Power-Source

This could be an entry about lying, the moral implications of bearing a false-witness to stay present with Palestine, how adeptly or poorly I can lie in the face of another Israeli Airport Officer or the nuances of the latest lie: "my parents booked the round-trip a month ago and forgot to change it--well, it's their money..."

This could be an entry about the uncanny intimacy of being searched by the thin young man wearing disposable gloves and the way his hands moves up and down my body like no one's have in months. While he swabbed the inside of my pants for bomb residues, I was forced to hide my amusement. A voice in my head said "this isn't a game," but another said "yes it is-- it HAS to be a game or you cannot thrive under this pressure..."

This could also be an entry about the microscopic social interactions I had with this team of sleuths. As they took apart my suitcase, a case of characters filled my world. An older lady officer grew impatient with me when she discovered that I had a pair of tiny scissors that I had, truthfully, forgotten about; I smiled and laughed at her like the entitled wanker I was pretending to be. ( "Oh they're so small, I'd forgotten about them." ). My trumpet drew interest, having so many cavities to search. Somehow, a USB drive had fallen into the bell and became lodged there when I inserted the conical stand. We took turns beat on the bell-pipe until a pair of them took it into a back room and returned with the cap of the USB drive. This entry is not about that or how my host easily retrieved it with some IKEA tongs here in Geneva (she's Canadian). Inevitably, there was a cute airport officer. She suggested that I try blowing the device out. Happy to perform, I played her "Under-Bridge Blues". "It is enough--" said the other lady. Too late: her subordinate smiled at me.

I almost made this about the lotion. The Israeli officers opened every pocket and rubbed swab-tipped wands along the insides of my suitcase and items inside, including my computer mouse. If they were looking for gunpowder there, all they found were traces of homus, mishmish, nutella, and lotion. The bottle of lotion I had so absent-mindedly tossed into the bag for the sake of my ashy hands had an Arabic label. I admitted I had bought it "in Bethlehem, that day." Of course, they could not take the chance that Hamas had teleported into my bathroom, slipped something inside my lotion bottle and then walked out my front door while I was eating hubz wa mishmish. I offered to throw the lotion away but instead the cute officer put it in its own, special box bound for Geneva. I day-dreamed some snide 'lubrication' jokes that are not appropriate for the general audience. I thanked her warmly for her consideration.

This entry is about my power-source: the cable and surge-protector that feed the battery on my Asus laptop. Forget, for a moment, Ben Gurion Air Port in Tel Aviv. Pretend, instead, to be a customs officer in Switzerland. Come out of the back in your wheel-chair to greet a young man in a black scarf and hat who has lost a 'computer part'. Take from him the Turkish Airlines receipt and ask him why he is here. Learn that in Tel Aviv they confiscated the power-source and said they would send it on a later flight. Listen to him explain how these security guards had told him they must have a machine check the device for anything someone might have put in there while he was not looking. This poor guy: let him use the telephone so he can get the address of the people he is staying with in Switzerland. Shoot him a glance when he lingers too long on the phone. Say, "this is what they do in Tel Aviv: we have been having problems with them." Smile and wish him well because you already know what David Wildman, my regional supervisor, told me the next day.

"Don't count on getting that power-cord back." He said they often say that and just throw it away. Its a deterrent tactic. Yet, I took it in stride for compassion's sake. First, compassion for my Palestinian brothers and sisters because I know this is what I must endure to stay present with them. I am not entitled to better treatment and this is one more story that brings us closer together, one more reason to tell their story wherever I go in life. It is also compassion for Israeli airport officers who are just executing policy. They are a middle-aged woman who wants to retire, a young man who would much rather pat-down his girlfriend, a young woman who would rather be listening to music then going through my underwear, and others like them. Israel's fears are plausible, if life is a Tom Clancy or Ian Fleming novel. It is even more unlikely that anyone put explosives in my charge-cable, more than in my lotion, but I could imagine that. Israel's policies are evil, even impish, but I am glad that I have transcended the good-guys versus bad-guys paradigm that perpetuates the rationalization violence. Israel needs a tough-love compassion; they are less evil than they are insane.

They also failed in their endeavour, Monday. I was nervous as they started removing clothes from my bag but they quit too soon. On top of the towel but below everything else, in the middle, was a brown hoody with a book inside: "The Invention of History: A Century of Interplay between Theology and Politics in Palestine." This book is not about how Palestine is good and Israel is evil. No. It is a book about the rhetoric and mistaken theology that formed the historical foundations of the conflict, going back to the British Mandate. It is better than inflammatory: it is illuminating. I hope to start and finish it this week so I will not have to smuggle it back again. If I succeed, it could be a power source for my itineration speeches. At the same time, I cannot help but musing that, if it were a chunk of C4 set to detonate when one of those security swabs made contact then, well, about five Israelis would have bit the dust no matter how careful they were. No tactics or technology can replace having cordial relationships: wi'am > warfare.

Yet, with the book was a kofiah (a traditional scarf) that I brought to trade with my colleague for some leggings from Germany. She was so pleased to have it, as much as I am pleased to be warmed from head-to-foot. There is so much to tell from just two days in Geneva but one thing is certain: I needed a hug. No, I need more than just one-- and even more than just hugs. I needed someone to listen to me for a while and commiserate about Israeli security with me... and even to buy me a drink.

Aside from God, a hug and an understanding ear are the greatest power-source I could come in contact with right now. I could not do this dance again in a week's time on anything less than that.

[UPDATE] For the record, the Israelis sent the power-cable. I must admit that I was more eager to see them keep their word than to 'burn' them for being jerks.