On airport security, do we really want to be like Israel?

By Joel Dreyfuss

I hope we get over our romanticism about Israel's airport security protocols in a hurry. I flew out of Ben Gurion International Airport in 2005, and it was one of the most unpleasant experiences I ever had as a traveler. The fuss over airport security pat-downs in the United States has renewed attention to Israel's approach. The Jewish state, long accustomed to the theorist threat, has implemented a much-admired security protocol whose best advertisement is a lack of successful terrorist acts on planes arriving or leaving Israel.

Skeptics have already pointed out that Israel has just two airports and 50 flights a day, and that its thorough security process could never be scaled up for the hundreds of airports and thousands of daily flights in the United States. But for all its vaunted sophistication, Israel's approach boils down to a lot of profiling and political intrusion.

I went to Israel five years ago as editor-in-chief of Red Herring, a technology finance publication based in Silicon Valley, to participate in a venture capital conference. Like many first-time visitors, I couldn't help but notice the extent of security measures: metal detectors at restaurants and hotel entrances, the ubiquitous presence of armed guards, and the number of Israelis who bore arms. I got used to being asked at security checkpoints, "Are you carrying a weapon?" and watching Israelis pull out guns and check them at certain events like we hand over coats and umbrellas.

But it was my departure that put me in close proximity to the vaunted security system.



I knew I was in for an unpleasant time when the young security man looked at my U.S. passport, looked me up and down and asked, "What kind of name is Dreyfuss?" "Jewish," I told him, "one of the most famous Jewish names in the world." I was somewhat shocked that he didn't know. What were they teaching kids in Israel these days? But I kept those thoughts to myself.

"Are you Jewish?" he asked. I told him no, but that my grandfather had been. I didn't think it would be helpful to explain I was born into a racially-diverse family in Haiti and that I was Catholic. I had already noticed that the combination of my tan complexion and short mustache frequently drew suspicious looks during my stay, but I assumed my body language tagged me as a foreigner. On the flight back, when I raised the issue with a seatmate, she said, "Well, you look like you might be Arab."

Apparently, my security screener had the same impression. The next thing I knew, I was being directed to a very long line. Almost all the people on my line were Arabs or Africans. The much shorter, fast-moving line consisted mostly of white Americans and Europeans. Everyone on my queue was asked to open their luggage for inspection. When the security team got to me, they went through the books and magazines I had packed. A booklet from the Peres Center for Peace, which I had visited at the request of my publisher, seemed to raise alarm. The man searching my bag called a supervisor, who called his boss over. They asked me why I had visited the Peres center. "Because I'm a journalist," I replied. I must have said the magic word. "Journalist?" the boss repeated. Suddenly, my books were put back, my suitcase was snapped shut, and I was on my way home.

If Americans adopt Israel's approach to security, they should be prepared for racial and ethnic profiling, questions about their religious preferences, and careful examination of their reading material. Maybe full-body scans are a less intrusive after all. I suspect the real reason for the outrage over body scanners and pat-downs is that the majority of Americans are finally experiencing the kind of discomfiting scrutiny that has long been routine for those who are repeatedly profiled and humiliated. As long as it was someone else, it didn't matter.



Joel Dreyfuss is the managing editor of The Root