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Cairo, Egypt (Photo by Nadia El-Awady) |
When I was a little girl I thought Egypt was purple.
I was born in the United States to an American mother and an Egyptian father. Egypt was a fairy tale to me. You grow up constantly hearing about a land far away, and that's what happens. You imagine a purple Never Never Land.
I finally visited Egypt for the first time when I was in the fifth grade. I discovered Egypt wasn't purple. But even though I've lived in the country now for more than 20 years, it still has a magical element for me.
Palestine to me was another fairy tale land I've had with me for as long as I can remember. Muslims all over the world are breastfed Palestine. It's part of their existence. Part of their memories. Our understandings of the land and the conflict vary according to the tales we are told and the amount of information we eventually actively seek as we grow older. But the result is the same: for almost every Muslim out there in the world, Palestine flows in their veins and arteries and feeds their very souls.
| Muslims all over the world are breastfed Palestine. |
I've wanted to go to Palestine my whole life. So has practically every Muslim I've met. But we are also brought up to believe that we will only go to Palestine under one of two circumstances: as warriors to free Palestine from its occupiers, or after it is freed and completely under Palestinian control. The alternative, going while it is occupied by Israel, is considered an act of treachery, an act of normalization with the enemy.
I've always tried to find ways around obstacles in my path to get what I want. And I wanted to go to Palestine. When I was a university student in Egypt, I decided I would go to Palestine with the intention of finding the ins and outs of the country so the next time 'round I’d be able to bring the Muslim army with me. That’s how illogically emotional we can sometimes be about the whole cause. All I had to do was find a mahram (a related man) to go with me. At the time I was more conservative and would only travel in the companionship of a male relative. I couldn't find anyone who would go with me, so the idea eventually fell apart.
But the longing remained.
So when I suddenly realized — 15 years later and on a cool September night while sailing on the Nile with friends — that going as a journalist could be considered a legitimate reason to go there, I jumped at the opportunity. I would go and write about science, which is what I do for a living, and I would learn more about the country I have loved for so long in the process.
In order to ensure that I wasn't going to return to Egypt from the visit and be labeled traitor or Israeli normalizer by my Egyptian compatriots, I conferred with some of my fellow journalists. As journalists, we should be able to go to the ends of the earth, to hell and back even, to cover a story and to tell people what is happening in the world, they told me. I agreed, and began a tortuous one-year endeavor to go to Palestine.
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"Where is the West Bank?" asked an Israeli embassy officer. "In Palestine," I replied. Wrong answer. "This is not the Palestinian embassy," I was told.
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It wasn't an easy process. Getting the necessary authorizations from the Egyptian authorities, the mukhabarat (secret police) and amn adawlah (national security police), was nerve wrecking. My application had to reach them through Egyptian public servants, the infamous muwazzafs. We have a saying here in Egypt that summarizes all that the muwazzaf represents: come back tomorrow. And I came back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after… for a full year. Amn adawlah were very nice, contrary to the reputation they have here in Egypt. They treated me well when I visited them to explain why I was planning on going to Palestine, and gave me some advice on the best border crossing to use. Mukhabarat are forever secret. I never met them. They either approve or reject the application and it's done.
At the Israeli Embassy in Cairo: Close Encounters
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| Al-Haram Al Sharif at Jerusalem (Photo by Nadia El-Awady) |
I had always wondered what it would be like going to the Israeli embassy in Egypt. My first encounter was a complete disaster.
Standing alone in front of a closed metal door on the 17th floor of the building where the embassy is located, I pressed the button on the intercom. A bright light flashed on and off for about five minutes and a camera was watching my every move. If this was a ploy to irritate me, it worked.
Finally, someone on the other side of the intercom asked me who I was, my nationality, and where I was going. When I said I was going to the West Bank, I obviously made a terrible mistake. "Where is the West Bank?" asked the man on the other side. "In Palestine," I replied matter-of-factly. Wrong answer. "This is not the Palestinian embassy," I was told. He repeated his question and I repeated the answer a few more times. Fed up, the man came out to talk with me in person. Same question, same answer. I was about to cry, but refused to. My final answer was, "I am going to the West Bank, which is a little piece of land in what I believe to be Palestine." The man, an Israeli security officer, told me, "If you are here to play around, you can leave." My reply: "If you will treat me this way and not let me in, then I will leave!" He gestured with his hands to leave, and I did.
I was heartbroken. Could my dream possibly end like this?
Eventually, I sent a fax to the Israeli embassy telling the Israeli consul about the treatment I received and explaining that this was no way to treat an Egyptian journalist. I never received a reply. But I went back a couple of weeks later and no attempt was made to lure me into saying the West Bank of Palestine was in Israel. From then on, and on every visit I made to the embassy, I was treated well by the embassy employees. I finally had the Israeli visa on my special Egyptian passport issued to me for this particular trip. If I had used my normal passport, other Arab countries would not allow me to visit them with an Israeli visa stamped in it.
On the Border
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This is just like anywhere else in the world I've been, I told myself. Nothing at all to worry about.
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On June 7, 2006, I was sitting in Cairo airport waiting for the plane that would take me to Sharm El-Sheikh on the southern tip of Sinai. I would then take a taxi to the Taba border crossing into Israel.
In my diary, while waiting for the airplane, I wrote:
"I'm terrified. Mortified. I'm finally sitting in Cairo airport waiting for my plane to Sharm. I’m thinking: what if something goes wrong after I've finally reached this final stage? What if I don't find a car to take me from Sharm to Taba? What if I get to Taba but the border crossing is closed for some unknown reason? What if the Israeli soldiers decide they just don't want me to pass through? I've seen so many obstacles in this trip that I just have to expect more."
I did find a taxi to take me to Taba. The Taba border crossing was open. But whether the Israeli border patrol would let me through was up for grabs.
As I left the Egyptian side of the border crossing and approached the Israeli side, a group of four Israelis who had just ended a trip to Egypt were speaking with a female Israeli border guard. She smiled graciously, quickly looked at their passports, and allowed them through. I was relieved. They are normal people. This is just like anywhere else in the world I've been, I told myself. Nothing at all to worry about.
I was wrong.
I walked up to the border guard and showed her my passport, expecting a similar smile (naïve of me, I know) and the gate to open.
It didn't happen.
She looked at me suspiciously and told me to wait. She spoke with someone on her walkie talkie. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by four other border guards. They took my luggage from me, and threw my mobile telephone on top of my luggage and told me to sit down on a bench while they all hovered over me talking to each other in Hebrew.
| We sat watching as Israelis and Americans passed through the border crossing with no trouble at all. |
I was then interrogated for the first of about four times. The questions were always the same, and always quite unexpected. They all revolved around numbers, and I never remember numbers. When is your wedding anniversary? When did you give birth to your first child? How old is she? When did you give birth to your third child? How old is he?
I'm a terrible mother. I don't ever remember the exact dates. Not because I don't care. I love my children. I just can't remember numbers! So I'd answer their questions slowly. My wedding date is inscribed on the inside of my wedding ring. So I'd look at that and answer the first question. I know my first daughter was born exactly one year later. So there was another answer. My third child was… let's see… how many years younger? I'd calculate that and figure out what year he was born. I think they realized I was just a foolish woman and allowed me into the actual border crossing building.
Then came the body search. It was conducted in a closed room by a female guard. I had to take off my hijab so she could check my hair. The metal detector she used over my clothes bleeped when it passed over my bra. Dang those metal underwires! Luckily, she was fine with just putting her hands through the top of my dress and checking to make sure there was nothing else in there.
The bag check was even more meticulous. The suitcases were completely emptied. Everything was searched. They were all sent through a huge X-ray machine. The bags were wiped with filter paper treated with a special chemical substance that detects nitrates. If the bags were ever in contact with explosives, they would know.
Dr. Mukhles Sowwan, a Palestinian professor of nanotechnology in Al-Quds University in Jerusalem, was waiting for me on the other side of the border crossing. A good friend, he had promised to pick me up and drive me to Jerusalem rather than leave me alone for my first time in Israel. The border guards found him waiting outside and brought him in. He too was interrogated separately.
And then we waited… and waited… and waited.
We sat watching while Israelis and Americans passed through the border crossing with no trouble at all. No body searches. No contents emptied from bags. Waiting with us were a Colombian woman of Palestinian origin and her Italian friend. She also received the full treatment.
At 1 a.m., 13 hours after I first set foot in the border crossing, I was interrogated for the last time. A high ranking Israeli security officer came, asked me and Dr. Sowwan some questions separately, took notes, apologized for the long wait, and told us we were free to go.
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