Deeply inspired, with a heart full of empathy and rage at almost two years of a colonial Holocaust, I returned to Palestine. My initial visit motivated me to pursue a deeper, more comprehensive connection with the historic Palestinian people who have been resisting 76 years of apartheid and genocide. 

I wanted to show solidarity with not only with my friends, but the entire population living under a medieval siege and occupation. The day came. My flight started in San Francisco and arrived in Amsterdam. Ironically, I stayed in The Hague, where the International Criminal Court (ICJ) determined Israel was committing a “‘plausible”’ genocide. 

After a short stay, I boarded my flight to Israel. What I was about to experience proved that everything I have heard of this nation regarding apartheid and genocide to be true.

The Cruel Waiting Game

I experienced a higher level of security at the Airport in Amsterdam. At the line to check in for my flight, I was met by Dutch police. 

Before I could check in for my flight, there was a screening process. They verified that I was going to Israel by checking my passport. Afterwards, I was escorted to a secondary screening process. I was met by more security personnel. They threw a series of never-ending questions at me. 

My answers, apparently, were never satisfactory. The agent dug deeper into my travel to Lebanon in the Fall of 2022 and my contacts there. I informed him that I knew two people whom I had met through Instagram. He seemed puzzled, unable to grasp the concept of making friends on social media.

At regular interludes, he left to confer with his superiors. This was the back-and-forth game we played. It was mind-numbing, as it was meant to be. The security official ordered me to report to the security room in an hour.

An hour passed. I arrived at security. Stripped of my belongings and then searched, I was completely at the mercy of the exclusive Jewish state’s henchmen.  

An Israeli security official asserted his dominance over me by taking me to a corner of the room to perform a thorough pat-down. My clothing was tested for bomb-making residue. 

Gathering my belongings, the Israeli security official informed me that an Arab American had stabbed multiple Israeli citizens in downtown Tel Aviv. I thought he was lying. 

Later, I read a news report of a Moroccan American, wielding a knife, stabbed four Israelis. Such random acts of violence are indicative of Israel’s desire to subjugate an entire region to their violent supremacy. The regime’s henchmen escorted me to my flight.

At 4:00 a.m. on January 22, I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport. I first visited Israel in 2022, but the circumstances were now different. This was Israel post-October 7. Some 15 months later, the historic slave uprising of October 7th remained lodged deep in every settler’s consciousness. 

The Zionist media apparatus had successfully convinced a high percentage of Israelis that this was no anti-colonial uprising, but rather an inexplicable terrorist attack, indistinguishable from “civilized” Europe’s pogroms and Naziism of the past. What would be in store for me with the heightened security state? 

Arriving at Israeli customs, I was met with stern, intimidating stares. Was I already suspected of having committed an egregious crime against the state of Israel? How many journalists and internationalists had endured similar mistreatment? The border agent noticed the Lebanese stamp on my passport, a grave sin in their eyes. He held onto my passport and told me to wait in the assigned waiting area.  

A few hours went by, indeed a waiting game was ensuing. In the midst of my boredom, a psychopathic, soul-sucking looking, security official—I’ll call him Mr. Hayawan—escorted me to his office for a formal interview. Looking at him, he resembled the prototypical villain from the movies, with bloodshot eyes and a face void of emotion. 

I could not quite put my finger on what moved this agent of masochism, but it was surely not sobriety or inner-peace. Here was the personification of sadism. He had the allure of the bubonic plague. I immediately noticed two pictures on the wall directly behind him: Netanyahu and the head of Shin Beit.  

These pictures that towered over him were ominous. He proceeded to ask heavily intrusive questions relating to my life, aiming to root out perceived security threats. How much information do they collect in this way?

As I spoke, I could feel a knot in my throat, swallowing before I could finish each sentence. My nerves were frayed. My mind was fried. And they knew this. Here they were before me—the professional sadists. They were trained in 76 years of human butchery. 

This security official demanded answers to his inquiries into my work and contacts in the region. I explained that I had a Palestinian friend, igniting his interest. He wanted to know every detail of our friendship as if we had formed a cabal to dismantle the Israeli government. Furthermore, he wanted to see our conversations on Instagram. He scrolled through our discussion, smirking at the fact that I knew some basic Arabic.  

During this time, he also looked through my stories and determined I was against the genocide, saying, “It looks like you have already picked a side.” I tried to play it off, but he appeared convinced. His attention now focused on my visit to Lebanon. He wanted to know why I would have journalist friends. I explained to him, simply, that it provides a better understanding of the intricate details of a country, from a historical and political perspective. 

Unsatisfied with my response, he took a glance at my contacts, looking for anyone from Syria, Lebanon, and Iran. He recorded every contact as if to link us to some grand conspiracy or an organized crime syndicate. Subsequently, he asked if I had a WhatsApp, which I denied, telling him, “It’s not very popular in America.” He chuckled hysterically, telling me to get out of his office. Again, I said, “It’s not!” he chuckled once again, repeating “Get out!” I followed his directive, leaving his office, continuing where I left off, waiting… 

Deported from the “Only Democracy in the Middle East”

Hours later, immigration officers brought me in for more questioning.They proceeded to take my fingerprints and photo and then broke the news to me: Israel was deporting me back to Amsterdam and banning me from ever entering Israel again. Not a single ounce of shock coursed through my body. I knew this was the inevitable conclusion, as I have heard many activists and journalists being dealt the same hand. I was given an official document informing me of their decision. At that moment, I realized they considered me a security threat.  

Again, I went to the designated waiting area, where I waited—time stretching and folding into itself. I was then escorted to an area of the airport where they performed more invasive searches. Here I was thoroughly searched. Onto the next phase, I was escorted to a room in the basement. There I was met by angry-looking men, sizing me up. 

As I went to sit down, one of the men came over to shackle my ankles. I sat there in disbelief as two others, awaiting deportation, sat unshackled. I was the only one. What significant threat did I pose over the other two? I asked why I was the only one shackled. They had zero interest in addressing my question. After waiting approximately four hours, the time came; I stood up and turned around to be uncuffed. Two men stood behind me, one uncuffed my ankles, the other was an intimidating enforcer. They had convinced themselves I might try to act erratically and escape their grip.  

Two men escorted me to my departure gate, it was a dreadfully long walk. The time came to board my flight.  After those needing special assistance boarded, I was given priority boarding privileges, the only perk I received during this entire ordeal. As we cruised at altitude, I briefly spoke to the passenger sitting next to me. He confirmed what I had been told earlier by the security official in Amsterdam.  

Indeed, there was an attack in downtown Tel Aviv by an American. After a brief four-hour flight we landed at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. A sigh of relief ensued; I was finally out of the Zionists’ reach. At the same time, I was shattered by the fact I wouldn’t be able to see my Palestinian friends again, especially an older woman who cared for me like her son when I had suddenly got COVID, during my first visit to Palestine. I was grief-struck. 

Over the proceeding days I reflected on my experience. The situation that had unfolded over the last 24-hours was a mere inconvenience, compared to over a year of genocide in Gaza televised before our eyes. The daily horror cannot be adequately articulated to fully express the pain and suffering inflicted on this native population. 

“Never Again” is right now, as the holocaust of our time was unfolding in Gaza. The descendants of the Nazi Holocaust were now inflicting their own brand of generational trauma on the population commonly referred to by the Israeli politicians as “human animals.” A sad state of affairs, compounded with absolute complicity by the U.S. and its partners in genocide.

Fortunately, an awakening of consciousness is happening around the globe, on campuses and in the streets. Students, working people, and others, are showing up in mass for the people of Gaza. Anti-Zionist Jews are showing us the best of their tradition, rooted in compassion for the immense suffering of others. Ultimately being denied entry into the apartheid State was an honor. I put their official decision in a frame next to my signed Amer Shomali poster, “Visit Palestine.”

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