M
osab Hassan Yousef, the son
of a Hamas leader who spied
for Israel for a decade, was in
Australia a few months ago
on a speaking tour. I sat in the venue, a
hotel banquet room, imagining the waiters
were Mossad agents, ready to pull guns
from behind their aprons at any moment.
It brought to mind my own run-in
with the Israeli secret service, 21 years ago.
It began at Sydney Airport. The ABC was
sending eight unknowns around the globe
to shoot a series of short documentaries.
Our work would be screened each week on
a program calledRace Around The World.
A crew was filming our departure and, for
the cameras, I dropped gold coins into a
business-card machine at the airport and
printed a stack of smart-alec cards.
A month or so later I touched down
in Athens, an hour-long stopover on my
way from Lebanon to Israel. Yet again I
would have to flash my passport, and thismade me nervous. We’d been sent off
without the visas required for filming
a television show. Apparently that was
too complicated to organise. So I, like
the other “racers”, had to lie that I was
merely a tourist, despite the film gear
I was lugging.
I was surprised, but notthatsurprised,
when two men in suits blocked me as
I made my way through the terminal.
Oddly, since this was Athens, they weren’t
Greek – they were Israeli. They led me to a
poorly lit back room, and I launched into
my story about being a humble tourist and
certainly not a filmmaker.
It became clear they weren’t worried
about visas. Terrorism was on their
minds. There was a direct flight from
Lebanon to Israel so why, one of the
men asked, had I taken this wholly
unnecessary one-hour stopover in Athens?
Damn. A genius in the production
office had decided I might draw attentionto myself – and thus the absence of a
filming visa – if I flew into Israel directly
from one of its enemy nations. So she’d
added a stop in Athens.
And why, the besuited man continued,
was my flight to Israel the only first-class
flight in my worldwide tour? In another
genius move, my pal in the production
office had thought a first-class ticket would
also draw less attention. Only riffraff in
economy will be considered terrorism
suspects, she’d reasoned.
With millions flying to Israel each
year, I was impressed that they’d spotted
these details. They spooled through
the tape in my video camera. I’d been
staying in an apartment building in
Lebanon and had noticed tanks rolling
by below; for no particular reason,
I’d pointed the camera. But it suddenly
looked like surveillance. I just found
tanks interesting, I stammered.
They asked if I was Jewish. When
I said yes, they started asking questions
about Shabbat, Hanukkah and other
Jewish rituals. They were trying to trip me
up, expose me as an undercover gentile
who didn’t know what a dreidel was.
The men left the room, one wheeling
my luggage behind him.
Twenty minutes later, one of the
men returned. He was gripping the stack
of business cards I’d printed at Sydney
Airport. Ah, I’d forgotten about those.
He held one up, and even though the
lighting wasn’t great, I could read it
clearly: John Safran. International
Terrorist and Heroin Trafficker. My phone
number and address were printed below.
In my defence, this was before 9/11.
“This is humour?” the man asked, as
serious as can be. I squeaked yes, yes it was.
He left and returned five minutes
later with my luggage. With a face that
revealed nothing, he told me I could go.
I mumbled my thanks and headed
towards my gate. What had saved my arse?
My best guess was reverse psychology.
A person with a business card declaring
himself a terrorist was unlikely to be one.
I learnt an important lesson that day.
Sarcasm and inappropriate humour will
always serve you well. I went on to streak
naked through Jerusalem for my short
doco in Israel. TheRace Around The World
judges awarded it first place that week.●Nobody’s business
UNPACKINGPlease step this way, sir. A joke falls lat for
JOHN SAFRANon his way to the promised land.
Travel memoirILLUSTRATION LIZ ROWLAND/ILLUSTRATION ROOM160 GOURMET TRAVELLER