Usually the most violence comes from the illegal settlers themselves… who commit violence and murder against the Palestinians living in towns they’ve occupied for generations. In Asira, near Nablus, there is an illegal settlement full of Ethiopian expats who regularly terrorize the local population to the extent that when I went there to help harvest they wouldn’t even harvest if there was line of site between the olive trees and the settlement for fear of being shot.

Last week I went to Kufur Kadum (LAT 32.2201 N, LONG 35.1521 E) to help. Kufur Kadum, a Palestinian village has recently suffered, because the Israelis have decided to create a “militarized zone” in the area to protect their illegal settlement. When we arrived there were news cameras, and Israeli soldiers.

Despite the fact this land the day before belonged to the very people we were there to help, we were told we were in a military area and had to leave. When we asked why we were being made to leave, and why the illegal settlers were allowed to remain we were told as soon as we’d vacated the area the settlers would be told to leave. Right.

When Israel wants to take Palestinian’s land, they first set up a “military zone.” After a couple of years, the outpost begins to be dotted with trailers… and then houses, and civilian population. Basically the men with guns come to take the land from the owners, then “Israeli Citizens” from Russia, Poland, the USA, Ethiopia, are given subsidized housing and guns so they can hold onto it.

After a short protest, we were forced out of the area, and told to give at least 200 meters between us and the newly stolen “military outpost.” We walked about 1/2 a mile from the site, and tried to help some farmers, relatives of the mayor of Kufur Kadume, to pick olives. After about 10 minutes the Israeli army showed up. It appears they were not only lying about the fact they’d remove the illegal settlers after we left, but also about the fact that it wasn’t the 200 meters berth they wanted… what they wanted was for the Palestinians living there to have trouble with their olive harvest.

In fact, I felt bad because it seemed we sort of “brought” the soldiers with us when we attempted to help. About 8 of them showed up and told the farmer he would be detained unless he told us to leave. Since he had no choice, and had already been hassled by the illegal settlers themselves, we had to leave.

When we got back to the bus we’d been given a 250 INS parking ticket even though we obeyed all orders.

The illegal settlers commit acts of unprovoked violence, the army backs them up. In this way the army can deny involvement in the violence, yet protect the illegal settlers who commit it by turning a blind eye.

Also in the gallery notice my new Jordanian visa. The Jordanians have an interesting idea when it comes to Israel. Just ignore it’s existence. In any case, it makes my life simpler.

Instead of going to Tel Aviv and dealing with the hassle there, God knows what that would have been… I find out there is a Jordanian embassy in Ramallah. I was in and out of there in 10 minutes, and now have a multiple entry visa for Jordan. With any luck I can go to Jordan for a few days, come back in via the Allenby bridge and get a brand new Israel visa… So I can do what? That’s right, stay in Palestine.

After patiently waiting for three weeks, the day before my visa extension data at the Ministry of Interior in West Jerusalem, in the Jewish quarter, rolls around. After finding out the students have shut down the school due to displeasure at a 25% tuition hike, I continue on to Ramallah, where I catch a “Servic” to Jerusalem.

After spending the night at the wonderful Jerusalem hotel, run by a local Palestinian family on the Israeli side of the wall, I head over to the Ministry of Interior office on Queen Shlomozion road to finally extend my visa.

I walk into the chaotic visa office, filled with Jews from all parts of the world successfully extending their stay, and take a seat where I can hear my name called. About 15 minutes later a woman calls me to a desk, the first thing out of her mouth is “What are you doing here?” I explain to her I’m there to extend my visa to the three months advertised on the Israeli Ministry of Tourism website. She asks where I’m living, and not lying I say “Bir Zeit.” A scowl comes over her face and she tells me I can’t extend my visa for Bir Zeit there, I need to go to HAEGGOZ… which she writes in Hebrew on a yellow sticky note. I ask her just where that might be and she points over her shoulder “You can get there in 15 minutes if you walk.” I thank her and proceed out the door, a little frustrated after the trouble I went through to get the 1 minute meeting.

I walk around for 10 minutes looking for “HAEGGOZ” in Hebrew on a sign or something, but finally give up and ask a cab driver. He doesn’t know. Bad sign. I find another cab, this time one with a GPS. After he unsuccessfully attempts to look up the name, I realize something is wrong. I walk back to the ministry and find someone who speaks Arabic.. turns out the woman meant “Wadi Joz.” Yeah.. I can forgive her the GOZ part, since there isn’t a J sound in Hebrew, but there’s no excuse for fucking up the other part. Whatever… I wander back to East Jerusalem to talk to one of the Palestinians who will definitely know what I’m talking about.

The first Palestinian I ask looks at me with pity, as if I’d just showed her a doctor’s diagnosis for cancer. She calls a cab for me who takes me right to the front door.

Wadi Joz, in contrast to the administrative feel of the Ministry at Shlomozion, feels more like a jail than a visa office. I get in line to enter, and the Israeli guards separate the men from the women, calling us in 1 at a time.

After a 30 minute wait in line I make it past the metal detectors and stupid questions “Why is this keychain so big?” I take a ticket and sit down in a room in the basement of the building. The desks of the visa extension people are behind a glass window, and guards patrol the room, occasionally berating the people inside. I wait for 3 hours before I’m able to talk to someone… who asks me where I’m staying. “Bir Zeit” I say, rather proud of my adoptive home town. (Bir Zeit rules!) Immediately a frown comes across the man’s face “It’s illegal for me to give you a visa extension for Bir Zeit.”

Now at this point I’m a bit perplexed. So, it’s ok for you people to come over to Palestine, steal 78% of the land from the inhabitants, murder them, humiliate them, and even disallow them from visiting most of their own land, but you can’t take the responsibility of granting a goddamned visa there?

Thanks Israel. TODA, really.

Even though they KNEW I didn’t have a flight until the middle of November they screwed up my visa, just to screw with me. When the guy handed my passport to me he said “Ok, well.. welcome” and didn’t mention that minor detail. A chill ran down my spine as I realized it was most likely intentional, aimed at causing me to overstay my visa and thereby win myself a spot on Israel’s “most unwelcome list.” Well nice, now I have to attempt to extend my visa by arranging a meeting with the Ministry of Interior.

Since it’s Friday noon when I notice the treachery I decide to go ahead and book a room for another 5 days. Israel’s “weekend” is Friday and Saturday… awesome. I spend the weekend collecting about 6 numbers that could be the right number to call the Ministry. On Sunday I score a SIM card for Israel so I can call them since I notice on the Ministry website you have to CALL in order to schedule an appointment.

After a day of calling, and calling, only to hear what seem to be Hebrew messages to the effect of “This number is disconnected, fuck you very much” I decide to just go down there. After going through security I wait in line to attempt to get an appointment… and notice a piece of paper on the wall with a number and notice to the effect you MUST get them on the phone to arrange an appointment. After 2 days of calling I decide to ask anyway. When I finally arrive at the front of the line a middle aged woman, thrilled with her job, tells me I need to call. I tell her I have been calling, and calling, and then she confesses the office is closed that day. Nice.

I return the next day, wait in the line again, then am directed to wait in another line, where I’m given a piece of paper with the same number on it by a woman who’s trying in vain to answer a flood of phone calls. In Jerusalem, it turns out, all attempts to extend a visa are answered by one woman, and only from 8:00 to 13:00.

I go back to the line, and begin feverishly calling the number over and over again, as if I’m trying to win a free TV or something. After about 30 minutes of this I make it to the head of another line and am told I need to call to make the appointment. Well… neat. I finally return to the office that gave me the number only to notice that at that point the phone was ringing and the lady had stopped answering it completely, because the number of people in my position had grown and we were all mobbing her office attempting to talk to someone, anyone. She gives me an appointment – in 3 weeks. Fucking awesome. I take it, because it’s really the only thing I can do at this point.

That evening I’m IMing with a few folks and they ask me how it is in Palestine. I explain to them I haven’t made it yet because I’ve been “occupied.”

I arrive at the airport in Barcelona, after packing my bags for a stay in Israel and Occupied Palestine. I was prepared for some sort of interrogation in Israel, but what I never suspected was that the in-Terror-gation would start before I even arrived. Much like Jewish cemeteries in whatever part of the world, the checkin for Al El airlines was separated by tensabarrier from the rest of the airline checkins.

I approached the barrier, and was “greeted” by an official from El Al. He asked me what I wanted, and I told him I had a flight to Tel Aviv in 2 hours time. Immediately he began asking me what it was I intended to do in Israel. I told him I’d planned on visiting Jerusalem, to study Hebrew and get to know the religious sites there. Needless to say I was immediately escorted to a small, dirty room behind the public area of the airport. Several members from the Israeli Defense Force were waiting there and I was immediately subjected to a one and a half hour interrogation.

All the bags I’d meticulously packed were searched, and everything I own was taken apart and scrutinized. The room, much like Israel itself, was divided by a barrier. I was given a seat on one side of the barrier, while the sound of Israeli security guards on the other side with all my belongings floated over. Everything I own was scanned and tagged. I clearly heard the sound of my possessions being dropped, mixed with the sound of the confused guards who roughly treated them.

Several times I was asked to demonstrate how things such as my camera, phone, or my computer worked. Finally I was invited to the other side of the barrier, only to find the bags I’d neatly packed the night before in a pile with my things strewn everwhere. Since they kept me so long I was forced to repack everything in order to make the flight in 15 minutes time.

I barely made it on the plane.

One the plane I was seated next to a pretty Israeli girl, who told me about Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. After the flight was over we walked together to the customs, where I explained to her I most likely would be told to stay there. She looked at me incredulously, saying “No… at this point you just pass through. It’s easy.”

Maybe if you have an Israeli passport.

I walk up to the friendliest looking customs official, and after talking to her for a minute she closed her window and escorted me to the immigration office.

Bad Cop:

To describe the man in the immigrations office as a DICK does injustice to dicks everywhere. He began asking me why I was there, where I was going to stay, etc. I explained to him my bags had been taken, and all my itinerary was stored in my laptop. He didn’t believe me. He asked to see my return flight information, and again I replied it was on my computer and I’d be happy to show him if they’d just give me my bags back. He told me that wasn’t his problem, and that when he went to visit my country he had all his things in order. Excuse me for not owning a printer! My email address was written down, after which he asked me for my “other” email address. As if it’s really hard to have more than one email address. My parents names were asked for, my credit cards were scrutinized. Even though I provided this man with many examples of things I wanted to do and people I wanted to see he continued yelling at me, and eventually told me to come with him after about 30 minutes of interrogation and insult. Welcome to Israel.

Bad Cop sits me down in the security area. Basically the security area is a semi-jail where all “suspects,” basically people like me and any Arab who attempts to visit are put for interrogation. The first thing I notice is an Arab woman in heated discussion with another guard. After a minute or so she begins to howl, apparently she’s being kicked out. Guilty of being brown. The poor woman had just been on a really long flight, and was being put on the next plane out. She had a ton of luggage, and was attempting to visit her family.

Instead of feeling shame like an ordinary human, instead of showing compassion, Bad Cop walks up to me and says he thinks I’m a terrorist and have come to Israel to create a bomb. I’m speechless for a second, and I try to hold back a laugh. He says to me “You see that woman crying? She’s crying because I made her go talk with security, and since you’re a terrorist that’s where you’re going next.”

Good/Bad Cop:

After waiting with the Palestinians in the security area for another 30 minutes I’m asked to come in and talk to Good/Bad Cop. He prefaces the conversation by telling me if I lie, he’ll know, an immediately put me in jail until the next plane back to Barcelona. I nod, and the interrogation begins. It’s a lot like the other one, and is designed to see if I slip up. He watches my eyes, and is trained to cause fear, and then show compassion an instant later. I can tell he has a problem with me, since my return flight is scheduled for 3 months later. I explain to him that the Israeli ministry of tourism, according to their web site, allows me to stay for 3 months. He says that Israel is small and that I could see the whole place in 2 weeks – why would I want to stay for 3 months if I wasn’t there to do something like work with the ISM. He asks me if I know who the ISM is. I respond affirmative, telling him the ISM had made news when one of their American Volunteers was run over by a bulldozer a number of years back. He continues to question me, asking me how I know that. I told him I read the news, and that’s about it. He keeps my passport after rifling through the belongings I have on me, gets the names of my parents, and finally sends me back to the holding area while he “Verifies the authenticity of my story.” He reminds me again
that if he finds anything at all out of the ordinary he’ll kick me out of the country.

Good Cop:

After sitting in the holding area another 30 minutes a sympathetic acting woman comes out. She assures me it’s OK to tell her why I’m really here, and that if I’m part of a human rights group it’s ok to tell her, she understands. She assures me she’s on my side. I don’t change my story. There’s nothing more to tell, I assure her. A little frustrated at this point I ask her why they don’t share the fact that interrogation is part of entry into Israel on their tourism web site. Maybe they could put it next to the Christian Biblical Tours section. “Who would Jesus interrogate?” maybe. A little confused herself, after awhile she returns to talk with Good/Bad Cop.

30 more minutes pass, after which Pseudo Good Cop returns and grudgingly gives me my passport and a bill of entry. He looks me over once more, and tells me that they know everything that happens in Israel, and that if I don’t do exactly as I said I’d do they’d “come and find me.”

Welcome to Israel.

A month later, sometime in August, I’ll head to Tel Aviv.