*Disturbing* Harassment and interrogation at Ben Gurion airport

I wasn't sure whether I should make this into a blog or a forum post, mainly because I haven't differentiated between the two entirely but also because blogs seem a little bit more personal. I use them for things that affect me or have affected me in some way or another and I use forums for news related items. 

Before you proceed if you are a little child, then perhaps you shouldn't read this. Come back here when you grow up and mature a little and understand that the most cruelest of things do happen. They are real. They're usually unheard of until someone brave speaks up and speaks of their stories.

Here is the story of Anonymous. It may seem like a long read but I urge you to continue. It's disgusting, inhumane, initimidating, humiliating and every other horrible word that exists in your dictionary.

It is a minor example of the racial profiling that Palestinians with Israeli passports or Jerusalem ID cards go through on a regular basis when walking down the street or applying for a job. 

Anonymous is 21 years old and lives in Berkeley, California. Her father is a Jordanian Palestinian and her mother is a British Jew. The following trip took place in September, 2013.

I took a deep breath and looked around at my surroundings. I mostly kept tabs on the other people who I had been in line with. While most went through the baggage scan machine and straight to their ticket desks, the other members with yellow stickers on their luggage like myself had all been cleared after a 10-15 minute bag check with only one or two of their bags being searched. I was the only person left at the checking tables. The thin bald man in the suit came over once again.

“What do you have in your pockets?” he asked me. “My passport, my visa, and my phone” I told him.

“Fine” he said, “she will escort you to security.” He pointed to the young blonde.

I reached for my bags. “No no. They stay here. You go with her.”

“Who will watch my bags?” I asked him. “They will be here. Go with her.”

The blonde woman and I walked through the airport.

“How old are you?” she asked me. “21” I said, “and you?”

“23” she said.

We stopped before a big white door. She swiped her id card and typed in a code. The door unlocked, to which I entered a white room with a baggage x-ray machine and a white table that looked like a dental chair. Curtains hung in the near right corner. She pointed to that corner with a foam chair and metal legs.

“Sit there” she said. I sat.

A young man appeared, he was in a plaid shirt, jeans and a pair of white Adidas. Undercover police for sure. He lurked on the other side of the curtain that the young blonde partially drew. “Stand with your arms at your sides” she gesticulated. 

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