Leaving Israel: A Tale of 7 Checkpoints

My last photo from inside Bethlehem. A Dutch documentary film crew was in front of me.

(Tel Aviv, Israel) 26 December 2008: Eight days had passed since the six-month Hamas/Israel truce agreement ended on December 19, 2008. Each day I traveled in Israel, more and more mortars were launched by Hamas from the Gaza Strip into southern Israel. I had seen many Israeli soldiers near the Western Wall in the Old City, Jerusalem during the start of Hanukkah. Legions of their army green bags were stacked in giant piles. M16-yeilding, smoking soldiers sitting on top of the piles, waiting for buses outside Zion Gate.

I sensed that something was going to happen in the near future between Israel and Gaza based on this large military gathering in Jerusalem, what I read in the press, and "word on the street"--informal conversations with Israelis, Palestinians, and "adventure travelers" at Petra Hostel who vacationed in conflict areas.

Little did I know that the current Israel-Gaza war would start exactly 19 hours after my plane left Israel.

(Edinburgh, Scotland) 7 January 2009: Now, after 2 weeks of being very ill from a stomach virus I got while traveling, I am finally feeling better again after seeking medical attention in the United Kingdom. I feel strong, young and confident again.

But I'm still not back to 100% yet. Perhaps it was unwise to stay in the cheapest hostel in Jerusalem. Perhaps it was unwise to eat whatever I was given, including street food, drink tap water, and not heed the traveler's credo of "boil it, cook it, peel it or leave it!" I've always had a strong stomach, and I managed to get by okay eating street food and drinking tap water in South America, so I thought it would be the same in Israel. Boy, was I wrong.

My 9-day journey throughout the land of Israel and West Bank felt like a year, not only because of the events I witnessed, people I met, places I visited in such the short time span, but it was also a very maturing and sobering experience witnessing first-hand the extremes of life in the Holy Land, and hearing people's stories, like those of Israeli soldiers who are now deployed in Gaza, the stories of the Palestinian family I lived with for three days, and the Palestinian woman who had her home destroyed in November, 2008. All of this, coupled with having a crippling stomach virus for the last couple weeks has kept me bedridden, and given me much time for reflection.

It's going to take me more than a couple weeks to process all of the experiences I've had and make sense out of them, so I'll just share some pictures from my final day in Israel and the 7 checkpoints I had to go through to leave Israel. I went through a total of 10 checkpoints/security checks to get from Bethlehem to Edinburgh, Scotland on December 26, 2008.

Here's an account of my exit from Israel.

Checkpoint 1: Leaving the Palestinian-controlled section of Bethlehem.

Though intimidating-looking with all of the concrete and fences and blast-proof windows, this was the easiest checkpoint: I just walked right through. Little did I know I would face intense security later that day.

Once I passed through this steel-fenced area that looks like something you'd run cattle through, the first security gate consisted of a young, 18-year-old-looking girl who was a Palestinian Authority soldier, sitting behind bullet-proof glass. She waved me and the other tourists right through the gate.

Christian tourists and Bethlehem residents waiting in the Israeli security checkpoint line to get back into Israel.

Checkpoint 2: Re-entering Israel from Bethlehem.

I was now on the other side of the Israeli security barrier around Bethlehem, but there was a long line with nearly 50 tourists in front of me waiting to get through. It was at a standstill. They must have been checking every item on every person and searching bags and asking questions. After about 15 minutes of standing unmoved in this line, many tour guides and bus drivers were upset and talking, gesticulating at the Israeli guards. After a while, a new line opened up, and we all rushed to go through that—Palestinians and foreigners, and the Israeli guard behind the blast-proof window waved us all through. No metal detectors, no questions, nothing, just a free pass through.

I was on a tight deadline to make my Lufthansa flight from Tel Aviv back to Edinburgh via Frankfurt, and waiting at this checkpoint cost me valuable time.

Checkpoint 3: Road checkpoint to enter Tel Aviv airport area.

The taxi I hailed whizzed away from Bethlehem, and soon we were passing through Jerusalem. In my semi-coherent, weakened state, I sat in the rear, sipping my 1.5 liter bottle of Sprite. I took in the scenery from the highway as we went by the golden Dome of the Rock, and then we were through Jerusalem and climbed up the hills on the other side.

Bethlehem is only 6 miles south of Jerusalem. Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv is only 31 miles from Jerusalem. I would find out later that the northeast-most point of Gaza is only 45 miles from Bethlehem and 48 miles from Jerusalem. So I was close, but in a land where restrictions on movement are notorious, I wanted to leave as early as I could because this was the only affordable flight that would take me back to the UK that day. Not being able to retain food or fluids for the last 5 days, and severely dehydrated despite constantly drinking Sprite, I wanted to see a doctor in the UK that evening.

Soaring up the mountains west of Jerusalem, I enjoyed the green hills. Coming from the desert, they seemed almost too green and artificial. The earth was sepia-toned and chalky from the fragments of limestone rock. Soon we descended and reached the level land again, and after driving for a while, we were approaching the Tel Aviv Airport.

The road checkpoint, placed several miles from the airport itself, looked similar to the ones you have entering California from Nevada that check to make sure you aren’t bringing in any produce from out of state.

The Israeli guard came over to my rolled-down window. He said “hello” as he looked at me and my backpack. I handed him my U.S. Passport, which he looked at for about 20 seconds, and then handed it back to me, without saying anything. He gave a hand signal, and the taxi driver drove me to the airport road. Several minutes later, I reached the actual airport.

Checkpoint 4: On the sidewalk in front of Ben Gurion Airport.

To get into the airport terminal, you have to first put your bag on a table, and open it for a guard to search it. The guard asks simple questions about where you came from, where you're going, and then you pass through a walk-through metal detector. After this, I was finally in the Tel Aviv-Yafo Airport.

A statue of Ben Gurion greets you as you enter the Tel Aviv Airport

Checkpoint 5: Questioning before reaching ticket counter, and first bag scanner.

Lufthansa and another German airline are the only airlines who have their ticketing desks on the Ground floor of Ben Gurion, three floors below where the rest of the airline departure desks are located.

The Arrivals Hall at Ben Gurion is nicely designed, keeping with classic Roman column architecture. I noticed many balloons on the ceiling.

Approaching the roped, maze-like pathway that leads to the ticket counter, I was approached by a group of four attractive females dressed like law clerks, wearing name badges. One with dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail signaled to her colleagues that she would take care of me. She asked me a litany of questions, rapid-fire in English with a mild Hebrew accent.

The first thing she said was that she had to ask questions to make sure that I did not have a bomb in my bag or someone else placed one in their and was planning to blow up the plane. She said this very matter-of-factly, like this was a completely normal way to start a conversation.

I said, of course I do not have a bomb in my bag, and I can open it right now to show you that it has just a bunch of dirty clothes and a sleeping bag.

She held out her hand, asking me to keep it closed and that she had more questions for me.

She asked me about the nature of my visit to Israel, where I stayed, where I came from just now, who took me to the airport, what airline I'm taking back, where I'm going to, and where's my ticket. I answered all of her questions, and told her that I'm taking Lufthansa, that’s why I’m standing in the Lufthansa line, and I don't have my ticket yet, and that's why I'm in line to get it. Many questions were circuitous and unnecessary. The questions continued for a while longer, asking me things like where I purchased my bottle of Sprite because it had Arabic writing on it, and several more questions about what I'm studying at the University of Edinburgh, how I'm getting to Scotland via Frankfurt, etc. It was like a cross examination in a trial--all this before I could get to the ticket counter.

She then took my passport, and walked away to another station. A few minutes later she returned and placed a small sticker with Hebrew characters on the back of my passport. She also handed me a similar sticker to put on my worn, blue North Face backpack. I then walked through the empty line, and gave my bag to the next guard who passed it through an enormous blast-proof scanner the size of a large van. The scanner was much bigger than any I've seen in the U.S., and it filled a good portion of the hall. My bag came out fine, and I proceeded to the ticket counter and talked with the Lufthansa ladies dressed in blue wearing funny yellow German scarves.

Checkpoint 6: Regular airport security check to enter the terminal. 

After getting my ticket, I then headed upstairs for the ordinary airport security point that everyone has to go through with a ticket. This one was unremarkable, and consisted of the universal airport security conveyor belt where you pass all your belongings through: remove shoes, belt, empty pockets, etc. and then walk through the doorway-like metal detector.

On the other side, they had me sit in a chair and came over with wands with little white cloth at the end, which reminded me of the material in a swiffer mop. They rubbed these wands on my shoes, on my passport, and inside and outside my backpack. They then took these sample cloths, which resembled Bounty fabric softener sheets you put in the dryer, over to this giant analyzing device, which looked like a 1960s-era IBM computer. After less than a minute, the results came up negative, and I was free to pass onto the next security checkpoint.
 
Checkpoint 7: Passport Control, and questions of my German Heritage

This final checkpoint in Israel was the most difficult. After going through 6 checkpoints, just to leave Israel—I was exhausted and at my sickest with the stomach virus.

I did not think it would be a problem leaving Israel because entering was quite easy for me. Passport control on my arrival only took a few minutes. On the flight I took from Manchester, England, to Tel Aviv nine days earlier, I was perhaps the only non-Jewish person on the flight. The passport control officer then, quickly scanned my American passport, looked at my UK student visa, and then stamped and handed the passport back to me.

However, exiting Israel was another story.

I stepped up to the glass at the Passport Control station, and handed my passport over. The woman looked Aryan, with blond hair and blue eyes and was wearing bronze-rimmed Armani glasses. After a couple minutes, she looked up and asked me in a thick Hebrew accent, “What is your father’s father’s name?” I did not understand what she initially said because of her accent, and kindly asked her to repeat. She repeated, and then I understood her, and immediately thought the question odd, but then thought it may have something to do with my German last name.

I told her my father and his father are both named Milton Werner.

She typed some things into her computer, perhaps doing a search against a Nazi archive. I had lived with a Jewish person who assisted a Nazi-hunting journalist in Argentina, so I knew a bit about Simon Wiesenthal and Nazi hunting, but I thought it was a bit ridiculous with me, a 24-year-old American kid whose great-great grandparents moved from Germany to the United States. I explained to the passport control officer that the Werner side of my family came from Germany to the U.S. in the late 1800s. My grandfather Milton Werner was a retired Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Army, and he fought for the United States against the Axis powers as a B-24 bomber pilot. He passed away in 2007.

After a couple minutes of running my passport through her computer, another female passport control officer came over from a nearby office, took my passport from the Aryan-looking woman and asked me to sit down on the bench in the rear of the passport control station. After a few minutes, a male African-Israeli security guard came out and asked me, “It’s Milton Werner, correct? The name of your grandfather?” Yes, Milton Werner, like my middle name, I responded. 

Not worried or afraid, I was just insulted that they would not trust my word, and think my grandfather a Nazi. But I thought it not the right place to argue or bring up how my grandfather went to China as a commissioned officer in the United States Army as a 2nd lieutenant and served with the Flying Tigers under General Claire Chennault as a B-24 bomber pilot. His 109 missions are chronicled in the book China Up and Down by John T. Foster, the history of his 308th Bomber group. 

After about 20 more minutes, the head passport control officer came out, handed me my passport, and told me I was free to go to my gate.

View from inside the airport terminal at Tel Aviv

Finally free, I only had 3 more security checks: 2 in my layover in Frankfurt, Germany: one getting off the plane in Frankfurt, one to get on the plane to Scotland, and passport control to get back into the United Kingdom. Those all went smoothly, and I was able to see a doctor in Scotland that night, which put me on the process to recovery.

Checkpoint #9 in Frankfurt, Germany on December 26, 2008, to catch my Lufthansa flight back to Edinburgh, Scotland.