I magically made it vaporize and become a bomb.  The whole thing just seemed ludicrous.

At one point I was sat in my cell and after a series of door openings and closings I was suddenly reunited with my computer, my cellphone, and my laptop charger.  But wait, what are those strange black boxes on the floor?  Those don't belong to me.  "Open the boxes, please."  An Israeli accented-voice was coming from the loudspeaker again.  Inside were a set of screwdrivers and allen wrenches.  I was told to completely disassemble my computer and phone.  I kept saying, "I don't know what I'm doing, I've never taken apart a computer.  I studied anthropology, not computer hardware!!!!!"  They replied, "The other option is to let us destroy it, would you like that."  No, I guess I wouldn't  Somehow my computer still works.  But the laptop charger is not designed to be taken apart and I showed the soldier that it was one piece through the window.  "Take a screwdriver and stab it then, pry it open."  This was too ridiculous and I told him to save me the trouble and the time and destroy it.  He was happy to comply and even to give me a police report I could take to a police station for reimbursement.  There was a catch though because I was not allowed back into the Israeli public.

I was finally brought into the office one last time.  I knew things had calmed down because I was no longer physically held and prodded while I walked.  The solider even became friendly and started offering me cigarettes and coffee and water and all sorts of things I didn't really want.  But then I got back to the head soldier.  He told me, "Well, it's time to go.  We're going to get you a ride to the border- it's on us.  We don't fell it's safe to have you in the public.  We don't like what you're doing here.  We don't believe some of the things you've told us, and we think you haven't old us some things we want to know.  This is going to be a big problem for you in the future, it's going to be a big question mark in your folder.  And I have some advice for you:  Whatever you're involved with, whatever you do- Stop it.  Right now.  Go home and don't think about this area."  I don't want or need to make any comment here.

I asked him if I would be allowed to return.  "I am recommending to the security that you not be admitted into Israel in the future.  We don't like what you do, and we don't want you here."  Of course, I wouldn't even really mind never returning to Israel, but since Palestine's borders are controlled by them, I have a problem.

I was told to pack up and was brought to the parking lot on the Israeli side. I asked the friendly soldier if he found it strange that Israel was trying to keep me, a Jewish boy from America, from returning.  He said, "It's weird that a Jewish boy from America, like you, would travel to Syria, and Lebanon, and Iraq, and live with the Arab people.  There are many weird things in this life."  The lack of understanding, or even the desire to try and understand evident in his words made me even more sad.

They couldn't find a car for me so they put me in a cab and a police cruiser followed us to the border so I couldn't stray from the path.  Besides, they had put tracers in my phone.  I was under complete surveillance.  I went to the border, took another cab to Amman because it was too late for the buses, and flew home the next morning.  From the plane, I tried to catch what might be my last glimpses of Palestine.


With hopes of making another visit,
Drew

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