A Palestinian-American writer flies to Israel on her way to visit her sister. Despite having an American passport, she doesn’t make it far:
An hour later, the bearded young man who had originally questioned me at the immigration hall became my guard. When I tried to go to the bathroom, he said I was not allowed. This made me nervous. I had been allowed to go before. I told him so. ‘Well, it’s different now,’ he said.
‘Different how?’ I asked. ‘Am I under detention?’
He would not answer me. I told him that I was an American citizen and that I demanded to know whether or not I was under detention. He closed his eyes, then opened them, and said, reluctantly, ‘Yes.’
I lost it. I demanded to see someone from the embassy or the consulate. He ignored me. I said that he needed to take me to the bathroom. He said no. I lifted up my dress and pretended to squat, and shouted, ‘Fine, then I will go to the bathroom right here!’