I tried to enter: Israel denied me

There was something surreal and horrific about seeing teenagers in combat uniforms, carrying rifles nearly the length of their torsos while herding us into separated lines. They still clung to pockets of innocence despite the massive weapons in their hands: blonde hair extensions, colorful acrylic nails, plastic beaded bracelets and the remnants of baby fat still in their faces. I remember wondering if they could even pull the trigger of their weapons given the length of their nails.

This past summer, I planned to live in the West Bank to document the continuing violence and encroachment by illegal, militant Zionist settlers on Palestinians and their land. Palestinians are not allowed to fly directly into Israel without dual citizenship, and instead, cross by land. I decided to enter through the King Hussein Bridge. 

Throughout my academic studies at Middlebury, I have read hundreds of Palestinian accounts and statistics of the brutality faced at Israeli checkpoints. Friends and acquaintances that had previously gone through the border warned me of the intense security and scrutiny. Starting the hour drive north of Amman at seven in the morning, I had spent the car ride making a final assessment of my phone. I erased any Arabic text, web histories and screenshots, even deleting the Arabic music off my playlists. Anything tying me to the “wrong” political affiliations or Arabness was warned to be problematic.

After an hour through Jordanian security, buses shuttled us over the bridge to the Israeli side. There were security cameras everywhere, Israeli flags and signposts, and the baby-faced teenagers with rifles patrolling the compound. Non-Palestinian ID holders and Palestinian ID holders were immediately separated. The entryway for Palestinians was outside in the desert heat, with hundreds lined up. I was ushered inside the facility into a much shorter line that screened us again. Men and women were shoved up against one another, packed like sardines as children wailed and security dogs barked. After passing through another round of security, we were guided into a warehouse to individually speak with a border agent.

The wait in line felt endless. I overheard the interrogations of those in front of me, each one typically exceeding half an hour. At their discretion, the border agents pulled people aside for further questioning, with nearly all these individuals being people of color and many wearing visible Muslim attire. I nervously stepped forward as the couple before me was taken away for further interrogation. Her questions were rehearsed: why was I traveling to Israel, why was I staying for a month, where was my hotel reservation, what was I studying. She deemed my answers to be insufficient and took my passport. I was taken away for further questioning. Soon, another administrator approached. He asked me questions related to Middlebury’s involvement in the resurgence of pro-Palestinian activism, my political affiliation and my opinions on the state of Israel. I was given a generic form to fill out and then placed in a separate room by myself.

For hours, I sat in this small room with no windows: only a singular bright light and a camera watching my every move. Occasionally, different men would bang the door open, walking in and out but never speaking to me. Although it was mid-summer, the room was so cold that I began to shiver and my teeth began to chatter. Wearing three layers and a jacket, I would drift in and out of consciousness as periodic moments of silence were interrupted by the slamming of doors over and over again.

A third person came to interrogate me. This time, he looked through my phone, searching through my contacts, asking questions specifically related to my personal affiliations with Palestinians. He asked me why I knew Muslims and Arabs, if I was considering converting to Islam, if I had Jewish friends and why I watched Arab content creators on YouTube. In an attempt at intimidation, he yelled at me and accused me of lying, that there was no convincing him, and that he could “smell the lies.” When words were not enough, he grabbed my wrists and slapped me.

In their eyes, I was guilty of affiliation with Muslims and Arabs, and that was enough grounds for rejection of entry. 

Hours later, I was brought into another interrogation room where I was once again questioned. The administrator officially denied me entry and scanned my retinas and fingerprints. I sat with other rejectees, almost all visibly Muslim. We were not allowed to speak to one another, and we were mandated to sign forms acknowledging our rejection and their reasons for it. I was formally denied entry based on “suspicion of threatening the public and public order” and was sent back to Jordan. As I returned to Amman, the sun had already begun to set.

My experience was not unique, but it is a telling case of how Israel continues to protect its apartheid state that seeks to disenfranchise Palestinians, especially by preventing international witnesses from exposing these atrocities. Is this at all surprising? Are we not already aware of these practices? Since Oct. 7, 2023, Palestinians have forced us all to become witnesses, narrating their stories of genocide, the decade-long embargo of Gaza, continued occupation and ethnic cleansing. Hundreds of journalists in Gaza were killed and those remaining are targets of the Israeli Defense Forces, as their words and pictures of mutilated bodies amass into a damning account of genocidal colonial violence. 

As a result, their work has forced Western institutions to reckon with and allow critics to analyze the occupation of Palestine more radically. We, as an intellectual community within the liberal arts framework, have been a part of that effort. And yet, as scholars who are part of an intellectual community, the motivation to act is damningly low. 

This is not a case of depoliticization, nor a complete lack of empathy. The Israeli genocide of Palestinians has made the Western world reach a divide: turn a blind eye or accept the reality that the institutions that perpetuate this genocide cannot solve the Palestinian question. Since we cannot seem to accept that the liberal international order has failed Palestinians (and the oppressed Global South), we turn away from their plight and only condemn their resistance. This ignorance is meant to protect the illusion that imagines Americans as the global safeguarders of democracy and freedom. However, can we continue to rely on and expect the same states and their institutions that fuel these atrocities to be the mediators and peacemakers?

Bluntly speaking, as described by Palestinian writer Abdaljawad Omar, we are living in an era of moral stupidity — where the most intellectual and knowledgeable of society remain overwhelmingly aware. And yet, Palestine is the exception to the moral framework our intellectual institutions value. While I harshly condemn our collective inaction, Middlebury and many of its peer institutions have given me hope that change is possible. As Americans, we wield immense political power that determines the fate of geopolitical crises, and as Middlebury students we have always defied the abhorrent status quo. 

I remember the mobilization of students during Middlebury Students for Justice in Palestine’s Gaza Solidarity Encampment in the spring of 2024. We were inducted into a legacy of students that had fought against the College’s participation in other atrocities: the Vietnam War, South African apartheid, CIA and military recruitment, and the use of fossil fuels. From this encampment, we learned that 1.1% of our endowment’s roughly $1.6 billion is invested in 45 companies. These 45 companies, flagged under “Weapons and Military Equipment” by the Nobel Peace Prize-winning American Friends Service Committee, approximately amounts to $18 million.

Can we truly be a moral, intellectual community while investing in the same companies that demolish Palestinian homes and olive groves in the West Bank, and make weapons that continue to annihilate people in Gaza and South Lebanon?