Common Time

Israel, Too Real: Day 1 - Part 2: TSA (Thug Security Association)

The plane just landed. Everyone stands up to get their baggage together and this tall, stalky guy strikes up conversation with these folks from Alabama because he, too, hails from great state. He somehow shifts the conversation to his reasons for traveling to Tel-Aviv. He’s an opera singer and he’s here for a month long summer voice program. Logic says, “Oh, this kid must be in my program. I suppose I should introduce myself.” He goes on to detail his resume and by listing off the many places he’s performed and his long list of travels. Now, Jasmine logic says, “Oh, I’m officially uninterested in this pompous baritone.” (as I can tell from his speaking voice) Now that I’ve had a day to observe him further, I stand behind this assumption. But boy, did it serve me wrong. If only I had just spoken to him, maybe he could’ve helped? Oh, I don’t know. The story goes like this: The minute we deboard the plane everyone shuffles along to the standard passport checkpoint, not yet to customs. Multiple signs for Israeli Passports lines and Foreign Passports lines. I act accordingly and fall into the the Foreign Passports line. There are about six people standing in front of me and one by one they make their way onto baggage claim. I, however, had a different path in store for me. Make note, I don’t want this to be read as whiny or me being overly dramatic but.. Well.. Here.. I approached a seemingly kind lady in a booth. She took my passport and immediately asks my fathers first name. Then, what is my grandfathers first name. What am I doing in Israel? How long will I be here? The last two, I’m sure are standard questions. Her mini interrogation led to, “Have a seat over there by the Coca-Cola machine and someone will come to you with your passport.” Ok. Alright. Be cool. You’re not a criminal, Jas. Just a singer here to sing. Be cool. I go sit down in the designated waiting area, starring at the television screen watching an intense soccer game with Hebrew commentary. It has finally settled in that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Keep in mind, this is the Middle East. We can travel Europe and still sort of feel at home considering the similarities in cultures and langauges. So I admit, I’m a bit outside of my comfort zone at this point. There are maybe six or seven other people waiting, all of which I’m convinced are criminals. Someone must be because I know I’m not! And just like that, before I know it, they’re all free to go with passports in hand. And then there was one. At least 30 minutes have passed. Finally I’m called into an office. A different woman repeats the same questions I heard at the passport check. I answer, trying not to have an attitude because I’m feeling very uncivilized at this point. Then she asks the question I know I’ve been held for: “Why is your last name Muhammad?” I explain. [not a long story but if you’re reading this, odds are you already know why] She smiles, almost a small laugh. But still that wasn’t enough to let me go. Luckily the program I’m here for emailed us a letter for this very purpose, explaining our purpose for being here and our travel/accommodation details. I show the lady the provided letter and she types away. My Jessica Fletcher hat tells me that she basically made a file on me. Who I am, where I’ll be, what I’m doing, contact info, a copy of my passport (which I saw in her hand.) All rather invasive, if you ask me. Meanwhile I’d been trying to call and text my contact for the program to let them know I’m being held up. Nothings going through since I’m fresh off the plane and haven’t worked out my cell situation just yet. Luckily I get a phone call. It was a most magical ring. It’s Amit, she’s very apologetic and asks to speak to security. I hand them the phone, a brief conversation in Hebrew takes place and a minute later my passport is returned to me and I’m free to go. This whole ordeal lasted for almost an hour. Looky here folks, it’s a very strange feeling to have when you suddenly feel like you have no rights or say. That’s how they made me feel. Sure it’s a good story to tell but I’ll tell you what. I’m proud to be an American where at least I know I’m free most of the time. And I will publicly call out Ms. L. Dawson for providing me with a reason to internally freak out since she’s the one who sent this article. Thankfully, my story didn’t end like theirs. So that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it! I’ll laugh about it later…