10/12/93

The Return Trip

When some people come to Israel, they have more than just reservations.

    "Passport, please."
    Khalid Abu Yowza gave it to him.
    "Are you planning to stay in Israel for long?"
    "But sir, I am not a tourist. I am returning home. I am a deportee."
    "U-huh. And why did you leave the country? Business? Pleasure?"
    Abu Yowza was confused. "Terrorism, actually. Like I said, I was deported. Me and a few hundred others. It was in all the papers."
    "Business, then. Did you pack your own bags?"
    "Actually, the United Nations helped me."
    "Are you personally acquainted with the person or persons who helped you pack?"
    "No. But --"
    "Did you accept any gifts? Did you agree to take a package for someone? You understand why I am asking these questions. We are making sure no one is trying to sneak aboard a bomb in your luggage." 
    Abu Yowza gasped. "Who would do such a thing?"
    "Arabs, sir. Do you know any?"
    Abu Yowza blinked. "I ... Yes, I suppose I do. The lady who cleans my house is an Arab. She's my wife."
    "Did you associate with any Arabic people while you were abroad?"
    In exasperation, Abu Yowza lost his cool. "But I was in Lebanon! I am not a Jew, or a tourist, or a pilgrim, or an immigrant, I am a political victim of Zionist ethnic cleansing! I am an Ay-Ar-Ay-Bee Arab!"
    As the officer was trained to do if a passenger displayed suspicious behavior, he called over his supervisor. With inexorable patience, the second man in uniform asked the Arab the exact same questions, recording them on a Suspicious Passengers form.
    It suddenly occurred to Abu Yowza that maybe his liberation movement had it all wrong. Perhaps the intifada should not have been a revolt against political, religious or ideological rule, but rather the regime of bureaucracy. Maybe it would be enough to just throw the Jewish bureaucrats into the sea. Heck, for all he knew, maybe the Jews were oppressed too. If one day he should ever meet a Jew, he would ask.
    "And during your trip abroad, were you ever approached by a person who preached violence or terrorism?"
    "No, the Lebanese only talk about the weather."
    The supervisor dutifully wrote down the response. "Did anyone try to give you propaganda material that might be construed as anti-Israel?"
    "Stop! I admit it! I met a Palestinian! And terrorists, lots of them!"
    The supervisor looked at Abu Yowza blandly. "I am sorry, sir, but we will have to inspect your luggage." That's when they found the incendiary device.
    "That? It's a lighter. And next to it are my cigarettes. I smoke."
    "And next to it on the other side is a bottle of flammable liquid. This does not look good, sir." 
    Abu Yowza squirmed. "That is olive oil. A present, from my cousin in Beirut to my sister in Nablus." They confiscated it.
    "Where will you be staying during your trip to Israel?"
    "I'm going home. To my village. Uja, in the occupied West Bank. My family is waiting for me. Unless, of course, they're in prison, or shot, or deported."
    "Yes, sir. Would you mind spelling the name of the village?"
    "U-J-A."
    "So now you're saying you're with the UJA."
    Abu Yowza looked the guy straight in the eye. "Sure, I'm a big giver, I'm from New York and I've got an appointment with the prime minister tomorrow afternoon. Say, doesn't your questionnaire make any provisions for a person being an Arab? Or am I the first who ever came to Israel?"
    "No, sir. Sadat was here."
    "Must've snuck in."
    The supervisor snapped his clipboard shut. "You may proceed to the ticket counter. Have a good trip."
    The lady at the counter smiled at him, but not in a sincerely friendly way. More like a smile you were ordered to make. "Smoking or non-smoking?"
    Abu Yowza smiled back. It was a smile unlike the one he would give his children when he got home. It was a reflex rather than an expression. He wondered if the Jews smiled at the Nazis like he smiled at them. "Smoking."
    "And shall I put you down for a kosher meal?"
    Now he remembered why he was fighting for a country of his own. Maybe he should proclaim a hunger strike. Should he say no, and be humbled, or yes, and be humbled? "If it be Allah's will," he answered.
    "Please place your hand luggage on the X-ray machine."
    He did. They noticed the rocks. He smiled weakly, the way he did that time in court, before he was deported. "A gift. For my young son. From our spiritual leader in Sidon." They were confiscated. 
    "Please be at the departure gate within 20 minutes," the lady said. "Shalom," she added meaninglessly. "And have a good trip."
    Abu Yowza found his seat and waited. They were playing Zionist music at him. Everyone else, it seemed, was humming along.
    As the trip home commenced, Abu Yowza had a sudden, panicky thought. What if terrorists attacked? Or hijackers? Then he relaxed, figuring they'd probably recognize each other. But what if there was a bomb on board? Nah. He'd know about it. And anyway, as everyone knew, it was perfectly safe traveling among Israelis.
    Then a passenger got up and touched his shoulder, motioning him to go  to the back. This worried Abu Yowza. They're going to lynch me, he thought. Or maybe that's where Arabs are supposed to sit. Like the blacks in America. Perhaps they'd changed their mind, like with Demjanjuk, and he was going to be pushed out the door. His heart was racing. "Minyan," the passenger mumbled, "back there." He fled to the bathroom.
    When he slipped back to his seat, he sized up the situation and chose a plan of action: he closed his eyes and pretended to be taking a nap. Jews, he figured, have probably never seen an Arab asleep. Pretty soon, he wasn't pretending anymore.
    He was jolted awake by someone in uniform. "I didn't do it!" he shrieked. Everyone stared. He smiled desperately. "Bad dream," he said jovially.
    "Sorry, sir," the uniform said. "We're arriving in Tel Aviv. Shalom!"
    Shalom my ass. The last place on Earth he wanted to be was in Tel Aviv. Jew City. He had only been there once, and that was years ago. Arafat had sent him. It was big, he remembered, bigger than Uja. He doubted the State of Palestine would want to keep it.
    When they lurched to a stop, everyone applauded. This he had never seen before. Why did the Jews do that? Religious ritual? Maybe they had won a race. Or, knowing the Jews, they couldn't believe they had arrived on time. Or, knowing the Arabs, that they had arrived at all.
    Everybody stood up. Abu Yowza did too. Everybody stood packed tight together, waiting for the doors to open. Abu Yowza had a Jew pressed against his back, and another Jew against his front. He didn't like it. The guy behind him hollered, "Nu?" And everyone joined in. "Let's go!" "Open the doors already!" What the hell, he figured, and cleared his throat. "Yalla," he said.
    Finally the doors opened and all the passengers piled out. Abu Yowza stepped down. "Home!" he said to himself exultantly, and winced. Well, almost, he remembered.
    Everyone, it seemed, had someone to greet him. He searched through the great crowd and saw no one he knew, no one wearing a keffiyeh. But then he saw a young fellow holding up a sign. "UJA" it said. For a fleeting moment, he wondered: family -- or enemy?