My mother slid three passports under the glass of the security booth. I stood on the iron rungs at the bottom of the booth and lifted myself up so that the man could see my face and match it with the one in the passport. My brother did the same. The man opened each passport and ran some data through his computer. When he got to my brother’s passport he stopped.
“Where is his Palestinian birth certificate?” he asked. The man’s English was choppy but understandable.
“My son was born in the US, he has no Palestinian birth certificate,” my mother replied.
“No, where is Palestinian birth certificate?” he asked again.
I looked over at my brother, and our eyes met. Great, what now? What did you do?
“My son has no Palestinian identification” my mother replied, her tone cool.
“Ma’am we have to stop you. Please come to the side to answer some questions.”
We followed the airport security worker’s instructions and followed him to a glass room with opaque walls. He closed the door after letting in two other security guards and talking with them in Hebrew.
“Is this really necessary? My brother is waiting for me,” my mother said, looking exasperated. I was used to airport security constantly scrutinizing my family, maybe it had something to do with my mother’s headscarf, maybe it didn’t. All I’m saying is that without fail, every time we go to the airport my family is chosen for a ‘random search.’ But this was the first time we were stopped because of my brother.
I sat next to my mother and my brother on a cold metal seat. The fear I felt was mirrored in his face.
“How long will this take?” my mother asked.
“However long we need,” the airport security man said, sitting down. “Maybe a few hours.”The man gestured for the two security guards to stand in the corners. “There is a wanted man with connections to illegal groups who has the same name as him,” the man said, pointing to my brother. “What is the relation between you and this man?”
Ohhhh so that’s what’s going on, I thought. I stared at my brother and poked his arm. Way to go bro.
“I’ve never heard of him before,” my mom said. “This is a misunderstanding, please, my family is waiting, my children are tired-”
“What are you here for?” the man asked. “Why are you in Israel?”
“To visit my family in Jerusalem,” my mother said.
“Do you intend to go to the West Bank?”
“No, only to Jerusalem.”
“Do you have family in the West Bank?”
“No.”
The man repeated the questions three times, in different orders, trying to catch my mother off guard. She didn’t miss a beat, probably because she’s had to answer these questions countless times before.
“Are you or your son affiliated with any terrorist organizations?” he asked. In all seriousness. Could he not see the terrified pipsqueak of an eight year old sitting in front of him? Ah yes, the trembling wide-eyed boy who hadn’t even hit puberty, truly a killer.
My mother was incredulous. “No, we are not part of any terrorist groups. We are Americans. We are only come here in the summer for the kids’ summer vacation.”
“Where is your son’s Palestinian birth certificate?”
“I already told you, he was born in the US,” she said.
“Where is the US birth certificate then?” the man asked.
“I didn’t bring it, I didn’t think I would need it. Isn’t the passport enough?” my mother asked.
“No. Right now it is not. There is a connection between your son and this terrorist,” the man said. “The birth certificate would be what we needed.”
What would I do if my brother went to jail, I thought. I imagined myself playing with my brother through dark iron bars. Creepy. The man asked some more questions, and I tuned out. Fear gave way to exhaustion, jet lag, and boredom. While my mother answered question after question, the initial shock I felt evaporated completely. She knows what she’s doing. My brother’s gonna be fine. Three hours later, we left the room, feeling fully inconvenienced from a situation that was laughably ridiculous.