Soccer-ball diplomacy
Mediators come in many forms in the Middle East, from wizened sheikhs to Westerners in suits.
Mine was roly-poly and full of hot air: It was a soccer ball. I got it while on assignment for this publication in Qatar, little knowing the Middle Eastern adventure I was purchasing.
It started when, in my ignorance, I shunned the deflated soccer balls at a sports kiosk, opting for the hardest one I could find for my little Palestinian friend.
Zain is No. 1 in his class, and perpetually sports a faded Spider-Man sweat shirt and a toothy grin. Of all the afternoons I鈥檇 spent in his village outside Bethlehem, picking up fragments of Arabic amid the fig and olive trees, the closest thing I鈥檇 seen to a toy were clothespins that he clipped on his cheeks to make goofy faces.
So when I spotted the ball, I resolved to find a way to bring it to Zain. I still had another leg of my reporting trip to complete in Egypt. With layovers, that meant four more flights 鈥� and security checks 鈥� before I touched down in Tel Aviv.
Since my bags were already bulging, I strapped the ball onto my backpack.
However, according to the Asian woman screening passengers in Doha, the airline would not allow me to leave Qatar with such a 鈥渄angerous鈥� object.
I sweat my way back to the ticket counter. The temperature was pushing 100 degrees F., and I鈥檇 been out reporting since 6:30 that morning. I showed them the ball. 鈥淲ell, ma鈥檃m, I鈥檓 not sure you鈥檒l get it past security, but it鈥檚 fine with us if you do.鈥�
Armed with that meager assurance and a little chutzpah, I marched past the passenger screener. Off to the side, I managed to shove the ball into my bag after all. But that was of little consolation since I hadn鈥檛 even gotten through passport control yet 鈥� nor would I anytime soon, I realized.聽
A man who couldn鈥檛 have been older than 30 bypassed the line with four young women (covered head to toe except for their eyes) and a bevy of children. Are those all his wives? I wondered, temporarily forgetting my quandary as he handed over a Big Mac-sized stack of passports.
Once I finally got my exit stamp and put my bags on the X-ray conveyor belt, I was delighted to see that it was apparently unmanned.聽
I was still rejoicing in my good fortune when I heard a grave voice ask, 鈥淲here is your football, ma鈥檃m?鈥� Two security folks glared at me from the far end of the belt where they were manning the screening monitor.聽
I obediently pulled out Zain鈥檚 ball. It absolutely was not allowed, they said. 鈥淲hat if we deflate it?鈥� I asked. One was about to oblige when her boss yelled from across the hall: 鈥淣o, no, no!鈥�
Just as I was about to surrender the ball, she said, 鈥淵ou know what? Just put it in your bag 鈥� quick! And get out of here!鈥�
I didn鈥檛 stop until I found a bathroom, where I furtively repacked.
We had crossed another hurdle, Zain鈥檚 ball and I, but I knew there would be a hungry conveyor belt awaiting my contraband when I arrived in Jordan for my connecting flight.
This time, the man at the end of the security checkpoint did not look the least bit like someone who would cave in to the pleas I鈥檇 been rehearsing. With his stiff mustache and stiffer posture, he had but one answer: That is going in the trash. He pointed to his latest casualty atop the bin 鈥� a beautiful bright soccer ball. 鈥淚t is not allowed,鈥� he intoned.
鈥�Bas ana ma ba鈥檃rif!鈥� I exclaimed, pulling out a bit of Arabic, albeit in the wrong tense 鈥� 鈥淏ut I don鈥檛 know!鈥�
Never mind that I did know 鈥� now, after three close calls. I explained that it was for my young Palestinian friend back home. His stern face suddenly lit up.
鈥�Inti btehki arabi?鈥� he asked. 鈥淵ou speak Arabic?鈥�
Well, not much, but if that signaled a welcome compassion for and solidarity with his people, I wasn鈥檛 about to contradict him.
鈥淛ust a minute,鈥� he told me.聽
Five minutes later, his colleague arrived with a pin. Mr. Mustache forced the air out of Zain鈥檚 gift until it was the most wonderful crumpled lump of a soccer ball I鈥檇 ever seen.
He proudly handed it to me across the conveyor belt.
鈥淲elcome to Jordan!鈥� he proclaimed, beaming.
A week later, my husband and I turned down the lane toward Zain鈥檚 house with the reinflated ball in the back seat.
We spotted Zain playing with a friend in the middle of the road. When he saw our car he suddenly spun around and sprinted to his house.
As we pulled in, there he was, panting and expectant, the perfect ending to an unexpected adventure.
The author is the Monitor鈥檚 bureau chief in Jerusalem.
