Ignacio Garcia-Pedraza, a Spanish PSCC worker and Al Quds University trainer, 36 years old and living in Madrid, has been informed this morning at 9:00 a.m. by the Israeli Ben Gurion airport authorities that he had been denied the entry into Israel and the occupied Palestinian Territory (oPt). After a long interrogation, he was informed that he would be repatriated to Spain due to security reasons. Until the deportation is completed, Ignacio Garcia will have to stay at the Detention Center of Ben Gurion Airport.
Ignacio Garcia-Pedraza has stated from that same center that: “this deportation is a clear evidence of the persecution against aid workers and human rights defenders. Israel uses its occupation over the Palestinian territory in order to deny the entry of human rights defenders who wish to work in this territory and, at the same time, bear witness to the violations against International Law. I think it is time for the Spanish authorities to defend Spanish aid workers and nationals and not to let them be politically persecuted by the state of Israel”.
The Israeli authorities hinder systematically the work of different international humanitarian and development aid organizations, impeding the access of their staff to the oPt, or denying the required working visas. With these practices, the state of Israel is violating different international treaties such as the IV Geneva Convention. Last January, airport authorities deported the Spanish aid worker Marcel Masferrer, holder of an Israeli working visa, also due to security reasons that were not clarified. In addition to him, a well known Spanish clown, Ivan Prado, was denied the entry in 2010.
These increasing difficulties were addressed to the Spanish Minister of Foreign Affairs, Trinidad Jimenez, by Ignacio Garcia himself during a meeting held between her and Spanish aid and humanitarian workers in February 2011. On behalf of several NGOs, Mr. Garcia briefed the Minister on the legal persecution for political purposes being carried out by Israel against Spanish and other foreign aid and humanitarian workers.
RESUME OF IGNACIO GARCIA-PEDRAZA
University graduate on Mathematics, he has a wide experience on International Aid in different countries. Ignacio Garcia-Pedraza has traveled in many occasions to Israel and the oPt since March 2009 as a consultant and evaluation expert on Spanish funded international development aid projects for several NGOs.
This time, his entry to Israel and oPt came within the framework of his duties as University Teacher and Coordinator of the Diploma on Public International Law and Non Violent Conflict Transformation, offered by Al Quds University (Jerusalem), the Popular Struggle Coordination Committee and the Spanish NGO NOVA. This activity was partially funded by the Spanish Cooperation (AECID).
Ignacio Garcia was planning also to work as a consultant and evaluation expert for the project CPSGAZA. This project has launched an international mission to monitor Human Rights on board of the boat “El Oliva”, which through its sailing within the Gaza territorial waters informs diplomatic missions and NGOs on the frequent attacks from the Israeli navy against Palestinian fishermen. It also exposes the Israeli ban on these fishermen to work within the water limits that, according to international law, should be under the authority of the Palestinian National Authority.
CPSGAZA is a mission endorsed by 82 Palestinian, Israeli and international organizations, which has been explicitly supported by 600 people, among them the Former Deputy President of the European Parliament, Luisa Morgantini, or the Jerusalem city council member, Meir Margalit.
Ignacio Garcia is right now under detention in the Deportation Center at Ben Gurion Airport, waiting for the Israeli authorities to repatriate him. He is expected to arrive to Spain tomorrow afternoon, Wednesday 22nd June, without detailing neither the flight number nor the city of arrival.
Bethlehem – Ma’an – A week after he was detained and then questioned over news stories criticizing Israel, a top Ma’an journalist was deported on Wednesday.
Jared Malsin, chief English editor at the Bethlehem-based news network, had been fighting to attend a hearing on a deportation order issued last Tuesday in Tel Aviv after a vacation in the Czech Republic.
Malsin, an American citizen, says he was pressured by Interior Ministry staff into dropping a legal challenge and was subsequently placed onto a El Al flight to New York early Wednesday. “I had no idea I was waving anything, no clue,” he said, telling Ma’an that Israeli officials provided him a document to withdraw his case without an attorney present, and offered a misleading explanation over what he was signing.
Malsin said he wrote a note indicating that he was leaving the facility “without personal coercion.” “But none of this was my decision,” he emphasized in a phone interview minutes after arriving at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York early Thursday morning, rejecting reports that he left Israel voluntarily. “There’s no such thing as a voluntary deportation. I was deported, period.”
Malsin said he was under the impression that the “agreement” allowed him to leave the airport while his case continued. Indeed, his attorney, Castro Daoud, said he had recently informed Malsin that he would seek such a ruling from District Court Judge Kobi Vardi. On Tuesday, Judge Vardi ordered a hearing to consider the decision to deport the journalist.
Explanations from official Israeli government representatives were contradictory. Interior Ministry spokeswoman Sabine Hadad told The Associated Press that Malsin raised security suspicions during an investigation upon his arrival. The same day, however, she was also quoted by Reuters as denying Malsin was refused a visa for political or security reasons.
Allegations referenced in court documents were that Malsin had been uncooperative and had violated his visa status during an eight-hour interrogation, the pretext for which was never clear, that ultimately resulted in the deportation of his girlfriend, Faith Rowold.
Among the Interior Ministry’s complaints, according to documents obtained by Ma’an and others, were that Malsin had authored articles “inside the [Palestinian] territories,” including some “criticizing the State of Israel.”
International press association have strongly backed the journalist.
“We condemn this intolerable violation of press freedom,” said Aidan White, the head of the International Federation of Journalists, the largest union of media professionals worldwide. “The ban of entry in this case appears to be as a reprisal measure for the journalist’s independent reporting and that is unacceptable.”
“This kind of interference has no place in a democracy,” he added.
The English Desk at Ma’an News Agency, the largest independent news network in the Palestinian territories, is deeply concerned that its chief editor, Jared Malsin, an American citizen [and graduate of Yale University], was detained on Tuesday afternoon upon arriving at Israel’s Ben Gurion International Airport near Tel Aviv. He is slated for imminent deportation.
In what can only be explained as a retaliatory measure for Malsin’s reporting on Palestine, his long-term girlfriend, Faith Rowold, a two-year, registered volunteer with the Lutheran Church in Jerusalem, was also seized and placed in a holding cell pending deportation. Israeli security agents have prevented the couple from making calls, and lied to concerned American consular staff, denying that the two were even being held.
While the US Embassy is protesting both incidents, and is in constant contact with our staff on the ground, diplomatic officials say that there is little they can do when Israel cites “security reasons” for the denial of entry. Meanwhile, Israeli security officials have quietly expressed concern to Ma’an over this latest abuse of power by authorities at the Interior Ministry, skeptical that the professional journalist they know could be deemed a threat.
For its part, Israel has yet to specify any allegations against Malsin, who indicated – just before his phone was seized by airport guards – that during his hours of interrogation, security agents inexplicably questioned him over his supposed ties to international peace activists, with whom he has no relationship.
Ma’an scrupulously maintains its editorial independence and aims to promote access to information, freedom of expression, press freedom, and media pluralism in Palestine. It has no other agenda. Israel’s arbitrary detention of the head of its English Desk is an affront to professional journalists not only in Palestine, but also to journalists in Israel and abroad, who rely on Ma’an for its accuracy, impartiality, and independence… Full report
Ma’an report:
Order of Events
Jared’s phone was confiscated by El Al security officials when he boarded a flight in the Czech Republic on 12 January 2010. He was denied the opportunity to make any calls to his consulate, his family or a lawyer between 11am (upon boarding) and 11pm (when his mobile was briefly returned).
In what can only be explained as a retaliatory measure for Malsin’s reporting on Palestine, his long-term girlfriend, Faith Rowold, a two-year, registered volunteer with the Lutheran Church in Jerusalem, was also seized and placed in a holding cell pending deportation.
At 4pm when the flight was disembarked in Tel Aviv, Faith used the phone of a fellow traveler, an Israeli national, in the restroom of the airport. She called her sister with a brief message saying she had landed but indicated that there were problems.
At 6:30pm, the office of US Citizen Services was contacted in Jerusalem. Officials called Israeli airport authorities, who assured them that there were no American citizens being held there at that time. The names of Jared and his companion, also a US national, were reportedly not flagged. The official suggested the couple were out having a good time in Tel Aviv and had simply not gotten in touch.
The official also said local police should be contacted if Jared were actually missing, but assured that his contacts at the airport were not holding him. Ma’an staff asked if the official could confirm whether or not Jared and his companion had in fact cleared immigration.
Jared used the mobile of a French traveler admitted to the detention hall at 8:30pm to call his Faith’s sister again and asked a colleague to immediately contact the US Embassy. He said he was being questioned and feared being denied entry into Israel; he provided passport numbers for himself and his fellow traveler.
The US Consulate official was contacted again with the information that Jared was not out in Tel Aviv, but had in fact been in Israeli custody since 11am that morning. The official immediately expressed concern and said he would call his contacts again at the airport.
The official called back at after 9pm and asked for more information on Jared and his fellow traveler: are they married, is she pregnant, is there a Palestinian connection, what newspaper does Jared write for, etc.
The consulate official was informed that Jared worked with Ma’an. He was also informed that while the US, EU and UK fund programs and productions with the Ma’an Network, that staff at each of the consulates consult the English Desk site daily, even hourly, the State of Israel does not recognize Ma’an as a news organization, and therefore denies its journalists press accreditation.
By 11pm, both Jared and Faith were informed that they had been denied entry. Their mobile phones were returned to them for two hours, and then confiscated just after midnight when they were transferred to holding cells.
At 8am, the US consular official was contacted, called security at the airport and was informed that Jared and Faith were set to be deported at 6am on 14 January 2010, on the next direct flight to Prague, where they had been vacationing a week before.
“Its not very comfortable in there is it?” said the stony faced official, cigarette smoke forming a haze around his gleaming oval head.
“Its OK. We’re fine” I replied wearily, delirious after being awake for a straight period of 30 hours.
“You could be in there for days you know. For weeks. Indefinitely. “So, tell me, you are taking a plane tomorrow morning to the US?”
—–
It was our journey home that began with the standard packing frenzy: squeezing everything precious and dear and useful into two suitcases that would be our sustenance for the course of 3 months.
The trips to the outdoor recreation store- in preparation for what I anticipated to be a long and tortuous journey across Rafah Crossing to Gaza. The inspect repellent; the mosquito netting; the water purifier; the potty toppers for my kids and the dried fruit and granola bars and portion sized peanut butter cups. This time, I wanted to be ready, I thought to myself-just in case I got stuck at the Crossing. The Crossing. My presumptuousness is like a dull hit to the back of my head now.
In addition to all the packing of suitcases, we were also packing up our house- my husband was finishing up his residency at duke University and set to start a medical fellowship at Johns Hopkins in July. In the meantime, we were “closing shop”, putting our things in storage, selling the rest, and heading overseas: me to Gaza, he to Lebanon to visit his family.
Eventually I was too meet him there (assuming i could get into Gaza, and the, assuming I could get out). Yassine is a third-generation Palestinian refugee from the village of Waarit al-Siris in northern historic Palestine; he was born in a refugee camp in Lebanon and holds a Laizze Passe for Palestinian refugees. Israel denies him return to his own home- or even to the home of his spouse in Gaza. So when we go overseas, we often go our separate ways; we cannot live legally, as a unit, as a family, in our own homes.
I hold a Palestinian Authority passport. It replaced the “temporary two-year Jordanian passport for Gaza residents” that we held until the Oslo Accords and the creation of the Palestinian Authority in the mid ’90s, which itself replaced the Egyptian travel documents we held before that. A progression in a long line of stateless documentation.
It is a passport that allows no passage. A passport that denied me entry to my own home. This is its purpose: to mark me, brand me, so that I am easily identified and cast aside without questions; it is convenient for those giving the orders. It is a system for the collective identification of those with no identity.
—–
We finished packing as much as we could of the house, leaving the rest to Yassine who was to leave a week after us, and drove 4 hours to Washington to spend a few day sat my brother’s house before we took off.
First, we headed to the the Egyptian embassy.
Last year, my parents were visiting us from Gaza City when Rafah was sealed hermetically. They attempted to fly back to Egypt to wait for the border to open- but were now allowed to board the plane in Washington. “Palestinians cannot fly to Egypt now without a visa, new rules” the airline personnel explained, “and no visas can be issued until Rafah is open” added the Egyptian embassy official.
They were in a conundrum, aggravated by the fact that their US stay entry stamp had reach passed its six-month limit. Eventually, they got around the issue by obtaining an Egyptian tourist visa, made easier by their old age, which they used to wait in Egypt for one month until Rafah Crossing opened again.
I did not want to repeat their ordeal, so I called the embassy this time, which assured me the protocol had changed: now, it was only Palestinian men who were not allowed to fly to or enter Egypt. Women were, and would get their visa at the Egyptian port of destination. I was given a signed and dated letter (April 6, 2009) by the consul to take with me in case I encountered any problems:
“The Consular Section of the Embassy of the Arab Republic of Egypt hereby confirms that women, who are residents of the Gaza Strip, and who hold passports issued by the Palestinian Authority are required to get their visa to enter Egypt at Egyptian ports and NOT at the various Egyptian consulates in the United States on their way to the Gaza Strip for the purpose of reaching their destination (i.e. Gaza Strip)” it read.
With letter and bags in hand, we took off, worried only about the possibility of entering Gaza- the thought of being able to enter Egypt never crossing my mind.
2 long-haul flights and one 7 hour transit later, we made it. I knew the routine by heart. Upon our arrival, I was quick to hit the bank to buy the $15 visa stamps for Yousuf and Noor’s American passports and exchange some dollars into Egyptian pounds. I figured it would help pass the time while the lines got shorter.
I then went and filled out my entry cards-an officer came and filled them out with me seeing my hands were full, a daypack on my back, Noor strapped to my chest in a carrier, Yousuf in my hand…
we then submitted our passports, things seemed to be going smoothly. Just then the officer explained he needed to run something by his superior. “You have a Palestinian passport; Rafah crossing is closed…”
“I promise it will just be 5 minutes” he assured me. But that’s all i needed to hear. I knew I was in for a long wait. It was at this point I yanked out my laptop and began to tweet and blog about my experience (full progression of tweets here courtesy Hootsbuddy). At first I thought it would simply help pass the time; it developed into a way to pool resources together that could help me; and ended as a public awareness campaign.
—–
The faces were different each time. 3 or four different rooms and hallways to navigate down. They refused to give names and the answers they gave were always in the form of cryptic questions.
The first explained I would not be allowed entry into Egypt because Palestinians without permanent residency abroad are not allowed in; and besides- Rafah Crossing is closed he said (my response: so open it?). I was told I was to be deported to the UK first. “But I had no British visa” I explained. I was ordered to agree to get on the next flight. I refused-I didn’t come all this way to turn back.
I was escorted to the “extended transit terminal”. It was empty at first, save for a south Asian man in tightly buckled jeans and a small duffel bag that spent the good part of our time there there in a deep sleep. During the day the hall would fill up with locally deported passengers- from villages of cities across Egypt, and we would move our things to the upper waiting area.
Most of the time was spent in this waiting area with low level guards who knew nothing and could do nothing.
At different intervals a frustrated Yousuf, fully caped in his black Spiderman outfit and mask, would approach them angrily about “why they wouldn’t let him go see his seedo and tete?” and why “they put cockroaches on the floor”. When we first arrived, he asked if these were the “yahood”, his only experiences with extended closure, delay, and denial of entry being at the hands of the israeli soldiers and government. “No, but why don’t you ask them why they are are allowed through to sunbathe and we aren’t to our own homes?”
“Rabina kbeer” came the response. They were impotent. God is great.
There was very little time I was given access to anyone who had any authority. I seemed to be called in whenever the new person on duty arrived, when they were scheduled for their thrice daily interrogation and intimidation, their shooting and crying.
Officers came and went as shifts began and ended. But our status was always the same. Our “problem”, our case, our issue was always the same. We remained, sitting on our chairs, with our papers and documents in hand, waiting, and no one the better.
Always waiting. For this is what the Palestinian does: we wait. For an answer to be given, for a question to be asked; for a marriage proposal to be made, for a divorce to be finalized; for a border to open, for a permit to be issued; for a war to end; for a war to begin; for a child to be born; for one to die a martyr; for retirement or a new job; for exile to a better place and for return to the only place that knows us; for our prisoners to come home; for our home to no longer be prisons; for our children to be free; for freedom from a time when we no longer have to wait.
We waited for the next shift as we were instructed by those who made their own instructions. Funny how when you need to pass the time, the time does not pass.
“You need to speak with whose in charge-and their shift starts at 10 am”. So we pass the night and wait until 10. “Well by the time they really get started its more like noon”. So we wait till noon. “Well the real work isn’t until the evening”. And we wait until evening. Then the cycle starts again.
Every now and then the numberless phone would ring requesting me, and a somber voice would ask if I changed my mind. I insisted all I wanted to do was go home; that it was not that complicated.
“But Gaza is a special case, we all know that” I was told.
Special, as in expendable, not human, not entitled to rights special, I thought.
Unfamiliar faces that acted as though though I was a long-lost friend kept popping in and out to see me. As though I were an amnesiac in a penitentiary. They all kept asking the same cryptic question “so you are getting on a plane soon, right?”
First, a gentleman from the Palestinian representative’s office that someone else whose name I was meant to recognize sent. ” It’ll all be resolved within the hour” he promised confidently, before going on to tell me about his son who worked with Motorola in Florida;
“Helping Israeli drones do their job?”
“That’s right!” he beamed.
An hour came and went, and suddenly the issue was “irresolvable”, and I was “a journalist up to trouble”.
—–
Friends and family in Egypt, the US, and Gaza, worked around the clock with me, calling in any favors they had, anyone they knew, doing anything they could to get some answers and let me through. But the answer was always the same: Amn il Dawla (State Security and Intelligence) says no, and they are the ultimate authorities. No one goes past them.
Later a second Palestinian representative came to see me.
“So you are not going on that second flight are you?”
“What are you talking about? Why does everyone speak to me in question form?”
“Answer the question”
“No, I came here to go to Gaza, not to return to the US”
“Ok that’s all I needed to know; there is a convoy of injured Palestinian with security clearance heading to the border with some space; we are trying to get you on there with them; 15 minutes and it’ll all be resolved, we just need clearance, its all over” he assured me.
Yousuf smashed another cockroach.
—–
We were taken down a new hallway. A new room. A new face. The man behind the desk explained how he was losing sleep over my case, how I had the while airport working on it, ho he had a son Yousuf’s age; and then offered me an apple and a bottle of water and told me istaraya7i, to rest, a command I would hear again and again over the course of the 36 hours.
Is this man for real??? an apple and a bottle of water? I thought to myself, my eyes nearly popping out of my face.
“I don’t want your food. I don’t want to rest. I don’t want your sympathy. I JUST WANT TO GO HOME. To my country. To my parents. IS THAT TOO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?” I screamed, breaking my level-headed calm of the past 20 hours.
“Please don’t yell, just calm down, calm down, everyone outside will think I am treating you badly, c’mon, and besides its ‘ayb (disgraceful) not to accept the apple from me”.
“‘Ayb?? What’s ‘AYB is you denying my entry to my own home! And why should I be calm? This situation doesn’t call for calm; it makes no sense and neither should I!”
A distraught Noor furrowed her brows and then comforted me the only way she knew how: by patting me on the back with her little hands and giving me a hug. Yousuf began to cry.
“C’mon lady don’t have a breakdown in front of your kids please. You know I have a kid your son’s age and its breaking my heart to do this, to see him in these conditions, to put him in the conditions, so please take the plane.”
“So don’t see me in these conditions! There’s a simple solution you know. LET ME GO HOME. Its not asking a lot is it?”
“Hey now look lady” he said, stiffening suddenly into bad cop, his helpless grimace disappeared.
“Rules are rules, you need a visa to get in here like any other country, can you go to Jordan without a visa?’
“Don’t play the rules game with me. I HAD APPROVAL FROM YOUR EMBASSY, FROM YOUR CONSUL GENERAL, to cross into Egypt and go to Gaza; and besides how else am I supposed to get into Gaza???” I shouted, frantically waving the stamped and signed document in front of him as though it were a magic wand.
“So sue him. Amn il Dawla supercedes the foreign ministry’s orders, he must have outdated protocol.”
“The letter was dated April 6, that is 2 days ago, how outdated could it be?? Look- if I could parachute into Gaza I would, trust me. With all do respect to your country, I’m not here to sight-see. Do you have a parachute for me? If I could sail there I would do that too, but last I check Israel was ramming and turning those boats back. Do you have another suggestions?
“What is it you want lady- do you want to just live in the airport? is that it? Because we have no problems letting you live here, really. We can set up a shelter for you. And no one will ever ask about you or know you exist. In any case you don’t have permanent residency abroad so our government policies say we can’t let a Palestinian who does not have permanent residency abroad”
“I have a US Visa- its expired but my extension of status document is valid until the end of June. and besides- what kind of illogical law is that? you aren’t allowing me back home if I don’t have permanent residency abroad?”
“I don’t read English please translate..”
“You see it says here that my status is valid until June 30, 2009”
“Good, so then we CAN deport you back to the US” he said, picking up the phone and giving a quick order for the Palestinian convoy of injured Palestinians heading to the Crossing to go on without me, my only hope of returning home dissipating before my eyes at the hands of a barely literate manipulative enforcer.
“You just said if i have permanent residency abroad I can go home, now you say I can’t, which is it??”
“I’m sorry you are refusing to go on the plane. Take her away please.”
We were ushered back to the extended waiting area, back to our roach ridden premises that had become our home, along with a newly arrived Luxembourgian and French couple and their two children who had failed to produce their passports and were being sent back home. Here I was, about to be deported away from home, over prepared, with my documents and signed papers, from consulates and universities and governments; and they, used to traveling passport-free the EU, being sent back home because they had only an ID card.
—–
It wasn’t long before a new guard came to us, and request we follow him “to a more isolated room”. “It will be better for you- more private. All the African flights are arriving now with all their diseases, you don’t want to be here for that! It’ll get overcrowded and awful in here.”
Given the the well-wishes that preceded my last interrogation about the “uncomfortableness” I may endure, I somehow had a feeling where we were headed.
We were asked to bring all our luggage and escorted down a different hallway; this time we were asked to leave everything behind, and to give up our cameras, laptops, and mobile phones. We took our seats in the front of a tiny filthy room, where 17 other men (and one Indonesian woman was sleeping on the floor in the back, occasionally shouting out in the middle of her interrupted sleep) of varying nationalities were already waiting.
A brute man-, illiterate by his own admission, took charge of each of files, spontaneously blurting out vulgarities and ordering anyone who so much as whispered to shut the hell up or get sent to real prison; the room was referred to as “7abs”, or a cell; I can probably best describe it as the detention or holding room. a heady man with a protruding belly that seems at odds with his otherwise lanky body was the door guard.
Officer #1 divided up the room into regions: the 5 or so south Asians who were there for whatever reason-expired paperwork, illegal documentation- were referred to as “Pakistan” when their attention was needed; The snoozing, sleep-talking woman in the back was “Indonesia”; and the impeccably dressed Guinean businessman, fully decked in a sharp black suit and blue lined tie, was “Kenya” (despite his persistence please to the contrary). There was a group of Egyptian peasants with forged, fake, or wrongly filed Id cards and passports: a 54 year old man whose ID said he was born in 1990; another who left his ID in his village 5 hours away, and so on.
By this point, I had not slept in 27 hours, 40 if one were to count the plane ride. My patience and my energy were wearing thing. My children were filthy and tired and confused; Noor was crying. I tried to set her cot up, but a cell within a cell did not seem to her liking and she resisted, much as I did.
We took the opportunity to chat when officer #1 was away. “”So what did you do?” asked Kenya, the Guinean.
“I was born Palestinian” I replied. “Everyone in here is being deported back home for one reason or another right? I bet I am the only one being deported away from home; the only one denied entry to my home.”
Officer #1 returned, this time he asked me to come with him “with or without your kids”. I brought them along, not knowing what was next.
There was two steely-eyed men on either end of a relatively well-furnished room, once again inquiring about my “comfort” and ordering-in the form of a question- whether I was taking a flight that morning to the US.
Noor began making a fuss, bellowing at the top of her lungs and swatting anyone that approached her.
“She is stubborn. She takes after her mother I see” said the man.
Soon we were escorted back to the waiting area. I knew there was nothing more I could do. We waited for several more hours until my children exhausted themselves and fell asleep. I bathed them in the filthy bathroom sinks with freezing tap water and hand soap and arranged their quarters on the steel chairs of the waiting room, buzzing with what seemed like a thousand gnats. Thank God for the mosquito netting.
Eventually, dawn broke, and we were escorted by two guards to the ticket counter, our $2500 flights rerouted, and put on a plane back to Washington.
I noted on one of my tweets that I would be shocked if my children’s immune system survived this jolt. It didn’t.
My daughter vomited the whole flight to London as I slipped in and out of delirium, mumbling half Arabic half English phrases to the flustered but helpful Englishman sitting next to us. I thank him wherever he is for looking after us.
Whatever she had, Yousuf an eye caught in the coming days-along with an ear and throat infection.
Eventually, we reached Dulles Airport. I walked confidently to the booth when it was my turn.
What was I going to say? How do I explain this? The man took one look at my expired visa, and my departure stamps.
“How long have you been gone?”
“36 hours” I replied bluntly.
“Yes,I see that. Do you want to explain?”
“Sure. Egypt forbade me from returning to Gaza”.
“I don’t understand- they denied you entry to your own home?”
“I don’t either, and if I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
With that, I was given a a stamp and allowed back inside.
Now that we are warm; clothes; showered, rested and recovered from whatever awful virus we picked up in the bowels of Cairo airport, I keep thinking to myself: what more could I have done?
“The quintessential Palestinian experience,” historian Rashid Khalidi has written, “takes place at a border, an airport, a checkpoint: in short, at any one of those many modern barriers where identities are checked and verified.”
In this place, adds Robyn Creswell, “connection” turns out to be only another word for separation or quarantine: the loop of airports never ends, like Borges’s famous library. The cruelty of the Palestinian situation is that these purgatories are in no way extraordinary but rather the backdrop of daily existence.”
We have been stuck in Cairo airport for nearly a day now. We are neither being allowed entry or exit by Egyptian authorities, who insist that as long as Rafah Crossing is closed, they are under strict orders not to allow Palestinians in.
This is despite a signed letter of consent I received personally from the Egyptian consul-general in Washington the day of my travel from the US.
To quote the Egyptian officials here in the airport “so sue him”.
I tried to plead that it was not my fault Egypt was in the way of my home- that if I could,I’d parachute in; that i simply wanted to go back home.
For now, we wait and sleep on the roach ridden floors of the transit hall as our own “Borders” film (a classic Syrian satire by iconic actor Dreid La7am about a man who is stuck between the borders of two fictional countries who speak the same language) unfolds.
We cannot return to the US b/c my visa has expired and I was planning on renewing it in Beirut where I was to meet up with Yassine after my Gaza stay.
And we are not beig allowed entry to Cairo because Rafah is closed.
No one seems to have an answer, other than what’s was told to me this morning. No one knows where my file is or what is going to happen. I have an off again on again wifi signal, and trying my best to keep updates on twitter @gazamom.
