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Jeff & Jocelyn’s empty living room in Jerualem

Damascus Gate is the most stunning of the portals in and out of the Old City of Jerusalem. Along the golden walls, hawkers sell everything from Gazan strawberries and Arabic coffee to cell phones and Chinese tennis shoes. The marbled walk that forms Old City’s Eastern boundary has been worn smooth by the feet of a million pilgrims, a million merchants, a million worshipers.

Jocelyn and I passed through those gates dozens of times, because the road from Damascus Gate led straight to #3 Nablus Road, which we called home until December 13. Nablus Road stretches through the markets of East Jerusalem, past the bus station, past the luxurious American Colony hotel, through the flashpoint of the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood, past the Automatic Grocery and to our home just behind the Ambassador Hotel. We loved our home on Nablus Road; the domed ceilings, the coral-colored marble floors, the jasmine vine growing outside the bathroom window, the blue and green nursery we painted, the cement outside where we carved our initials, and even the bullet holes in the metal window shutters (relics of the 1948 war).

Like so many people, we were intoxicated by the mystical attraction of Jerusalem, and had big plans for raising our first born son there.

But it was not to be. Many of you have asked why we’ve left Jerusalem, so I’d like to give you a little background. On December 13, I was deported, and Jocelyn and I have been denied permission to return, even for a visit, event or to clear out our belongings. Now, had we been deported from Zimbabwe or Sudan or Iran, we would probably give a shrug – this is what we signed up for. And we are fundamentally at odds with the governments of those anti-democratic countries. But Israel? Isn’t Israel our friend? Don’t we shell out around $4 billion each year for that privilege? Surely, you say, we must have done something to merit this treatment – are we, perhaps (gasp), secret anti-Semites?? Terrorist sympathizers??

On December 13, I left for a day meeting in Amman, Jordan, which lies approximately 2 hours east of Jerusalem. When I arrived at the Allenby Bridge border crossing, I underwent the usual interrogation to which we are accustomed. I am generally supportive of this type of procedure, since I think it’s a minor inconvenience that, on balance, is worth the extra security it provides. So I happily cooperated. Then the interrogation turned into a marathon session with three different interrogators, two of whom could not have been older than 18 and had only a marginal grasp of English. No problem, I thought, patience will prevail.

Unfortunately, at around midnight, an officer appeared and told me that my request to enter Israel had been denied, and that I should try to enter through the airport in Tel Aviv instead. I was quickly dumped on the Jordanian border, in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, with nothing but a notebook, a blackberry, and a corduroy jacket.

Fortunately, I had the number for a taxi company in Amman, and returned there to stay at a colleague’s house. The next day, I flew from Amman, Jordan to Larnaca, Cyprus, to visit World Vision’s regional headquarters and pick up some supporting documents. The idea was to demonstrate to the Israelis that I in fact did work for a $2.5 billion dollar charity that has been working in Israel and Palestine for 35 years. That night, documents in hand, I flew to Ben Gurion airport. Even as I stepped off of the plane, I was confident that a simple mistake by a pre-pubescent border guard could be easily rectified.

As I arrived at the immigration counter, I was immediately escorted to a side room, then to a series of unmarked security centers. I explained again that I lived in Jerusalem and had just left for a day meeting.

But after 3 hours of interrogation, an officer approached from a back room and told me that my request to enter Israel had been denied. No explanation. No deliberation. I was taken to a detention center, placed in a filthy, stinking cell strewn with dirty toothbrushes, stained towels, and torn plastic mattresses. Now despite my less-than-illustrious past, that evening was the first time I have ever had the strange feeling of being held incommunicado. I was offered no opportunity to make a phone call, no lawyer, and my pen, notebook, and phone were seized. From the cell, I had no means of communication with my captors, and I did not receive any information about what was going to happen to me. I was detained with an individual who spoke no English and had obviously been incarcerated for some time.

At 8 am the next morning, an officer opened the door to my cell, put me in a patrol car, and took me to a Cyprus Airways flight. He instructed the flight attendant to return my passport to me only upon arrival in Cyprus. All in all, it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life.

Fortunately, Jocelyn was traveling in the US on business at the time. Of course, she was 7 months pregnant, and our doctor, all our medical records, and everything related to the anticipated arrival of our first son, not to mention all our worldly belongings, were still located in Jerusalem (they remain so to this day). Jocelyn joined me in Cyprus after we received word from our lawyer that she would likely be denied entry as well.

Over the next three months, the US embassy went haywire over our case. I have never benefitted from the diplomatic intervention of my country before, and it was impressive, if not successful. First, some lower level officials from the US Agency for International Development pressed, then the Mission Director intervened, and when that failed, the US Consul General himself intervened. The US State Department in DC pressed our case, as did the office of US Special Envoy George Mitchell. The United Nations Coordinator for Humanitarian Affairs lobbied for us, as did the Executive Chair of the humanitarian aid coalition in Jerusalem. A Jewish congresswoman who sits on one of the most important appropriations committee in the House of Representatives intervened, and a Senator on the Senate Armed Services Committee stepped in. We declined several media requests for interviews (imagine the visual of the beautiful pregnant woman unable to return to her home at Christmas) in order to give the Israelis a chance to back down gracefully. But none of these actions made a dent in the Israeli intransigence.

The Israeli Ministry of the Interior (yes, the same Ministry that had announced new settlements during the visit of our Vice President) has shifted its justification from one zany reason to another. First, the Ministry claimed I had overstayed my visa. When that turned out to be demonstrably false by the stamps in my passport, the Ministry stated that Jocelyn and I had intentions to settle in Israel permanently. When we (with the help of USAID and World Vision, our employer) demonstrated that our work required us to relocate every 3-5 years, the Ministry stated that Jocelyn and I had not been able to prove that we were married. When we had our original marriage certificate delivered by courier from Virginia, the Ministry made slanderous accusations that I had arrived at the border with a mistress (yes, really).

What was really at issue here? Was it the fact that we organize Palestinian and Israeli communities and people of faith to advocate for an end to the occupation and for peace and justice in the Middle East? Was it the fact that I had passport stamps from Gaza, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Lebanon, and the like? Was it the fact that our home in Jerusalem sits on some precious real estate that prevents the Israeli expansion of Jewish Jerusalem? Did the Israelis think we were missionaries there to convert the Jews?

We may never know. What we do know is that our case fits into a troubling pattern of eviction by Israel of those who do not fit the racist, exclusivist profile that favors only those to whom the land is supposedly “promised”. Journalists, humanitarian aid workers, church activists, East Jerusalemites, and Palestinians of all stripes are not welcome in the land the Israeli state unilaterally claims as its own. Of course, it would be insulting and reductionist to compare the minor inconvenience we have suffered to the exclusion of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians who have no right to return to their homes.

But our case does suggest a salient question: with friends like Israel, who needs enemies? For years, we’ve seen US pressure fall on deaf ears in Jerusalem. It is now time for the US to realistically assess the terms of our relationship with Israel, and demand the respect that we expect of any other nation with whom we share interests.

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