The saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same” came to mind while waiting for a flight to Tel Aviv recently. Seeing a woman with a young child, I realized that despite advances in airline security, my unease remains. This unease reminded me of a trip fifteen years ago and a missed opportunity.
I was traveling with my daughter, Karen, and her three children to the United States for a family visit. While I have always felt more secure when flying El Al, this time, the price difference led us to choose Alitalia. When leaving Israel, all airlines are subject to the scrutiny of Ben Gurion Airport security. I am calm.
Flying home on a foreign airline is another story. The Alitalia terminal was second to last at this international airport. The last one is El Al. Always at the end, just in case. We saw six tough-looking security officers standing outside the El Al doors, no doubt gathering for an expected El Al flight. Oh, how we wanted to be on that secure flight.
While we impatiently waited for the men in front of us to be checked in, a Muslim woman with a little boy got in line behind us. My daughter and I gave each other a look that said: “Do you see that? And there was no security when we came in.”
I interact with Arabs daily in Israel, from work colleagues to salesgirls in the malls. This, however, was an airplane, and I was concerned. Maybe this mother was unwittingly carrying a bomb. It’s happened before. I wasn’t happy with the thoughts, but there they were.
Like many modern Arabs, this woman was wearing pants, but her hair was completely covered with a hijab, the traditional head scarf, which was wrapped around under her chin and tied at the back of her neck. Her son was sitting in a stroller, and she had two small carry-ons. Well, she is traveling with a child, so that should be okay—if she packed her own bags. But this was not El Al. This time, there was no one to ask any of us the questions security agents rely on to gauge reactions: “Did you pack your bags by yourself? Were they always in your possession? Did anyone give you anything to take...” Illogical thoughts? Maybe. I wasn’t happy with them, but there they were, uninvited.
My thoughts turned to our check-in problems. Our main concern was the baby’s stroller. The Alitalia supervisor assured us it would be waiting for us when we got off the plane in Rome. We had been promised the same thing on the flight from Israel to Rome, but we only received it when we landed in Chicago. That layover in Rome had been short, and we managed. Going home, however, the Rome layover was four hours. The stroller was a necessity.
Thoughts of terror attacks gave way to finding ways to entertain three kids. The flight to Rome was long, boring and uncomfortable, but we made it.
We stopped at the circular area where the jetway meets the plane’s door. The Alitalia customer relations lady was standing there.
“We need to get our stroller, please,” Karen said.
“You will get it at your final destination,” the woman replied, her tone dismissive.
“No, we need it now. We were told by Alitalia that it would be waiting here in Rome,” Karen insisted.
The representative shook her head. “Oh no. I can’t do that. If it has a tag on it, I can’t bring it to you due to security reasons.”
Before we could argue further, the Muslim woman with her son joined us. She turned to Karen. “Are you waiting for your stroller too? You’re going to Israel, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Karen responded, nodding, “but she won’t give it to us.”
“I can’t. The Policia will come,” the lady said, hoping to scare us.
“I need my stroller!” The woman’s voice was strong and determined. “I can’t wait four hours without it. I can’t carry these bags, and my son is too tired to walk.”
That’s when Muslim and Jew joined forces to fight Alitalia. The “I” became “We.”
“We need our strollers! We’re not leaving without them,” Karen and the woman said in unison.
The representative hesitated, glancing at the baggage claim ticket the Muslim woman held. “Maybe I can get hers, but not the other one.”
“That’s not good enough,” Karen said, her voice rising. “We need both!”
It could be the beginning of a joke: “A Muslim and a Jew were...” But we weren’t laughing. And we were not moving.
The plane was empty, the cleaning crew was moving in, and we just stood there with exhausted children. The representative sighed deeply and muttered something into her radio.
I glanced out the window at the luggage trolley below. “Look! The strollers are right there. Can’t you just bring them up to us?” I pleaded.
The representative hesitated again, then finally relented. She disappeared through the jetway door, and I held my breath. Moments later, a worker emerged, carrying both strollers up the stairs. Victory! The Muslims and Jews had defeated the Italians!
Children in strollers, we walked together, chatting and looking for signs to transit. She was on her way to visit her family in Israel. “Where does your family live?” I wanted to ask her. But I didn’t. I didn’t want our conversation to possibly turn political. I didn’t want to jeopardize our newfound sense of camaraderie.
It was a very long walk to the end of the terminal where they had bunched together all the flights to exotic destinations: Tunis, Morocco, Turkey, Algeria... We separated as there were no seats together. As boarding time approached, we all gathered up kids, carry-on bags and strollers and stood at the door leading outside to the buses (no jetway this time), waiting for our pre- boarding announcement. We continued from our earlier small talk.
“Where did you live in the States?” the Muslim lady asked me.
“California.”
“Oh, I want to go there so badly. My husband’s been twice.”
“I hope you get there someday. It is beautiful.”
Then, without warning or a prompt from me, she added: “My family lives in what some people call Palestine, but it’s really not.”
What is she saying? What does she mean by that? WE don’t call it “Palestine,” but for her to say it’s not?
“What city do they live in?” I asked instead of asking her what she meant by her statement.
“Jerusalem,” she said, not specifying East or West.
“Which part? I know Jerusalem well,” I should have asked. But I didn’t. Here she was opening up a dialog, and I froze. What a lost opportunity. I don’t know why I didn’t use the moment to share, to find out more about each other. Her four-year-old son had a very American name—Roger. He liked us and kept coming over to smile at us while we were waiting to board.
I was left with unanswered questions. Did she feel she was Jordanian? A Palestinian? No, she said she didn’t live in Palestine. Maybe she was an Israeli Arab from the time of Israel’s independence in 1948. She said she had left 10 years ago — around 2000, during the Second Intifada. Did she leave out of safety concerns? Had she met and married an American Muslim? Was she fed up with the political situation?
Now, I inspected her more carefully, wondering if she always wore the hijab head covering or if this was for her return to her family and Jerusalem. She did seem comfortable wearing it, though, never touching or adjusting it. As promised, strollers were waiting for us not far from the end of the jetway when we landed in Israel. Karen carried the baby, and we put the sleepwalking three-year-old in the stroller. I couldn’t wait to see how the kids and their father would reunite. Such an exciting moment.
We hired a porter for our eight pieces of luggage and headed toward the green “Nothing to Declare” lane. Almost there! Tal will be waiting. The doors opened, and I turned around to see where six-year-old Ofri was so I could see her joy when spotting her father. Instead, I saw little Roger about to fall off the piled-up luggage he was sitting on as his mother was trying to push the overloaded cart. I sprinted and grabbed his arm, pulling him to me before he fell. Then, I helped his mother balance the luggage.
“Are you okay? Do you need help?” I asked her.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.”
I left them and pushed my way into the arrivals hall, only to see that Ofri was already in her father’s arms. I had missed that moment of father and daughter. I also missed saying goodbye to Roger and his mother. They had disappeared in the crowd. I had wanted to say, “Enjoy your visit.” I had wanted to say, “Good luck with the stroller when you go back to Chicago!” But most of all, I had wanted to say, “What a great team we made!”
