By Regina Marcazzo-Skarka
When my boss called me into his office back in the spring of 1989, I assumed it would be the normal “proofread this,” “send a letter to so and so” or “file this.” Never would I have imagined what came next. I was told to pack my bags because we would be going on a four week tour of the Middle East and that I would be in charge of journalists from around the world. As soon as I was informed of the itinerary, I knew that the trip would be a once in a lifetime experience. As an aspiring journalist, the idea of traveling with a dozen top notch newspaper reporters was overwhelmingly exciting. Over thirty years have passed since that day, and I was right. That trip was the pinnacle.
Preparing for the journey that included a week in each of four countries, Tunisia, Syria, Jordan and Egypt, was intense. I had to make airline and hotel reservations for everyone. I was told that I needed $25,000 for the four week trip and that $10,000 would have to be in cash as the Syrian’s would only accept United States dollars. I was also warned by the man in the budget office that I had better make sure that I accounted for every penny as he would be looking for errors because he had no idea why someone employed at the United Nations for only seven months would have the luxury of taking such a trip.
I was really excited, yet really scared. I had traveled a lot by that time and had quite a few interesting adventures hitchhiking through Europe, sleeping on railway platforms and park benches. But Europe was familiar. The Western lifestyle there was like mine in the U.S. I didn’t have to think about how I dressed or how I looked at people or whether I could communicate. I could speak and understand English, French and Italian, but Arabic, that sure seemed foreign.
As my departure date creeped closer, I became more apprehensive. My biggest issue was carrying all of that money all by myself. What would I do with the $10,000? The traveler’s checks could be recuperated, but not the cash. I brainstormed an idea to have someone sew the $10,000 in my pants pockets. So, on the day I was leaving, my niece came to my office with a needle and thread.
My flight was overnight. We were to land in Frankfurt early in the morning. I did not sleep well on the plane because I was always conscious of my money filled pockets. I made it through, but not without being terrified of the thought of landing alone in Tunis and having to find my way out of the airport and to the hotel. One could not imagine the relief when I boarded my second flight and saw my boss. He had missed his original flight. I got to land in Tunis with an over six foot Egyptian man who spoke fluent Arabic.
In Tunis, my days were busy and there was not much time for sightseeing. We always needed to stay close by as the main purpose of us going to Tunis was to meet with the then Palestinian Liberation Organization Chairman, Yasser Arafat.
It was the second or third day there that we were told to do whatever we wanted because Arafat was in Iraq for a funeral and there was no way that our interview would take place that evening. The days prior were filled with meetings with different officials and with employees of the Tunis United Nations office.
We decided to go out to dinner all together at a Tunisian restaurant. This was the occasion that began my addiction to couscous. It was my first time having the North African speciality. We also drank a good amount of wine and other adult beverages.
After a few hours, we headed back to the hotel only to find the man in charge of the Tunis office pacing back and forth in the lobby asking where we were. He said, “Hurry, grab your notebooks, recorders and cameras, Arafat is waiting for you!” We all ran and grabbed, first and foremost, coffee, then all of the apparatus. We were loaded onto a bus that included men carrying machine guns, and drove off to PLO Headquarters. Once frisked, we were allowed into the building and then to a room with a long rectangular table. Arafat, wearing a black fur-like hat, sat at the head and we sat all around the table, recorders ready, notebooks and pens out.
This meeting took place at a time when Arafat was negotiating with the international community. Known as a terrorist, he didn’t have much opportunity to enter certain countries and definitely not the United States. We interviewed him on his own turf.
We listened to Arafat for hours, into the wee hours of the night. It was really amazing. Here I was at a big table in Tunis, Tunisia, Africa, sitting with a notorious terrorist and about a dozen top notch journalists. I was in the process of getting my Master’s Degree in journalism and was at the interview of any journalist’s life. Crazy.
After the interview, it was time for photos. Arafat took off his hat and put on a black and white keffiyeh. My boss, Mahmoud, handed me his camera and said, “Here, take pictures.” So I took pictures. I also got to pose with my boss and Arafat along with a couple of journalists. One of those photos was enlarged and hangs in my office.
We arrived at our hotel that night around 2am after our machine gun filled bus ride back. I was tired yet on top of the world. Just a few days in, with Syria, Jordan and Egypt to follow, my suspicion of the Middle East trip being the pinnacle of my travels was confirmed.
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