February 6, 2002

No Visa for Me Today

[West Bank, Palestine] Today I spent the day trying to get the elusive one-year Israeli visa. My attempts were unsuccessful. I did get to see three different "Ministries of Interior" in Jerusalem though. I arrived at Jerusalem at 6:30am and left at 4:00pm, but without the visa. I first went to the Ministry of Interior marked on my Jerusalem map. But no one knew where the place was. The taxi drivers had no idea, but they dropped me off in the general area. I asked policemen and guards. I asked people walking the streets. No one knew of the building -- which was clearly marked on my map. Turns out that the map was a bit in error. I did eventually find the place, but it was not where I was supposed to go.

The gentleman guard there gave me the address where I was supposed to go for visa work. I asked him to write the address, so I could pass it to a taxi driver. This guy was nice, but I am always a bit skeptical when I cannot read the note that I am passing to my taxi driver. Sometimes I image it to say "take this guy around the city three times and then drop him off one block north." Anyway, since I didn't have other options, I found a taxi. With a properly written Hebrew address note in hand, the driver quickly found the second location.

There were about a dozen people waiting outside the building when I arrived. I asked the group if I was supposed to pick up a number. No. Just wait for the building to open. So I waited about fifteen seconds and the building opened. Bags were searched, metal detectors passed, just normal things for public areas. We entered a big room and people sat as close as they could get to a door in the far wall. I crowded in close too, actually having little idea what was the standard operating procedure. People filtered in over the course of the next hour. I knew I would have to play the waiting game, so I brought some entertainment with me -- my N.K.-provided Palm Pilot and a good novel about the London underground that I got for Christmas. I also brought a notepad in case a good (but brief) thought happened to pass my mind.

I opened the novel and began. Three minutes later, I put the novel down and opted for solataire on my Palm Pilot. I played half a game and quit. I was too anxious about the process. I couldn't concentrate on the game. Perhaps there was some impatience too. I waited for some great thoughts to pass through my head, but my notepad remained blank.

One thing I have learned about operations in foreign countries is that it's sometimes best to follow what everyone else is doing. Someone up front usually has an idea about what's going on. There was a big guy who was very attentive to the door knob. A click was heard behind the door and the big guy jumped. The entire room flooded toward the door. There was a crowd that formed in literally two seconds. If you hesitated, you completely lost your place. I heard someone gasp. The door-click caught me by surprise, so I lost about ten places in line. Fortunately I had agility and youth (compared with some) on my side, so I managed to sidestep a couple would be tacklers. It could have been worse. A few of the more savvy line busters were sort of loitering near the door pretending to read notices when they made their big move. Next time I'll know the routine.

We were allowed out of the room in small numbers. I just followed my small group. We orderly walked up the stairs to the third floor (how would anyone know this?) There we took a number and were directed to other rooms. I was number 716 in my room. I considered this very good. There were about fifty chairs and a row of cubicles in front. A big number board displaying 702 was above the cubicles. A tiny sign said to go to room 205 when your number was displayed. I sat down and opened my novel again.

But I could not read. I put the novel down. The big number board became my total focus. The world around me disappeared. It was just me and the numberboard. Number 702 blinked. What if they suddenly jump to number 716? If I didn't pay attention, I might lose my place in line here too. After a long pause number 703 blinked. After an equally long pause number 704 lit up. It didn't matter. My eyes were glued to the board. An hour later we were at 715. My eyes were tired. The anticipation was incredible. Beads of sweat lined my brow. My bag was clutched to my chest. I was totally prepared. I waited and waited. Every muscle ached from tension. 716! I jumped from my chair.

I had seen others disappear behind a wall when their number was displayed. So I walked behind the wall and saw a long hallway with about a dozen rooms on either side. So where was room 205? There was 206 and 208. 207 was nearby. 205 turned out to be down a narrow corridor, but I found it. A lady sat behind the desk and a gentleman sat in front of her. The gentleman was number 720. Did four people pass through there before I found the room?

When I sat, the lady collected all my forms. Everything was in order and I was given another number, 16. I returned to the room. This time a second number board was lit. It told us the current number and cubicle assignment. It was on number 3. I figured I could relax now. I knew it took quite a while to process each numbered person. I opened my novel. After reading a few pages I glanced at the number board. It was on number 17! What the heck is going on? Did I just miss my second interview? Then the board dropped to 6. Then up to 20. It appeared to be totally random.

So I put my book back and just stared at the number board again. I turned in my chair to look at the people behind me. Forty zombie-eyed visa seekers were staring at the board. No one moved. No one blinked. We were all entranced by the big board. I wondered if subliminal messages were being slipped between the numbers. I cannot say for sure, but I know that I sure have a craving for (robot-like voice) "Moshe's Deli on Jaffa Road."

After playing the random numbers game for an hour, my number was up. I strolled to the booth and sat, confident in knowing that a full one-year visa would soon be in my hands. But the lady looked at me and pushed all my forms back to me. "We will not process your forms. You live on Nablus Road." You must go to our Ministry Office in East Jerusalem. &#^#%@$!! (thought but not audible.) How the heck did I end up at the wrong place a second time? Turns out that going to the East Jerusalem office is a new policy. Thanks.

Here's where things start to get tricky. I asked the lady to write the address on a slip of paper, so I would have something to give to a taxi driver. She did, and I left. I made my way back down to the street and flagged down a taxi. I climbed in and showed the paper to the man. "OUT!" he angrily yelled. I caught a second taxi and showed him the paper through the window. He just drove off. Now I'm really wondering what that lady wrote on the paper. I thought that perhaps she had written an insult, to poke a little fun at me. A third driver stopped and read the note. He said, "I cannot drive to East Jerusalem." He drove off too. So I adopted a different strategy. I stopped a fourth taxi, and I climbed into the back. I explained what I was going to do. "I am going to hand you a piece of paper. It has an address on it. Do not be angry. I realize you will not take me there. TAKE ME AS CLOSE AS YOU CAN." "I do not know where this is -- then why do you want to go there? Arabs live there," he informed me. After a few phone calls to my boss for directions, the driver took me fairly close and I walked the rest of the way.

When I arrived, it was obvious that I was waaaaaay too late. I would not be processed today. There were about 200 Palestinians crowded around the turnstyle entrance to the ministry office. One guy looked at me. "What are you doing here?," he asked. "Are you Palestinian? You should be at the ministry on Jaffa road." I explained that I live in East Jerusalem and they sent me here. He let out a howl of laughter, "then you are damned!" That made me laugh too. So I headed for Moshe's Deli.