Chapter 6
George landed in Tel Aviv in the late evening of October 14th, 2011, this time coming from Zurich. He found himself lined up at the passport check with a much more diverse crowd than the one made of Orthodox Jews, Christian pilgrims, and Wall Street executives that used to pack the direct flights from New York.
George noticed that the young woman at the control station was taking more time than usual inspecting his passport and then she politely but firmly asked him to leave the line and go to a waiting room in the arrival hall.
With relief, George found he was not alone. There were four other passengers coming from Zurich and another five from previous flights. It was a bit like a dentist waiting room, except there were some vending machines.
He asked a few questions around, and it turned out that the wait was about an hour, then they were called in one by one for some questioning, and sent on their way after an hour or so. Some of the travelers that pretended to be more experienced, said this was the standard procedure for those who were entering Israel for the first time or that otherwise had visas from countries like Saudi Arabia or Pakistan.
George began to feel uneasy as he did not belong to either category. What did they want from him?
George began to mentally repeat the story of Sean, his childhood in Boston, the loss of his parents in a car accident fourteen years ago, his years in college in Harvard. At the same time he started studying the others in the room. There were three Italians, one of them actually looked like an Arab, all with their eyes fixed on their phones.
There were also two Frenchmen, who instead were talking on their phones to complain about the situation with their loved ones at home. All the others stayed silent, and from their looks they seemed to be from Eastern Europe.
From time to time, someone would be allowed to pass the border and someone else entered the waiting room. However, there was no clear pattern on how people were called into questioning. George’s turn came towards midnight, after about two hours of waiting.
The first questioning took place in a nearby office, which was large enough to fit a desk and a cabinet along the wall. The officer was again a young woman, not even twenty-five years old, but experienced enough to show off flashy badges on her otherwise sloppy uniform.
The questioning was relatively easy: lots of questions on the motive of his visit, where George told the simple truth, the request for the phone numbers of his contacts in Israel for a possible check – again, no problem - and a number of questions about him and his past. But George was ready, even though he was a bit surprised of being asked the name, place and date of birth of his grandparents. He could not remember much, since the last one to pass away, who was his grandmother, had died when he was four. Yes, he remembered playing with her in the courtyard of her house back in New England, he could not recall exact dates. He only knew he had Irish roots.
He was sent back to the waiting room. It had lasted forty minutes and George was not sure what to do next. He realized it was now too late to call his business contacts in Israel, it would only scare them. And in any case it would be better not to give the impression he was calling for help. He could have called Helena, but again, what could she do? It would just get her worried. His phone was without a doubt being tracked by now. He called his office in Stamford, Connecticut to tell his assistant about this small inconvenience.
She had to be ready to reschedule the calls and meetings of the following day in case this lasted much longer.
Just before two in the morning, a screaming man burst into the waiting room, where George and four other people were patiently sitting. He was shouting in French, but George clearly understood the “fascistes” that popped up here and there in his sentences. He looked up at the arrival screen. The man had most likely disembarked from the last flight from Rome.
After a few minutes, the man sat down next to a vending machine, and after another ten minutes of complaining he started asking around how long each one of them had been waiting. One of the Italians sitting nearby him, engaged in conversation and the newcomer introduced himself as Mustapha Dakka, a Belgian citizen with Moroccan ancestors who worked in the music industry. He was there for an interview with a woman with an unpronounceable name - at least for an American - who was the biggest trans-sexual singer in Israel and a rising star in the Mediterranean pop culture.
Of course the fascist policemen of this most fascist State had discriminated against him based off on his looks and origin. The guards at the Belgian embassy were all sleeping now, but it was just a few hours until he would make sure to create a big scene.
George was getting a good laugh from the whole situation, when he was called in for the second round of questioning - again a young female officer, again barely above twenty, again the shoddy uniform, except this time the style was much more assertive. Apparently, it was her job to play the bad cop. At two-thirty in the morning, George figured he would be allowed to take his time in answering and again stuck to the truth, like before. All the truth he knew about Sean.
When he came back to the room, it was around three fifteen in the morning and he found that the place had morphed from the dentist waiting room into something like an Alcoholic Anonymous meeting, with Mustapha playing the facilitator.
There were only six people left in the room, including Mustapha and himself, and he thought it would be a bit suspicious not to join the conversation. But he had to be careful with his words. He exaggerated a yawn, he took a coke from the vending machine, and he sat three seats away from Mustapha.
Mustapha was speaking with the only Italian left in the room, about two pop singers of the seventies, with Mustapha claiming that a song called ‘Gloria’ was the work of a certain singer - with yet another unpronounceable name - and the Italian arguing it was owned by another singer. No one seemed to give in. Then all of the sudden the Italian started singing the tune and Mustapha immediately shut up. He turned his attention over to George, who in the meantime was reviewing his two interviews for the third time, in search for any omissions. So far, he had not found any.
“Hello, we have not yet introduced ourselves. I am Mustapha, music critic, as you can see. Where are you from?”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Sean, from the US. I work in the technology sector.”
“Ah, I am sorry you are going through this, but I am also a bit happy you can see for yourself how your allies behave! They make the life of foreign guests miserable, and let’s not get into how they treat Palestinians. But you Americans always side with them blindly. What state are you from?”
“Stamford, Connecticut. Which is located roughly halfway between New York and Boston, but I grew up in Boston.”
“Boston! Oh what a great place! Really civilized. I have always wondered how they can get along with Texans. The music scene is great there, too! The Aerosmith! The Pixies! A city of rock! I would love to go there again.”
“Well, I guess so, but I am not into that stuff. I used to listen to the radio and that’s about it.”
“Of course, but so many great musicians are out there. Donna Summer, I am sure you know her. I was talking with our Italian friend here, about the sound of the seventies. Amazing productions come from that era! Boston had nothing to envy California over, their artists were on a par with the Eagles and Joan Baez. And then there was that one song..,” Mustapha started humming an old tune.…”I love it, but I do not remember the group..”
“Wow, you really are an expert” laughed George sarcastically. “I do happen to know that song, it is from the Buckinghams. They were from Chicago. I know, because my father always sang it.”
At six in the morning, he was the only one left, along with Mustapha. When he was called again, this time he was led through a longer corridor, to a larger office, where a man in casual clothes was waiting for him.
The desk was completely empty except for an iPod connected to a wireless speaker, playing in the background at very low volume.
Georg
e had decided to be aggressive this time, threatening to call the US embassy, but the change of environment led him to relax a little. The man was wearing a badge. George tried to read the name but it was in Hebrew. The man noticed and immediately introduced himself.
“Mr. Ewals, you can call me Eyal. First of all let me apologize for the huge inconvenience you have experienced tonight. You have visited Israel several times so you must understand that we take our country’s safety seriously. I have to tell you that today we have received some information which required verification on our side, including this nasty round of interviews.
I cannot disclose the source, nor the content, however I can tell you that you have come out of it with a clean record. We will let you go right away and you can continue to engage with your Israeli business partners without any restrictions. In case you are wondering, yes, we have verified with some of your partners the information you have provided for us tonight and it matched. Now, we can both relax ourselves,” he said, as he turned up the volume. It was “Blowing in the Wind” by Bob Dylan, except that it was played by a woman.
“Do you recognize her?” asked the man.
“She sounds like Joan Baez, but I tell you I am no music expert.”
“Correct, Mr. Ewals! She grew up in Boston, just like you told our agents you are from.”