Planes, Trains, and Automo-bias
Insight into Immigration Prejudice at the Jordanian Border Crossing
UPDATE: FINALLY SETTLED INTO HOTEL IN EAST JERUSALEM.
After arriving at Queen Alia International airport on Sunday, a wave of relief washed over me. My trip, which spanned four days of air travel, had finally come to an end. No more German benches, Egyptian tiles, or break-neck airplane seats to sleep in. I was going to have my own bed.
Everything from this point forward was pitched as simple, straightforward, and streamlined: take a cab to the King Hussein Bridge, breeze through customs, hop a bus from Allenby crossing on the Israeli side, and I would be in East Jerusalem in no time. In the middle of a 40 minute wait for questioning that never came, I was told by a Canadian woman who works for Doctors Without Borders that I would come to learn very quickly that “nothing on the other side is straightforward.”
Reaching the final checkpoint of my journey at Allenby, I felt a little bit better but I was still restless. It was 101 Fahrenheit with a UV Index of 11, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the only water I had consumed for the day was a few ounces a kind Jordanian lady poured into my Lufthansa cup because I was starting to look like a medjool date.
When spotted taking photos, I was told by a bag handler that it would be wise to put my cameras away. Before leaving to speak with a security officer, the handler informed me there was a no tolerance policy for photography of any kind inside of the security checkpoint and I was lucky to have been corrected while I was still in line outside. I noted this, tucked my cameras away, and prepped myself for what I was sure was more questioning and a thorough review of the photos I had already taken absent of the constructive criticism I’ve grown to love from my peers back home.
Save a few awkward glances over my flak jacket and perturbed eye rolling from the agent who had to hand check my film - the 8th person to do so since I left Newark - I was waved through and ushered quickly towards customs.
A middle aged Israeli security officer sitting outside of Passport Control directed hopeful travelers towards the proper booths. In line, she made cooing noises at me and kept grabbing for my hair, finally relenting after I said no three times. She waved me forward, disappointed and failed to address what she had just previously been doing. I followed the flow of those around me; good, bad, or indifferent, they were the people I had come to recognize as familiar on the trek from the Jordanian border.
I began inputting my passport at a self-serve biometric scanner and was met from behind by the same security officer, this time noticing a pat and slight tug on my ponytail. She chuckled. “No no honey, these are only for Palestinians. Everyone else walk right through.” Slightly offput, I turned to see the other people using the scanners. A Japanese man in his 30s, a black woman in her mid 20s from the United States, and two families with Jordanian passports. In fact, I couldn’t easily pick out any of the Palestinians she was talking about. These were the people I had come with from the airport. I was left with an understanding that I was supposed to know what she meant by Palestinian, not question it any further, and keep moving.
After picking up my checked baggage, I decided to start talking to people in the waiting area and see if anyone was heading the same direction as I was. An American and an Italian both on their way to East Jerusalem? Bingo. Wrapped up in my conversation next to the currency exchange with them, I failed to notice the argument that had developed behind me. A guard from Checked Baggage yelled in mixed Hebrew and English at a group of Palestinians for wasting air conditioning. Among the group were the very same people of mixed nationalities I had arrived with.
My bus ride to East Jerusalem was fairly expedient. I fell asleep once to be woken up at a checkpoint for a passport inspection by an IDF soldier carrying an M16A2. American hand-me-downs. It was an interesting reminder that American arms don’t necessarily go out of style the second they stop being standard issue. He carefully checked and questioned the passports of those in the car who might be confused for Palestinians, quickly looked over my Italian friend’s visa, and gave my fumbling and sleep-deprived gesture of incorrectly pulling out my wallet a thumbs up.
I’m just now getting my feet on the ground inside of this “vibrant democracy”, and I’m met with more questions about its operating policies. In many ways, I am afforded the same leniency I receive in the United States. All things considered, my process at Allenby was fairly comparable to that of a return trip through American customs. But if Amnesty International, B’Tselem, and numerous other globally recognized human rights watch groups call Israel an apartheid state, at what point does something that looks, walks, and quacks become universally recognized as a duck?
NOTE TO FAMILY, LOVED ONES AND FRIENDS: In the upcoming days, I plan to be in the West Bank interviewing those affected by settler violence, military occupation, and ethnocide. Since arriving, Israeli GPS scrambling has so far placed my FindMy location in Beirut, Nabulus, and Ashdod - to name a few. As of now, I will be in East Jerusalem and will provide updates on my whereabouts before leaving with in depth follow up writing on my Substack. I’m currently looking into ways to separate my journal entries that doesn’t involve a pay wall so that this personal writing does not bleed into the journalism and vice versa.
Best,
Fuck the border regime.
Enjoying your updates Brendan. Appreciate your flair for writing also now, have definitely loved the pictures.
Stay safe and hydrated.