I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

I am currently in Nablus, Palestine, listening to the call to prayer resonate throughout the city. It has been two weeks since Laura and I jumped the Atlantic Ocean to begin this venture to see the West Bank and work with the Near East Foundation. I have been spending most of my morning and the beginnings of this afternoon reflecting on things.

We had to connect through Newark Liberty International Airport to get to Tel Aviv, Israel. First, all passengers were required to wait in the general terminal area away from the gate, which was a closed off area. Hebrew, Arabic, English, and French circled about us. There were Orthodox Jews, Muslims, Americans, Asians, and all other sorts of ethnicities waiting to board. As soon as they permitted us into the actual gate’s seating area, all passengers had to go through another security checkpoint. Everyone had their bags searched, belongings emptied, and bodies frisked. There was a small girl, no more than six years old, who went before me, and she was treated as if she was a 40-year-old man with a record. I remember wandering what I had gotten myself into.

Ten hours later we landed safely in Tel Aviv. Walking through the airport, the excitement began to build. This continued until we reached border patrol. I asked them not to stamp our passports since we travel a lot and anticipate on going to countries that do not permit the Israeli stamp.

Officer: “No stamp? Okay. This happens a lot.”

Me: “Thank you. I appreciate it. It is a shame that it has to happen.”

“What is your father and grandfather’s name?”

“Jalil Hakim and Syed Morteza Hakim.”

Within 15 seconds, he handed my passport to another officer, who had me go sit in a sectioned off area. Laura kept me company even though they let her through immediately. There was a Pakistani businessman, a white man who visited once a year, and the rest were Arabic. The tension was brewing and it was truly a frustrating time. They called each of us in one by one for questioning. The Pakistani gentleman became fed up after a while and booked a return flight for the same day on his phone.

The first interrogator asked for my father and grandfather’s name, religion, what I was doing there, who did I know, and so on and so forth. He was somewhat polite. The second was very rude and didn’t seem to comprehend my answers.

“Where is your mother from and when did she go to the US?”

“The Philippines and she was seven, so it was about 1971.”

“And your father?”

“He is from Iran and he was in his last year of high school, it was after the Islamic Revolution, but at the start of the Gulf War, so about….”

“Which Gulf War? You know there were two.”

“Yes, I know that. I am trying to give you an accurate time frame here. He married my mother in 1985, so it must have been 1984 that he moved to Texas.”

“So your parents are married?”

“Yes. They’ve been married for almost 27 years.”

“What is your religion?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Your father is Muslim. Why aren’t you a Muslim?”

“Yes, he is, but he obviously isn’t that strict since he married a Catholic.”

“I don’t understand. Are you baptized?”

“No. My father is Muslim and my mother is Catholic. They didn’t force a certain religion upon me. God is great, He loves me, and I need to be the best person I can be.”

“Why don’t you have a religion?”

“I feel like I just answered that.”

And it continued on like that for a while… They kept me in that waiting room and questioning me for four hours, which is not too bad from what I have been told.

We traveled for another five hours to get to Nablus. Getting through Israel was hell. I do not understand what is going on in their heads. More than half of the security force looks younger than me, and they have their guns in one hand while they are texting on their phones with the other. It is very a scary situation. I asked them for directions and they wave me off with, “Sorry, no English,” and they go back to sending their messages. If I ask a second question, or bother them again, then I get an agitated look and a stern, “NO ENGLISH.”

When we arrived in Palestine, I asked for directions. The man said he didn’t understand English, but he went out of his way to find someone who did so that they could translate for us. Everyone is like this. It is amazing how willing they are to help a foreigner from a country that helped give away their homeland and not help them towards statehood.