I came to Israel with an open heart.

As a Belgian citizen of Syrian origin, I traveled to Tel Aviv at the end of December out of solidarity and in opposition to growing antisemitism. I came to connect — convinced, perhaps naively, that in a country shaped so deeply by the memory of discrimination and exclusion, I would never be reduced to my birthplace.

I had planned to spend New Year’s Eve in Tel Aviv — to enjoy the city, to dance, to experience life, to celebrate vitality. Instead, I found myself sitting in a corner of an airport, fighting back tears, feeling as though I was being punished for my openness and my desire to connect.

I was certain that in Israel, of all places, I would be seen as a person.

Instead, at Ben Gurion Airport, I was denied entry solely because of my country of birth.

For approximately 24 hours, I remained in the duty-free area without my passport. Without any basic facilities, I sat alone, quietly drinking tequila, watching travelers pass freely into the country I had hoped to experience. I was asked to sit alongside people without proper documents and lovely women of questionable background. No one mistreated me personally. The officers were kind.

And that is precisely what makes it more painful.

Because what I experienced was not personal hostility. It was something colder: a system that did not see me.

In that moment, I was not a jurist. Not a Belgian. Not a human being with agency and conscience. I was reduced to my place of birth.

And that distinction matters.

As a jurist, I cannot ignore what followed.

The legal basis for my refusal appeared to have been incorrectly applied. No individualized reasoning was provided. There was no meaningful opportunity to respond to concerns or to challenge the decision. There was no real access to administrative review prior to removal.

Administrative law — in Israel, as in other liberal democracies — requires that discretion be exercised on a case-specific basis. Procedural fairness demands, at minimum, a clear statement of grounds. The absence of a practical avenue for timely administrative review raises serious concerns regarding due process.

Security considerations are legitimate. Border control is sovereign. But sovereignty does not exempt a state from proportionality, reasonableness, and procedural safeguards. Security does not erase the rule of law.

Administrative discretion must operate within legal boundaries. Decisions must be individualized. Proportionality must be respected. Minimal procedural fairness must be preserved.

When identity becomes determinative without transparent criteria, the rule of law risks being replaced by assumption.

And assumption is the silent enemy of equality.

I say this not as an outsider attacking Israel.

I have always regarded Israel as a state grounded in law — part of the liberal democratic world, wrestling openly and honestly with difficult moral and security dilemmas. Precisely because of Jewish history — centuries marked by exclusion and discrimination — Israel understands better than most nations what it means when identity overshadows individuality.

That is why this experience wounded me in my ideals.

I did not feel anger. I felt disappointment.

Not toward the people. I must emphasize again: the individuals I encountered were warm, professional, and humane. Even in that difficult space, I felt something deeper — a cultural and perhaps even historical closeness. Whether we acknowledge it or not, our histories in this region are intertwined. There is shared memory, shared resilience, shared humanity.

What hurt was the gap between Israel as an idea and Israel as an administrative procedure.

I do not write this to weaken Israel.

I write this because I believe that democracies grow stronger when they are capable of self-examination. The rule of law is not proven in moments of comfort. It is tested at borders, in airports, in moments when fear and precaution are strongest.

The question is not whether Israel has the right to secure its borders.

The question is whether it can do so while preserving the dignity of those who approach them in good faith.

That balance — between security and human dignity — is the true measure of a democracy.

I left without entering the country. I lost money on flights and hotels. But more painfully, I lost a measure of confidence. And yet, I do not want to lose my belief in Israel as a state governed by law — a state with strong institutions, including its ombudsman and judicial oversight mechanisms, capable of reflection and correction.

Because I still believe in it.

I still believe that Israel has the institutional maturity to refine procedures, to ensure that origin does not automatically outweigh personhood.

I still believe in dialogue.

If anything, this experience reinforced for me that connection matters most when it is difficult. That solidarity must survive discomfort. That legal systems must be continuously strengthened, not defensively shielded from scrutiny.

I came with an open heart.

I left wounded — but not closed.

My hope is simple: that Israel continues striving to embody the principles that have allowed it to stand as a vibrant democracy in a complicated region.

Security and dignity are not enemies.

The strongest states prove they can protect both.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)