Getting in

From the window of the airplane, I saw the placid waters of the Mediteranean sweeping onto sandy beaches. This was the ancient land of Israel. Below me was Tel Aviv--a compact and tidy looking city, whose buildings all wore a creamy white colour. A lively freeway snaked around a stand of modern office buildings. The land around the city was as flat as a dinner table, and nourished by the winter rains the fields had turned a rich, vibrant green, like the outside of a watermelon.

From above, this peaceful scene belied the fact that for thousands of years this little sliver of land with few natural resources had been conquered and reconquered and conquered again. The pattern repeating itself through the Centuries.

I walked to the customs hall prepared to be greeted by a steely-eyed young soldier, with aviator sun glasses and an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. Instead, sitting behind the plexi-glass partition was an attractive young woman, with long, curly dark hair. She wore fashionable glasses, and guessed her to be in her 20s.

“Shalom, or good day,” I said to her.

“What is the purpose of your trip,” she asked, officiously.

“For a holiday”

“Where are you going? Where are you staying? Who are you travelling with?”

The inside of my mouth went dry as she peppered me with questions.

I told her I was going to Nazareth. And when she asked what I was going to do then. I told her I was going to walk to Bethlehem, and spend Easter weekend in Jerusalem.

“Are you travelling by yourself?”

I told her I was meeting a friend from Canada in a couple of hour’s time.

The questions kept coming. “Who are the people that arranged this trip? How do you know them? Have you met them before? Have you been to Israel before? Are the people that arranged this, a travel group?

I anticipated such questions, but still wondered about the consequence of my answers. I purposely didn’t make any reference to Palestine, and left such books, as Rene Backman’s A Wall in Palestine, for fear my bags would be searched provoking an unfavourable reaction.

Then she flipped through my passport examining the pages of stamps. For some reason she stopped at the page containing the Macedonian and Indonesian visas. She consulted her colleague beside her. Then another woman entered the booth and started asking me the same questions.

Hoping they would take pity on me, I told them I had been planning this trip for more than a year. Then they asked me if my visit to Jerusalem on Easter weekend was for Christian or Jewish. I tell them Christian. Isn’t that what Easter is all about, I think to myself. Maybe they just assumed, but I’m relieved they didn’t ask me if I was a Christian. It might have complicated things.

I had been there for only about 10 minutes, but it felt much longer. Then she stamped my passport and told me to enjoy the trip.

Walking into the arrivals area reminded me of the opening scene from the movie, Love Actually, where mothers and fathers, and grandparents, and friends, and lovers were waiting to greet their loved ones. A grandfather was holding two large balloons. One was in the shape of a motorcycle and the other a horse. I watched him for quite some time, wondering when the balloons would no longer be his, but in the hands of a child. I saw two lovers reunited, sharing a long embrace. And a mother and father who ran and hugged their son tightly. It was lovely to watch, and I noticed others being moved by this wonderful human experience.

After a couple of hours my friend came through, and I asked him how the questioning was. It was very quick, he said. He told her he was going to Nazareth, and then said to her, “can you believe it, I’m going to walk to Bethlehem.” She said people do that and asked if it was part of a tour. And that was it.

To witness the scene at the airport was to see a people seemingly at ease with itself and its surroundings. Surprising to the visitor was the lack of an armed presence. There were no soldiers strutting around with guns, as one might expect. In fact, except for some direct questions about my visit, there was nothing intimidating about the airport. And so we hopped aboard a train and headed north to Nazareth.