Day 15: Rigid Borders by Malak Yonis
At a border station between a kingdom and a nation.
Summer 2013
Name: Malak E Yonis
Legal Status: U.S. Citizen
Reason for visit: Tourism
Family in Israel: No
Visa Status: Approved
When you cross into the holy land through the Jordan River, who you are is defined by your visa: A1/A2/A3/B1/B2/B3. Other options include Denied. Rejected. Palestinian Not Allowed is also an option. If you’re Palestinian and intend to travel to Jerusalem, you’ll have to wish upon 1000 stars (or 50 stars and 13 stripes) or otherwise surrender to the confines of the West Bank and its various security checkpoints and non-autonomous territories. That summer, I was traveling into the Occupied Territories for what ended up being 3 days. It was my first time, and I knew I couldn’t pass up the chance to visit Al-Aqsa mosque. The only visa that would allow me to travel between the different security areas and into Jerusalem unscathed was the one given to American visitors upon arrival.
Days before arriving at the border, my family prepared my sister and me for the experience. My mother shared anecdotes. Entry can take hours or even a full day, but we were reassured that we should get through quickly. 5 hours. 11 hours. 4 hours. A tourist visa was practically guaranteed, but how long it would take was dependent on how Palestinian we looked, seemed, or passed for. Citizens from non-friendly countries would need to apply for a visa at the Israeli embassy, a much longer and harrowing process. I was thirteen, so my mother’s instructions were simple: follow your sister's lead and avoid unnecessary eye contact. “If they are not addressing you, do not address them. And do not give them a reason to address you.” The journey starts to feel like a daunting one. “They will try to intimidate you and make it an experience you will not want to repeat.”
Still, nobody thought to prepare a teenager to be surrounded by rifles in uniform. Stepping into the bright facility, I remember feeling abnormally cold. My sister and I headed toward the first security checkpoint. I counted off ten pairs of military grade boots. Through each part of the security process, the boots continued to multiply. My sister was led into an interrogation room while I waited outside with a male soldier. I tried to do what my mother advised the prior night.
I stood alone while my sister was being questioned. I combed through two different scenarios:
They’d find fault in my sister's responses, and we’d be denied entry. Being denied entry once increases the chances of future rejections.
They’d sense my fear and interrogate me next. What if they asked me a question I didn’t know the answer to? Denied. Rejected. Erased.
The negative ruminations of a teenager standing beside the foot soldier of a genocidal enterprise. Eventually, my sister returned, and we continued to the next checkpoint, 1 km away, and handed over our American passports to a soldier behind a glass window. My sister began to answer the soldier’s questions: Reason for visit? Tourism. Where? Jerusalem. For how long? A few days, not sure yet. Any family in Israel? No. Is Ein Karem in Israel?
A cheer breaks out from a crowd in the corner. My eyes focused on the mountain of people; some were clapping, and others were crying. I watched the people hug an elderly man and woman, and I tried to understand why they departed the facility while the rest remained. Men and women of all ages were seated against the wall, with their knees close to their chests. Each person looked sleep-deprived. How long have they been waiting?
My sister handed me my passport with a smile. B2/Visitor’s visa. American. As we walked toward a bench to recuperate, I asked my sister about the people huddled in the corner. She explained the same as my mom did, that some people were waiting to enter. The process for us, from the moment we walked into the facility to approval of entry, took an hour. I expected a much longer wait. Then my eyes landed on a child, a teenager, like me, using his backpack as a pillow. If he was asleep, he must have been here for hours; who knew how much longer he had to wait.
There it was–the realization: to the soldiers, that swarm of people were Palestinian. I was not.
***
A moment of temporal contemplation in the suburbs of the United States.
Name: Malak E Yonis
Legal Status: I was born here
Nationality: Arnold-Palmer
Ethnicity: Pending
I grew up in the heart of a culture of pride and courage. The “American” city, Paterson, New Jersey. This vibrant “American” city is decorated by the influx of displaced Palestinians and second and third-generation Palestinian Americans. Little Palestine. In middle school, I learned American history alongside first-generation children of immigrants, played alongside the relatives of martyrs, and attended festivals and parades that celebrated resistance and survival.
Walking down Main Street, now named Palestine Way, I was always greeted by the warmth of the people and the rich tapestry of flavors and aromas that enveloped the city. The community’s desire to preserve Palestinian traditions was reflected in the smell of the sesame-coated Jerusalem delicacy, ka’ak al-Quds from Baladna Bakery, and the delicate, rich hummus and falafel from Al-Basha. The city was and continues to radiate with Palestinian life.
A people recreating landmarks and teaching life from muscle memory.
For twenty years, displacement was a foreign concept to me. I was a participant and observer of this culture. Fully immersed in its rhythms, the culture thrived around me, and I understood what it meant to be Palestinian from the places that nurtured the traditions and the falahi language spoken by the people. When I left Little Palestine behind and moved into suburban America, being Palestinian became a challenge. In the suburbs, it was politics. At the Allenby Bridge, I was American. On the Census: Race: White. No box to check.
My father built a qalah (fortress) around my identity, without meaning to. He taught me how and when to bring forth the different parts of my identity. In Paterson, with my friends and teachers, I was a “Palestinian.” For individuals outside the city threshold - doctors, bank tellers, mail carriers - who were inclined to think that I wasn’t entirely American, I was “Jordanian.” Among the remaining public in the U.S., I was “American.” Three different identities that conflicted in between discussions of land theft and violent ethno-religious supremacy. I had to know when and where each was welcome. I became a natural observer of others, attentive to speech patterns and paying close attention to surnames. My father programmed me to protect the feelings of Zionists and the identity of Israelis for my safety. I am unwaveringly anti-Zionist, not anti-semitic. As I navigated mainstream spaces, I neglected more and more of a crucial part of my ancestry. Eventually, 10 years later, to my professors, academic cohort, and passersby, I was just born here—embracing my indigeneity to Palestine was distressing. Here is easier than 1948. 1967. 2014. October 7.
The one constant has been ismi al rubaie; my inherited family name, which consists of four names that identify me. A custom deeply rooted in Arab culture and proof of my indigeneity to Ein Karem. My name, my father’s name, my grandfather’s name, and my family name:
Malak Emad Mohammed Ishmael Yonis.
A seed on the family trees in Ein Karem, Palestine.
Its descendants displaced and replotted in Al-Hashmi, Jordan.
Chasing the American dream in the United States.
Yonis– A family tree of three generations
And I am its lingering shade–
Malak Emad Mohammed Ishmael Yonis.