El Al staff initially greeted me in Hebrew, although we were in London. Bashfully, I asked to communicate in English, and the alarm was raised.
“What synagogue do you belong to? Can you speak or read any Hebrew? Do you have any family in Israel?”
Somewhere in the bowels of Heathrow Airport there’s an El Al-branded question-answer flow chart, and with each “No” I was travelling fast in the wrong direction.
“Where do you live?”
“Tooting, in South West London.” “Where?” D’Oh!
“What does your last name mean?”
“It’s German. I think it means ‘soft’,” I said, shuffling my feet and looking down at the floor.
“At this time of year, what do you celebrate? What is the Jewish Chronicle sending you to Israel for? Lucky you. But why did they send you, and not someone else?”
It went on and on, for about 30 minutes, punctuated by hushed consultations between staff members and much, much shaking of the head. Throw a nod or two my way, please, I thought.
Eventually I got the all-clear to proceed, but worse was to come.
As my fellow passengers boarded the plane unmolested, I was pulled into a side-room. Every nook and cranny of my bags were searched, my pockets turned out and all my possessions (and shoes) swabbed for explosives, without a word of apology or explanation. Later it was evident my suitcase had been pulled apart, too.
In the interim, I learned later, a JC colleague of mine had been contacted at home to verify my identity, completely through informal and unofficial channels – without my knowledge, of course. Very Stasi.
On my way out, I spotted El Al staff speaking to a man of Middle Eastern or South Asian appearance. God help him, the poor b*stard, I said to myself.
And on that topic, if there were any positives it was that I got a brief taste of what it would be like travel by air in a post-9/11 world had I not been born white.
But more than anything else, it just made me feel unwelcome in the Jewish State.
