PROLOGUE
(EXCERPT):
Darryl Moody’s eyes widened as he entered the
security control tower at Tel Aviv’s Ben-Gurion
Airport. The half-dozen young women and men working
there hardly noticed the small group of American
visitors who had stepped into their workspace.
Clad in T-shirts and jeans, the Israelis were
bantering softly while checking video monitors
and making notes. Cartoons hung from the bulletin
board. “This is not what I anticipated seeing,”
Moody thought to himself. He was in Israel for
the first time, for a conference on homeland security
and behind-the-scenes tours of sensitive sites.
Israel’s reputation for exacting security measures
led him to expect something else. “I had in my
mind, you know, high tech, people in military
uniforms, disciplined demeanor,” he told me. “What
I saw was so much more casual.” Still, he concluded,
their approach evidently worked for them.
It was mid-2005, and for nearly four years, Moody
had been working on security issues in the United
States. He was a vice president of BearingPoint,
a management firm hired by the federal government
after Sept. 11 to work on enhancing border protection,
immigration control, and other security-related
issues. His responsibilities included helping
to organize the newly established Transportation
Security Administration and to improve airport
security.
Moody knew that Israeli practices at Ben-Gurion
were considered “the gold standard for aviation
security,” as he put it. While touring the facility
he created a mental checklist of what he witnessed:
the long serpentine road from the front gate to
the terminal, massive space in the terminal, thick
floor-to ceiling windows of bombproof glass, camera
surveillance of cars being unloaded. Helpful as
these features might be, recreating them in American
airports would not be accepted, he believed. Too
difficult, too expensive.
True, some American airports were being renovated
to enhance security. Moody thought of Baltimore
Airport, which was increasing the distance between
entry and passenger check-in. Los Angeles International
was restructuring so that parking would be a mile
away from the terminal. But in general, he believed,
U.S. air travelers were adequately protected by
existing methods of passenger screening, x-ray
and explosive-detection machines, and armed marshals
in planes. Still, on the evidence, Israelis were
not satisfied with U.S. procedures. El Al, Israel’s
national airline, screens its own bags at four
of the five American airports out of which it
operates—Kennedy in New York, O’Hare in Chicago,
Los Angeles International, and Miami International.
At Newark International, El Al screeners may recheck
luggage that has gone through U.S. detection machines.
Isaac Yeffet, El Al’s retired head of security,
said that El Al screening included the use of
more sensitive machines and more rigorous questioning
of passengers.
I asked Moody what he found to be different about
Israeli procedures at Ben-Gurion. At first he
said simply that the Israelis do more screenings.
Then with a laugh he added, “The main difference
is in Israel they profile with a capital P. And
they don’t hide that fact.” Darryl Moody is articulate.
His smile arches easily across his round face.
As an African-American, Moody admitted to keen
sensitivity to the issue of profiling. He knows
well that at airports and elsewhere in the U.S.,
singling out individuals for scrutiny based on
racial, ethnic, or religious background is forbidden.
All air passengers, regardless of age or other
characteristics, must empty their pockets and
remove their shoes and belts for inspection. Individuals
undergo additional scrutiny only for cause or
through random designation.
What did he personally think about profiling?
I asked. “In America we just couldn’t do it,”
Moody replied. He sighed. The Israelis obviously
think it is necessary, and it’s their country,
he said. “So if you don’t like it, don’t come
to this country.” In fact, Israeli screening centers
on an interview by a carefully trained inspector.
Each individual is asked about the purpose of
his visit, length of time in Israel, country of
origin. One question builds on another. If the
passenger’s answers raise concerns, he will be
further scrutinized. Otherwise, he quickly moves
through the screening process. No removal of shoes
or belts. No routine confiscation of nail-files
and scissors.
Moody thought back to the weeks after Sept. 11
when some of his colleagues said the U.S. should
just copy the Israeli methods of airport security.
Others objected that, besides the issue of profiling,
time-consuming interviews of passengers would
be unworkable because of the greater volume of
U.S. traffic. Moody believes that national pride
also played a part. He recalled that Australia
rebuffed his company’s offer to go there and produce
a biometric identification card for their transportation
workers. Rather, the Australians asked him to
explain the process, so that an Australian firm
could implement it. “I found the same attitude
in every country where we’ve tried to provide
our expertise,” Moody said.
In considering what Americans can learn from Israel’s
experience, Moody’s reactions underscore three
truths. First, while Israeli preparedness is commonly
acknowledged as advanced, even “the gold standard,”
preconceived notions about Israeli practices may
be inaccurate. The best understanding comes not
from hearsay, but from personal observation. Second,
not every worthwhile measure is easily transferable
from one society to another. For cultural, political,
or financial reasons, Americans might be unreceptive
to certain practices. But third, refusal to learn
from others, whether because of national pride
or wrong assumptions, can leave a society more
vulnerable. By understanding Israelis’ experience
with terrorism, from adjustments in their daily
routines to the country’s emergency response procedures,
Americans can better discern how to cope and save
lives.
. . .
In the spring of 2003, Lawrence “Levi” Lauer was
strolling with his 14-year-old daughter, Anya,
near their Jerusalem home. The Lauers live in
a neighborhood known as Old Katamon, a charming
residential area where balconies brim with red
and yellow begonias. Street crime in Israel is
rare and people have long walked with relative
abandon. While the spate of Palestinian attacks
that began in 2000 had caused some to hesitate,
many Israelis, like the Lauers, maintained their
routines.
Interrupting their amiable chat, Anya suddenly
suggested that she and her father change their
relative positions on the sidewalk. “Dad, I think
you should be walking on the outside and I should
be on the inside.” At first, Levi Lauer thought
she was merely observing a quaint tenet of western
etiquette: A gentleman should shield a lady from
the splash of passing vehicles. At least that
was what Lauer had been taught during his growing-up
years in America.
But etiquette was not on Anya’s mind. “What if
a terrorist bomb should explode from the street?”
she asked. “If you died, I think that somehow
I would eventually get over it. But if I were
killed, I know you could never get over it.”
Lauer had left Cleveland in 1976 to live in the
Jewish state. Then 31, he was a rabbi in the reform,
or progressive, tradition of Judaism with its
emphasis on promoting social justice. After settling
in Israel, Lauer continued to labor on behalf
of the underdog—foreign workers, victims of human
trafficking, the poor and needy. He was especially
determined that Israel’s Arab population be treated
justly. After the wave of Palestinian attacks
began, Lauer’s list of people in distress expanded.
At times, the number of terror victims and their
families seemed to rise by the day. An organization
he founded, Atzum (the Hebrew word for powerful),
began to raise funds to help these new victims
just as it was helping others in need.
Anya’s comment stunned her father. “Sure,” was
all he could say. He changed places with her,
anguishing in silence over how his child had been
impelled to such calculation. Was this what terrorism
had driven Israeli children to worry about? He
barely noticed the sun’s golden reflection on
the Jerusalem-stone homes along their way. Lauer
felt sadness more than fear about the effects
of the intifada. He and Anya kept walking.
Copyright
© 2007 Leonard A. Cole
