Wasta? It depends.

Arabs have a term, "wasta", that I best translate as "influence". If you are someone of power, from the right company/organization, or (in my case) carrying the right color passport (black), you may be able to exert your "wasta" and get special treatment.

Today, I drove without Kyle for the first time to the airport in order to drop off my sister, who's week-long visit came too quickly to an end. I put our diplomatic plates in the front window when we approached security man #1, chatted a bit with him about the embassy's crazy system of issuing two distinct license plates and my sister's impending return to the states, and he sent me on my way with a smile. However, when I approached the "VIP" parking lot (for diplomats picking up or dropping off folks), I was not greeted with such friendliness. I did everything the way Kyle does--point out the special plate in the dashboard window, say which embassy you are coming from, your purpose (granted, Kyle usually says something about a colleague, which probably ups his "wasta"), and then the kind police man pushes the button to open the gate and let you pull your car into the lot. Not so with me. No wasta. "Mmnua", he tells me (forbidden). Why? I counter. I am from the US Embassy. He says something about the car not being an official embassy car. He comments on the two different license plates. I try to offer an explanation but he is NOT playing. "Mmnua" he keeps repeating. Where, oh where, is my "wasta" carrying husband?!

We have to exit and re-enter the airport in order to get to the public lot (due to construction), so I've now made my sister even later than we'd hoped (we're pushing an hour and half prior to her flight's departure). Oh, and there are mass crowds on a Saturday morning. Who knew? I try my "wasta" pass again as we approach the first set of security scanners before the ticketing counters, to see if I can accompany her through until she heads off to her gate--after all, it would make my sister more comfortable to have me walk her through the process. I ignore the "passengers only" sign and show my black passport, along with hers, and say "New York" when he asks where. Indeed, she is flying to New York. We make it through security and head over to the ticket counters. No lines there, so we zip through.

With only one final station left (immigration), I suggest we sit for 10 more minutes to elongate the visit. Just before she plans to get in line and say our goodbyes, a HUGE tour group heads over to immigration. When we finally stand up to join the line, my previous experience with this station of check-in comes back and I panic. It takes FOREVER. It is now 20 minutes prior to her flight being boarded and we're about 30-40 minutes from getting to the desk. Yikes! I notice the "VIP/Diplomat" line has nobody in it, so I consider trying to use my "wasta". I'm nervous--it hasn't worked great at all points. What if I fail? But what do we have to lose? She's about to miss her flight, on account of me wanting to sit and chat! So, I push aside the barrier ropes and walk up to the desk. I step in front of the next person to chat with the immigration officer, showing my passport and explaining that my sister is flying and could he help her. He agrees to. As I'm waving for her to ditch the huge line and join me, another employee (not in uniform) tries to tell the officer this is not allowed--we are cutting the line and it shouldn't work this way. I tell him the officer is helping me and then ignore whatever more he says. Amy hands him her regular tourist passport and he asks if I am traveling, too. I say no--only her--I live here. He continues processing her passport--al-hum-du-allah! (Praise be to God!) Wasta at work, in the most important moment of the whole morning. She slips through with ten minutes to spare before boarding, and I am now told I have to return the same way I came. Oops.

Airports that say "passengers only" at the very beginning are not designed to handle two-way traffic. As I approached the first set of security scanners, I realize there is no exit. I back track and try another way out--doors are locked. I'm using my Arabic and feigning ignorance when I realize I'm in the wrong, frantically trying to escape this cage I've put myself in. I approach a security man and explain I'm trying to exit--I am not traveling. He's confused (why would I be on this side of the wall if I'm not traveling?). He directs me to a police man. I tell him I'm trying to leave, to get to the parking lot. He puts my bag on a scanner going the opposite way (exiting) and points for me to back-track through the women's only inspection area I came through with Amy nearly 40 minutes prior. The female security guard is not pleased, but my Arabic explanation helps and she lets me swim upstream against all the to-be travelers. One final door until I'm free, and I slip through while another man is exiting. The officer tried to get my attention, but I just kept walking. Whew--freedom!

So, while "wasta" may have gotten me into the ticketing area to "help" Amy, I was the one that kept her from going through immigration when there were no lines nor huge tour groups ahead of her. Ironically, my "wasta" got her out of the mess, too, but then I was stuck on the wrong side of the walls. I am thankful, though, that the ultimate "wasta" I've found is the language itself...it has gotten me better service, cheaper prices, and friendlier interactions than any colored passport or special license plate could ever do. Now, if I can just find the motivation to keep studying all that vocab!