I do not have a birthright to visit Israel. I am not eligible for a free trip. In fact, my family members don’t even have the Right of Return as refugees. Three years ago, an opportunity arose to visit my homeland. I realized it might be the only chance I’d get to go for a very, very long time. I was excited to go, but also pretty nervous.

The last time anyone in my family had been in Palestine was in 1948, when my grandparents were made refugees following a massacre at the hands of the Israeli Army. They had to flee their village Safsaf, which is located in what is now northern Israel. Though Palestinian refugees are supposed to be afforded the Right of Return, Israel to this day denies them entry. My cousins in Lebanon are still stateless. They have no passport or citizenship, only refugee cards.

Given all this rich history, I was worried about what would happen if I tried to enter Palestine, since the Israeli government controls all of its borders. But, I took the leap. When I did, I was interrogated for an hour. And let me tell you, nothing brings people together like collective anxiety! To Israeli border control, a U.S. passport means nothing once they see an Arab name.

To Israeli border control, you are a potential threat the moment they discover that your father was born in a Palestinian refugee camp. So there at the border between Jordan and Palestine, an Israeli soldier backed 18-year-old me into a corner and said, “Miss, we’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

Miraculously, I made it into Palestine. Miraculously, I was not strip-searched, turned away or held for hours like others that I know. Visiting Palestine and the West Bank was an adventure! Things I will remember from the trip include: Driving along crumbling bypass roads up the side of a mountain as smooth, Jewish-only roads gleamed in the distance behind a barbed-wire fence; how we wanted to go to the Dead Sea, but the Israeli officials would not give my friends the permits required to cross the checkpoint; having to get through the checkpoints by a certain time, before people’s permits expired; the day we managed to get to the beach in Haifa after looking forward to it all week, and were told by police officers that we were not allowed to stay there for more than half an hour, because we were Palestinian and we might cause a disturbance.

One of the most intense things about the trip was seeing the wall – you know, the Apartheid Wall. It snakes along and follows you everywhere you go. It can keep you locked up in one place, and box you out of others. There are things painted all over it – the hopes and desires of a people; aspirations for freedom. I know a woman who couldn’t help but burst into tears at the sight of it. I left with mixed feelings – I am so grateful that I got to go, but I’m also angry that my family can’t.

I will always remember visiting them in Lebanon afterwards, and all the questions they asked: “What is Palestine like? Where did you go? What did you do? Did you visit the Dome of the Rock? Can I see pictures?” My grandmother told me stories of her youth there. Then, “Wow. You’re so lucky. I hope I can go some day.” Apparently, Birthright trips to Israel have recently expanded their eligibility.

I know because somebody gave an intern from the Jewish United Fund free advertising for Birthright in the DePaulia, which was cleverly disguised as an “Arts & Life” piece! Unfortunately, I am still not eligible to go – Birthright trips, like many other Israeli initiatives, are Jewish-only.