When I got home, I raced against time to pack and get to Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. I was exhausted, and dreaded the usual three hours of questioning and interrogation by Israeli airport security.<\/p>\n
Shalom, meh eyfo ata?
\nHello, where are you from?<\/p>\n
In a Hebrew accent, while gargling the R in Yerushalayim, I said,<\/p>\n
Ani meh Yerushalayim. She continued,<\/p>\n Where exactly do you come from?<\/p>\n If I answered with \u201cEast Jerusalem,\u201d it would be assumed I was an Arab. And if I answered with \u201cWest Jerusalem,\u201d they would suspect\u00a0I was Jewish. I replied,<\/p>\n Antonia Street, She checked my passport, but my place of origin was still not clear to her. She asked me for my father\u2019s name,<\/p>\n Emile. She was hesitant to ask if I was an Arab or Palestinian Arab. To speed things up, I told her I came from Jerusalem. The Arab one. All I wanted was to board the plane and close my eyes.<\/p>\n What is your occupation? I showed her my press card.<\/p>\n Where were you before you arrived at the airport?<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t tell her I had just been kidnapped in Gaza. She would consider it a security threat and definitely not allow me to board the plane.<\/p>\n In Jerusalem. <\/em><\/p>\n And why are you going to Switzerland? Why are you traveling alone? Why is your name Steve?<\/p>\n The questions were endless, and the first security guard was replaced by a second, and the second by a third, until the chief of security was called. I kept repeating the same narrative. Again and again. I had to be consistent and not make any mistakes.<\/p>\n Listen to me. This is my story. No matter how long you interrogate me, it will not change. Either you let me go home to Jerusalem, or you let me board the flight to Switzerland. Let\u2019s get this over with. <\/em><\/p>\n They gave in, allowed me to board after a conspicuous bag check and a full body search, escorted me to the plane like a VIP, and finally left me. I found my seat, sat down, and leaned back to close my eyes for the first time in two days. But every time I heard the click of a seatbelt, I woke up startled\u2014it sounded like the cocking of the kidnappers\u2019 guns.<\/p>\n I opened my restless eyes and spotted a man watching me. He was black, and I imagined for a moment that he was the man the kidnappers released that morning. When he noticed that I spotted him, he unbuckled his seatbelt, walked over, and sat down on the aisle seat next to me. He spread open a newspaper and pointed to a photograph,<\/p>\n Is this you?<\/p>\n It showed a woman and me with guns and masks all around us. The bold title read, \u201cUN Workers Freed in Gaza.\u201d I fell into my seat and said,<\/p>\n Sometimes, the answer is right there in front of you!<\/em><\/p>\n Up in the air, I traveled to the time I went skydiving in Haifa. On the tarmac, the plane looked like it hadn\u2019t flown since the 1967 War. After takeoff, the engine roared as if it could fail any second, wildly shaking as it reached the sky. When the time had come, I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned out of the open door against the rushing wind. With little thought, I did it. I let go. I was flying in the air. I felt light, less burdened by what was happening below. I felt identity-less, free from all the labels and classifications, free from racism and discrimination. Free from the Israeli Occupation I was born into.<\/p>\n But I didn\u2019t open the parachute. I was in a tandem jump, attached to an Israeli. Over the years, I have come to see this situation in the air as a metaphor for what it means to be a Palestinian born under Israeli Occupation. Life under Occupation is like the reality of a Palestinian attached to an Israeli in a tandem jump. There is an Israeli on the back of every Palestinian, controlling all aspects of life\u2014the Israeli is always in control. This impossible reality places the Palestinian under constant threat, in a never-ending hostage situation.<\/p>\n On the ground, I struggled with paralyzing depression that sank to new lows year after year. But I knew my journey would have to be one of self-interrogation and liberation. With the speed of the fall, I felt Francesca\u2019s presence. Over the years, we had built our own world, rooted only in our imagination.<\/p>\n * * *<\/b><\/p>\n Let me take you back to 1996, when I sat alone in the back corner of Abu Shanab, a bustling hangout in the Old City of Jerusalem. I\u00a0was only twenty. The First Intifada had ended three years earlier, but I was still tormented by severe episodes of depression, like aftershocks following an earthquake. Suddenly, my eyes caught sight of a face shining ethereally under a table lamp. Her bright face, blue eyes, and delicate lips, as though painted by a master, were shadowed by her long black hair. She was a sign from the universe. And I knew that my mission was to be with her.<\/p>\n Captured, I watched her, drowning in my own silence, mesmerized by never-fading beauty. And when the man next to her left, I snuck out and entered again. I sat down next to her and straight opened a box, pulling out black-and-white photographs I had just exposed in the darkroom. I leafed through them to capture her attention. She leaned over to look at the images. Her perfume was magnetic. I inhaled deeply, and its breeze of dewberries became locked in me forever. This dewberry never set me free. And when she looked into what I was searching for, my first words to her were,<\/p>\n A moment of truth.<\/em><\/p>\n To my surprise, she didn\u2019t turn away. She asked me what I meant, and I continued,<\/p>\n I\u2019m tired of playing games. Why can\u2019t people drop their masks?<\/em><\/p>\n We talked, and the heavy conversation turned into a light one, where nothing mattered. Francesca was different. She didn\u2019t confront me with the origin of my name, ask whether I had changed it, or try to figure out my real name at birth. Those questions irritated me. They usually transpired within seconds of a first encounter, but when I asked people to name three typical Palestinian names, most realized the inanity of their questions.<\/p>\n The more I observed Francesca, the more I was falling in love with her. But how could I give her my phone number without coming on too strong? I hid my anxiety and left it for the universe to play its part. I said,<\/p>\n Here\u2019s my phone number. Francesca never called.<\/p>\n Two weeks later, I was standing in front of Caf\u00e9 Rimon, waiting for a Spanish girl who had just immigrated to Israel. It was our first date. I couldn\u2019t help but wonder what the point was. I didn\u2019t speak Spanish; she didn\u2019t speak English and hadn\u2019t yet learned Hebrew. Perhaps I preferred to date girls who couldn\u2019t ask me where I came from, about my name or religion. Such were my thoughts as I hid from the rain under an awning when I saw Francesca hurry by under an umbrella.<\/p>\n I called out to her,<\/p>\n Francesca!<\/em><\/p>\n Hey! I\u2019m just waiting for a friend.<\/em><\/p>\n How are you feeling?<\/p>\n I guess I\u2019m on the wrong train, heading in the wrong direction. Give me your hand. Let\u2019s jump onto another train.<\/p>\n I grabbed her hand, and we jumped. Over the years, I was drunk on the dewberry perfume my lips had wiped off her body. I was afflicted by a most beautiful curse. This curse still inflames my imagination. I called her Bombina with an O! She looked like Snow White, hiding in time. Once, a five-year-old-boy found her, and he couldn\u2019t wait to tell his mother that he had spotted Snow White.<\/p>\n Francesca was born in Switzerland. Three days before she came to Jerusalem to live with me, I flew to Bern to surprise her on her last day of work. I set up my tripod at her bus stop with a red rose. She walked down the dark street, saw it, and sat down on the empty bench on the other side of the bus shelter from where I was hiding. After a few tense minutes, the bus arrived, and just as she stepped in, I grabbed her hand from behind, pulling her close to me, and whispered,<\/p>\n Tonight you\u2019re not going home alone!<\/em><\/p>\n Francesca didn\u2019t stop laughing. On the bus, I gave her a black-and white photograph I had created a few years earlier. Two hands and arms extend parallel to each other towards the sky, mirroring a plant stretching towards the light. Plant and arm merge and fade into each other. An accidental double exposure created by improperly rolling the film caused the effect. Over time, I learned that what happens by mistake bears meaning. With one arm around her, I read the words I had written under the image:<\/p>\n This is the World I am Looking for Francesca wore a silver ring compelling anyone who caught sight of it to remark on its exceptional presence. It was set with dark Bordeaux stone that stood out from the finger like a round Queen\u2019s signet ring. When I slipped it on my finger, I felt connected\u2014it was a cosmic match. Francesca instantly said,<\/p>\n We will wear the same ring. I will find another one for you.<\/p>\n She had found hers at Grass, a jewelry store on Ben Yehuda Street. We walked in, and I asked the shopkeeper if she had another one by any chance. She barely glanced at the ring before saying \u201cno\u201d in harsh, accented Hebrew. I was taken aback by her attitude. Two months later, we checked again. She remembered us. While Francesca showed her the ring again, I said,<\/p>\n Shalom. Did the goldsmith, by any chance, make another ring?<\/em><\/p>\n With a brusque attitude, she replied,<\/p>\n Amarti lecha sheh lo. En li. It was infuriating, but we went back once more. This time, I interrupted her before she uttered a word,<\/p>\n Listen to me. Every time I come here, you say no. But do you know what bothers me? You have never really looked for it. Please look in the drawers. You have nothing to lose.<\/em><\/p>\n She murmured a few words in Hebrew, started looking, and opened various drawers. Shortly after, her head emerged from behind the messy counter. Shining between her fingers was Francesca\u2019s ring. I knew I was the one meant to wear it. But what I didn\u2019t know then was that over the years, many forces would seek to separate us.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n An extract from The Parachute Paradox<\/em>, 2016 Kerber Verlag.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" When I got home, I raced against time to pack and get to Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. I was exhausted, and dreaded the usual three hours of questioning and interrogation by Israeli airport security. Shalom, meh eyfo ata? Hello, where are you from? In a Hebrew accent, while gargling the R in Yerushalayim, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":15875,"template":"","categories":[12,41],"class_list":["post-17500","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-non-fiction","category-texthelden"],"yoast_head":"\n
\n<\/em>I come from Jerusalem. <\/em><\/p>\n
\nThe Old City. <\/em><\/p>\n
\n<\/em>Your mother\u2019s?
\nEsp\u00e9rance.
\n<\/em>Your grandfather\u2019s?
\nAntone.
\n<\/em>What is the origin of the name Sabella?
\nSicilian.
\n<\/em>
\nDo you celebrate Hanukkah?
\nWhy not.
\n<\/em>
\nDo you celebrate Christmas?
\nSure.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nArtist.
\n<\/em>I also work as a photographer for the UN. <\/em><\/p>\n
\nTo have a holiday with my wife and daughter.
\n<\/em>My wife is Swiss.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nWhy do you work for the UN?
\nHave you traveled to Gaza with the UN?
\nWhy do you live in Jerusalem?
\nWhy don\u2019t you live in Switzerland?
\nWhen did your family settle in Jerusalem?<\/p>\n
\n<\/em>It\u2019s my age seven years from now, followed by the unlucky number, and the year I was born.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nWhat are you doing here?<\/p>\n
\n<\/em>I\u2019m stuck. Trapped.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n<\/em>A World of Love, Peace, and Serenity
\n<\/em>This is How I Want to Live and
\n<\/em>This is How I Love You<\/em><\/p>\n
\nI told you before that I don\u2019t have it. No.<\/p>\n