The Persian Abyss: An Iranian in Tel Aviv

The plane has landed at Ben Gurion Airport and I am trying to prepare myself for what is to come. I am going to be interrogated for several hours. I know this for a fact and I try to think of the questions they will ask and the answers I will give.

The very first question, however, surprises me: "Are you Jewish?" I thought they would be more subtle about it. No, I answer, and I'm guided to the 'non-Jew' line. The officer takes a look at my passport, and asks me to wait. After a few minutes, he comes back and asks for my Iranian passport. How do they know I have an Iranian passport on me?

I figure there is no point in denying it. I hand him the passport, on which it clearly states: "The holder of this passport is not entitled to travel to occupied Palestine."

Half an hour later, I am taken to a room and two interrogators start speaking to me in Arabic. I explain to them that, despite seven years of Arabic education in the Islamic Republic, I cannot hold a conversation in that language. They are not convinced and another half an hour passes by before they call me back to the room.

There are different interrogators now, but they, too, speak Arabic. I tell them that I refuse to be interrogated in a language I do not fully understand. They relent and start speaking in English. I explain to them why I have come: to see the country, take pictures, meet friends, make friends. Of course, I do not tell them that I also plan to visit the Wall and the Palestinian Territories. The word "Palestine" does not even come out of my mouth. For the next three hours, I am interrogated several times, always the same set of questions, but with different interrogators.

Exhausted from the trip, which has lasted 30 hours so far, I lay down on the airport floor and start dozing off. Soon after, four Danish Muslims enter the waiting area. They are on their way to a funeral in Nablus. I ask them if the Israelis are responsible for the death of their friend. They do not give me a straight answer. I get the impression that my question is irrelevant. If a young Palestinian male has mysteriously died in the West Bank then, of course, Israel is to blame. They ask me if I want to pray with them. I shake my head in disbelief.

I am trying to process the surreal scene of a Friday prayer unfolding in the middle of Ben Gurion Airport, as I am called back in to the interrogation room.

I am greatly relieved that I have been given permission to enter Israel. They agree not to stamp my passport. In this situation, they are supposed to give me a piece of paper stating that my entry into the country has been registered and authorized, something equivalent to a tourist visa. They forget to give me the paper and, in my euphoric state, I forget to ask them for it. Thus, I end up in Israel with no proof, whatsoever, that I have entered the country legally.

Walking around the streets of Tel Aviv, I am struck by the Western nature of life: modern cars, recycling cages for water bottles, clean air, tanned people, juice stands, palm trees, girls in bikinis. There are no signs of war, religious extremism, or any other characteristics this part of the world is known for. The cafés are bustling with people drinking, singing, and having a good time. Can Israel be such a normal country?

I see a group of twenty soldiers boarding a bus, probably on their way to their military posts. They are all teenagers. Cigarettes are hanging from their lips. They have tired and wary looks and I am certain they prefer to remain on the beach. Young female soldiers get on the bus with the males. I am surprised because military service in Iran is reserved for the male population. This is, arguably, the only break that Iranian females have gotten from the male-dominated society.

The mental image I have of the Israeli army is that of soldiers dressed in head-to-toe anti-riot gear, shooting indiscriminately at Palestinian protesters, while the F-16s fly above dropping bombs. The conscripts I see on the street don't quite fit this image.

I find my way to a residential neighborhood with lots of trees and plenty of shade. The scenery reminds me of quiet alleys in Northern Teheran. At least the way Teheran used to be. Nowadays, there are no more quiet corners in Teheran. I hear people speaking Farsi in a convenient store. I go in and start talking to the owner. He is an Iranian man in his forties. He was born in Isfahan and lived there until the mid-1980s, when he was able to obtain a passport and leave for Israel.

He asks about Iran, and I try to fill him in. It's difficult to know where to begin. So much has changed since the 80s. He complains that Israel is a socialist country and that it is impossible to make money here with all the taxes and regulations. Then comes the question that he has been waiting to ask me the whole time: "so, are you, hmmmm....." No I'm not a member of the tribe. 

Wandering on a busy street, I study the people passing by, trying to identify an "Israeli feature," a distinguishing characteristic. I look at people's faces, the way they walk, the way they hold themselves, the color of their skin, the color of their eyes.

I wonder if anybody notices me - a man from the enemy country in the heart of their city. Are Israelis used to seeing a lot of foreigners or do they not care? I am deep in my thoughts when a car comes to a screeching halt in front of me. The driver sticks his head out and starts yelling at me in Hebrew. I stare at him, bewildered and fascinated by the fact that I have been mistaken for a local.