My Father's Name by Hasmig

The plane landed smoothly on the runway in Tel Aviv. I lean over Leib to get my first glance of Israel--flat and beige and desert like. "Leib, we're in Israel." Feels very surreal. We gather our belongings and push our way into the line of people exiting the plane. We were seated several rows ahead of the others so we stand aside and wait for everyone to gather. Rebecca is the last one off and we huddle the kids to remind them of the rules at security. Say you're on a tour. Craig and Rebecca will go ahead of everyone and explain the group's objective which, presumably, will make it easier for kids to get in. As planned, I will go last. My passport has three words that will undoubtedly raise flags for the Israelis: United Arab Emirates. The name alone is intimidating. The last thing this particular government wants are United Arabs. We've instructed the kids ahead of time not to worry and that any detainment would be temporary. In line, Ben asks me, "Are you nervous, Shmig?" "Not at all, Ben." And I wasn't. I wasn't 100% convinced that I'd be pulled aside, and if I were, it wouldn't be the first time. Ever since 911 I have been flagged coming in and out of the country and right after 911, I was constantly flagged when trying to travel from one state to the next.

My identity, in some ways, has been formed around the notion of being flagged an "Arab". I grew up calling myself Armenian, and still do. But two things really crystallized my Arab identity as well. One was my visit to Lebanon in 1997. I hadn't been since I was three years old, thus didn't remember a thing from my brief childhood in Lebanon. Everything felt familiar: the people, the food, the music, the smells. Everything. Growing up, I thought everything was the way it was in my home because we were Armenian and while that was true, I think we absorbed many more Arab traditions than was ever named for us specifically. When I left there, I really felt my Middle Eastern identity in a visceral way. I regret not speaking Arabic. It was always on the tip of my tongue. My heart and mind wanted to speak it. My mouth could not push out the words. It's a beautiful language. They have over ten words for "love".

The second solidification of my Arab identity came after 9/11 when the American government now considered me an Arab. And not only the American government, but that guy in a sundry store in Zion Canyon National Park. I was never held for long, strip searched, nor violated in any specific way. I was always given all of my rights as an American citizen and did not face an ounce of real discrimination, compared to Arab-Americans all over the US and abroad. But there is something about belonging to a group, even peripherally, who is being targeted, makes you want to move in closer and feel more connected to them. When we are not facing real hardship for identifying with that member group, it's much easier to claim it and take pride in it as a way of standing out to yourself and, if we're being honest, to others. So yes, I have identified as an Arab for a long time. And when someone asks, "I say I am Armenian from the Middle East". And someone did ask.

The line is inching forward as student after student gets through the security check. Later we hear stories of what the kids were asked. Mainly they re-tell being asked if they were Jewish, who they were with, and what they were going to see. Ben's story makes me laugh out loud.

"I'm here to climb that big mountain"

"There are a lot of mountains in Israel, sir. Which one?"

"I don't know", he pleads ignorantly, "You know, the big one. The biggest one." and he gestures with his hand. He is playing dumb of course, but to the Israeli security forces, he is playing right into a common stereotype of Americans. He gets his stamp and moves on.

I am last in line as planned. I walk over to the window and I see Rebecca, who has already been granted entry. She is waiting for me.

"Passport."

"You are the leader of this group, yes?"

"Yes, I am."

"Are you Jewish?"

"No I'm not"

"Why are you leading this group of Jewish students if you are not Jewish?"

"I am their teacher."

"What is this name you have. Min-ACE-EEN"

"Minassian. It's Armenian."

"It says here you are born in Arabie Saudie?"

"No, I was born in the United Arab Emirates."

"What is your father's name?"

"Vartan Minassian"

"What is your grandfather's name?"

"Which grandfather? My father's father?"

"Yes"

"Levon Minassian"

"Spell that."

"L-e-v-o-n"

She presses a button under her desk.

"Stand aside. Neeext. "

I look over at Rebecca and give her a look I'm sure she recognizes. She gestures to me that she'll wait for me outside. I smile and say okay. A burly woman in uniform strolls up to the booth and takes my passport from the booth security. She grunts for me to follow her and points to a row of chairs behind a cloudy partition. I assume I am to sit there, but have no idea for how long. I am in the room with two men. One of them is reading a book and looks very comfortable. The other is playing on his smart phone. Neither is paying attention to the very close basketball game that's blaring on the TV in front of us. There are two vending machines which are frequented only by employees of the airport. I lean back in my chair, eyes droopy with sleeplessness, and stare up at the floors above me. All around there are small cameras looking down on me. I imagine I am in an observation room and they are holding me there to see how nervous I seem before questioning, if I shuffle in and out of my bag, or make a phone call. I am completely still, almost catatonic.

Sitting there, I am reminded of another airport detention with distinct memory. It's April 1997 and I am at Beirut International Airport, on my way back to Paris from a week visiting my grandparents and aunts and uncles in Lebanon. I have checked in and am seated in the waiting area with all the other passengers. Suddenly, an announcement comes over the PA, in French, asking Hasmig Minassian to come to the nearest desk. I walk over to the counter, thinking I had left a belonging behind. I give the woman my name and she tells me to 'hold on' in Arabic. She makes a phone call, calls an airport security officer over, and says something to him in Arabic. "Come with me." he says. I look at my watch. It is 10 minutes before we are supposed to board the plane. We walk through these tall, windowless, heavy oak doors into a room where another woman waits. "Sit over there" he says, and leaves. I am sitting nervously on a plush, red couch staring at a life size painting of a man I don't recognize. A woman comes out into the room and offers me some coffee. "No thank you." I say politely, "If you don't mind," I continue, "What am I doing here?". She smiles. "One moment, please." After about 10 minutes, she comes back and this time, a bit more urgently, I say "I am supposed to be boarding my plane. Can you please tell me why I am here?" "Come with me." she beckons. We step into another room and there is a man behind a desk. He tells me to have a seat and welcomes me. "You have an uncle, yes?" he asks. "Yes, I have many uncles." "Well, your uncle who works for Rafik Hariri (the prime minister at the time) has called us and wants you to have a special goodbye, so you will stay here for some coffee and then we will take you to your plane, yes?" "Sure", I say. So I drink the coffee to calm my jitters and sure enough, 20 minutes later I am on a tram with the woman from the lobby (who I later found out was a British diplomat of some import) and we are shuttled to the plane where everyone is already seated and waiting for our arrival.

Back in the waiting area at Ben Gurion airport, I chuckle to myself. Somehow, I don't think my uncle works here, nor will they be offering me any coffee. Worried that my chuckle has just been dutifully noted, I straighten up in my chair and yawn to feign my boredom. The man reading the book is called in and I check my watch. This could be a while. I think about the kids now safely on the Israeli side. While I know they were prepared for this, I imagine they are a little nervous about the abrupt departure. I am comforted that they are with the calming presence of Craig and the expertise of Rebecca and the confidence of Janet, already waiting on the other side. While I am certain I will stay, I consider for a brief moment all that it took to get to this waiting room and muse at the irony of being sent home.

Twenty minutes later, a tall, nicely dressed man comes into the lobby. He looks at me and, I presume, attempts to say my name. He gestures for me to follow him and we walk into a small office with a desk and dim lighting. It is attached to a larger office with a few bored looking secretaries. The first pen he tries to use doesn't work. He curses under his breath and walks to the other room to get a new pen.

"Say your name for me"

"Hasmig Minassian"

"Why are you here in Israel?"

"I am leading a group of students from California"

"You are their leader?"

"Yes, I am one of them. The other two are with them now. "

"From where are you coming?"

"California."

"What do you do in America?"

"I am a teacher."

"What do you teach?"

"History"

"What kind of History"

"American, World, Government. All kinds"

"What is your father's name?"

"Vartan. V-a-r-t-a-n"

"What is your mother's name?"

"Sylva. S-y-l-v-a"

"Are you Arab?"

"No."

"Why are you born in the Arab Emirates?"

"My father had work there when my mother was pregnant. She had three small children so they decided to stay together so he could be with her when I was born."

"What work did your father do?"

"He was an engineer. A building contractor."

"Where is he now, your father? What is he doing?"

"He's dead."

"What will you do in Israel?"

"We're touring the old city, climbing Masada, going to Yad Vashem, etc."

"Are you going into the Palestinian Authorities?"

"The what?"

"The Territories. The Palestinian Territories. Gaza, Ramallah..."

"No."

"Are you Muslim?"

"No."

"From where is your family? Where are your parents from?"

"Originally?"

"Yes. Originally."

"Our origins are from Armenia."

"Ok." (he takes out the stamp). Welcome to Israel."

So with that, I grabbed my things and walked over the imaginary line into Israel. I was relieved to not have been asked questions I wouldn't have been able to answer to their liking. Questions like "Where were your parents born?" or "Have you every visited any Arab countries?". In conversations later with Janet and Rebecca, we agreed it was probably my being Armenian that saved me further questioning. This was somewhat confirmed today before walking through the Zion gate of the Old City, right into the heart of the Armenian Quarter in Jerusalem. "The Armenians, they are more or less left alone, thought to be neutral. They get along with everyone." That was our guide's response when I asked him whose side they were on. In the case of my experience at the airport, apparently on the right side.

History has odd twists and turns. If this were 1915, I would have proudly stated my father's name and my mother's name to an Ottoman Turkish gendarme before he promptly beheaded me for my Armenian origin. Today I say my father's name and mother's name to escape suspicion and persecution.

My adventure, not surprisingly, has an afterword. I walked up to the baggage carousel in a slow haze, a bit perplexed by my experience with Israeli security. A quick look around told me the group had gathered their belongings and made their way through customs. I was glad no one had lost luggage and that they were on their way, certain they would be waiting for me on the other side.

"We'll wait two hours and then take a vote," Craig had joked at the last meeting when mapping the plan for my imminent detainment. It had only been an hour and a half. I was still safe. I looked for the Delta carousel but by then, the screens had all changed to new airlines. I walked over to Delta's lost and found and asked which carousel was for Delta. "It's Carousel 6, but nothing is left."

"I was detained for questioning so I didn't get my bag. Is there any place else it would be?"

"No it would be right here. But sometimes bags get lost. Here, fill out this form. It'll arrive on tomorrow's flight, we'll deliver it to you."

She reached over to pull out a form and from behind her, I saw a familiar bag. Not my missing suitcase, rather it was my camera bag. Instantly, I flashed to the airplane. Of course!! I had put my camera above my seat. In our haste to get off the 12 hour flight, we completely forgot the camera was there.

"And that over there, that's mine." Without missing a beat, the woman handed me my camera bag and the form. I filled out the paperwork, this time having flashbacks to Hawaii last summer when Alana and I both had our bags lost in the 25 minute flight between Honolulu and Kauai. I was ready for lost luggage, so wasn't worried about not getting my things. I had plenty with me. Most importantly, I had my freedom. A few pairs of lost white tees were replaceable. As an added bonus, they gave me 180 shekels for one day of lost personals. I joked, "What if it's not found tomorrow, do I get another 180 shekels?". As if my question were a serious one, he said "No, tomorrow you get 200." My sarcasm, as always, lost like luggage.

So I sauntered out. Camera bag, backpack, 180 shekels, and my freedom. There was a large crowd waiting on the other side of the sliding doors but no one looked familiar. I looked around for 5 minutes and decided to stand perfectly still, knowing someone would be looking for me, eventually. From a distance I see Janet and hear her calling my name. "Oh good, you're here. Where's Rebecca?"

"Rebecca? I don't know. I thought she went with the group."

"No, she was in there waiting for you. I'll call off the search party."

Janet talks to Naya (who I have yet to meet) and Rebecca, who arrives breathless from behind the same sliding doors I had just walked through.

"How'd you get around me? I was sitting there waiting for you, talking with the guys about why they are detaining you!"

I'm not sure how I missed her. Apparently she was trying to convince the security that they can't legally detain an American who doesn't speak Hebrew, that she should at least be able to be with me, and that she wouldn't leave until they released me. I felt loved and ashamed at the same time. Naya, a former participant with SCG and one of the trip leaders was on this side of the sliding glass doors, trying to get someone to respond to her pleas for my freedom.

"Sorry I missed you. I was filling out paperwork at Delta for my lost luggage."

"Your luggage isn't lost! We picked it up off the belt for you. Leib took it."

I laughed at myself and immediately discovered my fortune. If they hadn't taken my bag for me, and I had found it on the carousel, I would never have gone to Lost and Found and found my camera bag. In fact, if I hadn't been detained, I would have never remembered the camera bag. So in the end, for the sake of finding lost possessions, the detention and my time with the Delta Lost and Found crew, was worth it.

"Where are the kids? How are the kids?"

"They are all on the bus, waiting for you."

We walked out of the airport, me and my three guardians. Through a row of buses I saw some familiar faces peering relieved out of slightly tinted windows. As I boarded the bus, I was greeted by clapping and cheers and the happy, sleep deprived faces of my lovely flock. Now this is what I call a welcome to Israel.