I’m currently on my way into Palestine via Jordan. It’s been 8 years since I have been here last. It’s been over a year since seeing my father. I’m thinking about that. On the bus ride toward Palestine, I’m thinking about that.
I just came from a tour of 4 different countries in less than 3 weeks. I went through the riches of Kuwait to the plastic city of Dubai. I savoured everything from the hustle of Cairo and the beauty of Lebanon. My body is starting to show signs of wear. But good signs none the less. Fuck me, this region is beautiful. The Middle East. I look around as I sit on the bus and there are colours everywhere. I mean, Colour that just stands out in the backdrop of the red and brown sands that have been here long before you and me. And long before this war and the many wars that came before it. Fuck you Mr. Bush, your plan didn’t work. I’d say “President,” but you never earned it from me, and I never voted for you.
I’m taking pics of everything I see. I can’t help it, a weird addiction. Shoot more. Shoot more. Shoot, shoot, and shoot. It’s therapy. Either that or a constant masturbator. The latter is a bit awkward in this region and I wouldn’t want to have my hands cut off. I mean how would I take pics...or masturbate.
The bus finally gets to the Palestinian border and we are told to hand over our passports. Most on the bus are Middle Eastern but there is a British couple and a young Japanese back packer on this ride. I am the only American citizen it seems. When the Israelis check everyone’s credentials, they ask everyone to board but me. True story. I wonder if it is my beard or my bushy hair that is making me stand out. After a few brief questions that are quite repetitive, they hand over the passport and let me back on the bus. As I make my way to my seat, I give everyone a smile that says “sorry.” Everyone sends a smile back that says “oh we know.” After the first check point, the bus stops again, this time to let us out in front of a building that we have to go into. It turns out this is the second phase, where you get checked again, but this time much more in detail. I exit the bus with my bags; a pack back with my laptop, my still cameras and some clothes. I actually hid the flashcard so that when my cameras get checked they don’t start questioning my photographic choices. I get enough judgment on my work from people in the industry, last I need is the Israelis chiming in.
I walk in and am singled out yet again. My bags go through a machine and am told will meet me on the other side. An Israeli officer who kind of looks like a slimmed down version of Rosie O’Donnel has me walk into a booth. Once inside, I am sprayed with air all around my body at certain intervals. They give me a cleaning, I thank them. After a few minutes, she asks me to go and sit in the room adjacent to the first entry point and I do. I sit there, cross my legs and relax. I played it cool, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I think to myself, if I can survive Brooklyn, I can survive this. After a few minutes she comes in and introduces herself letting me know she wants to ask me a few questions. I smile and say “you may ask me a few questions.” That’s me taking charge. HA HA. She asks me why I am here and I let her know I am visiting my father. She asks why my father is here and I say this is his home, why not? I actually at one point say, “He comes and goes as he pleases.” I think that pissed her off. “But why does he live here?” “He loves it here; he was born and raised here and likes to come back.” “What does he do?” “He is retired.” “Retired? Does he have money?” “Lots of it.” I say smiling. She was a bit surprised by this. I smile more on the inside. “What do you do?” “I am an actor.” “Really. Like theater or television?” “Oh no sweety, in films.” I really am feeling good. I mean look, I never flaunt the fact that I am lucky enough to be in movies and make them, but when you are a Palestinian in this position, I have to let my dick stretch. “Really? Have I seen you in anything?”
“Most likely.” I run through the credits, she has a bit of shock. She gives me what I am expecting. “Really?” “I’m in a movie that’s in theatres now...Fast and Furious. Have you seen it?
She just nods no and says, “I will be right back.”
So I sit there and wait. She comes back after a few minutes, hands me my passport and points out the way for me to where I need to go. I smile because I can feel her behind me watching me walk away. I get to the point of where I have to get a visa. It’s a much bigger space very similar to a bus terminal where people are seated waiting, or in line to talk to someone in a booth. In the booth are all soldiers. Mostly women and some men scattered around. And the majority of them look like they are under 25. These are the gatekeepers of Israel. A bunch of kids who look like they belong in some euro trash club dressed as soldiers. This is what Hotspur had in mind when he told King Henry that he clearly sent the wrong fucking guy.
I walk to a booth and hand over my passport. This part is fun. I was just in Lebanon partying it up. I mean, Lebanon is the fucking shit. Everyone has to go there and just enjoy Beirut. You would think someone took the best nightlife scenes in LA and NYC and laced them out onto one street in Beirut...Gemmayze street. Everyone is beautiful there. Everyone has a smile. And everyone is 100% pure Arab blood.
So when the young soldier, female, asked me what I was doing there, I replied “partying.” “Partying? In Lebanon?” “Yes. Amazing parties are there. Have you been?” I already knew the answer to this one.
“No, I’m not allowed to go.” She then turns to her co-worker next to her.
“Have you ever heard of partying in Lebanon?” She was shocked too and shook her head no. I just smiled.
She gave me a form and told me to sit down and someone will be with you shortly. Shortly turned out to be 5 hours later in which I had lunch, took a nap and awoke to some of the same faces. Yet tour buses, and they come by the handful, seemed to stroll right on through. Fuck, I should have taken a tour bus.
Finally, some young Israeli strolls on up to me looking like he just finished his lunch and was ready for a mid day chat. He sat beside me and asked me the same set of questions that his other two colleagues did. I mean, there has to be a comedy in this somewhere I thought to myself. Where ya from, who do you know, why are you here and what do you do. But in this case, when I told him the films I was in, all I got was a blank stare back. He hasn’t seen any of them. Damn you. Why didn’t a pair of tits come instead so I could do the sweet talk. He walked off telling me he’d be back. After 30 minutes he returned and started up with the same questions. At this point, I asked him this. “Isn’t American a friend to Israel?” “Of course, why do you ask this?” “Well, it just seems to be no one would treat a friend this way, have them waiting for so long and putting them through the ringer.” “I understand but...” “But what sir? I’m an American, born and raised, so what’s the problem?” “Yes, but you’re...” “Palestinian yes, but what is in your hand is my passport which is...say it with me.” He smiled, “American.”
I smiled back and I think we got each other. He then said, wait here. Motherfucker. I thought this was over. He came back a hour later with a friend. They said something in Hebrew and looked at me. I smiled, but inside, I was ready to head back to Jordan. This is the mind fuck they do to ya. But low and behold he gave me my passport and smiled. “Welcome.” He then escorted me to get my visa and reached out for a handshake. Man, he must have seen a film.
As my visa was about to get stamped, I had them do it on a separate paper. When she asked why, I let her know it is quite hard travelling with that stamp on my passport. She agreed, and stamped a separate sheet.
I then exited with bags in tow and took another bus into town. Finally, Jericho. The air here is good. The light is good. The bus took about 10minutes to reach the depot and I came off. As I exited, the Palestinian Police waited to check people out and here we go again with the same song and dance. “Passport and papers,” a tall one shouts out as he points at me. I got to say this, as different as the Palestinians and Israelis like to think they are, they fucking seem to have the same song and dance to
me. The guard asked me the same questions as the Israelis, but he only took 20 minutes of my time, a crash course. He handed it back to me and as I rounded the corner to the exit, who do I see. My father, standing, smiling and reconnecting with me. Fuck, I missed him. We embraced and shook hands, kissed cheeks and looked at each other as men. He looked good and healthy. He took a moment to take me in and just when I thought I was going to finally have my “Field of Dreams” moment with him he says what he has said to me my whole life.
“You still haven’t cut you hair hmmm? You fucking bum.” We walked to the car and headed home. I was happy to be home.
© Words - Mousa Kraish
