After school I got a call from Yehudah, a friend from high school who now teaches at a yeshiva in Gush Etzion. He told me that one of his Belgian students had ruined his passport in the washing machine, and his embassy refused to replace it.

“Why?” I asked. “Doesn’t he have some other ID?”

“It’s because Belgium considers Gush Etzion to be occupied territory.”

I sensed someone behind me and turned. Of course it was Shalzed. I still had no idea how he kept finding me. “One second,” I said into the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

Yehudah seemed surprised but said okay. I think Shalzed sensed something was on my mind, so I told him what Yehudah and I had been talking about. “Can an embassy do that?” Shalzed said. “Refuse their own citizens?”

I was suddenly in the black tunnel, with Shalzed next to me. I watched carefully, but didn’t see him turning any knobs or controls. Someday I would either get him to tell me how it works or figure it out. Then we were standing outside a security booth beneath a black, yellow, and red flag. There was a sign that said ‘Embassy of Belgium’, and from Hebrew up and down the street I could tell that we were in Tel Aviv.

A middle aged man in a suit and tie stepped out of the embassy. Shalzed called after him. “Ambassador Thijs, can you explain why you won’t replace the passport of a Belgian citizen studying at a yeshiva?” he asked.

The ambassador stopped and stared at him. “Consular services are only in the mornings,” he said.

A woman ran up, dragging a child along behind her. “My son put finger paint all over my passport,” she said, pulling a passport with red all over the cover from her purse. “You have to help me.”

“We do passports between eight and eleven AM,” the ambassador said again.

“But I have a flight back to Belgium at ten tonight. I have to go, it’s for my sister’s wedding,” the woman pleaded.

The ambassador asked for the passport and looked it over. “Perhaps someday your son will be a  famous artist, but in the meantime this passport can’t be used,” he said. Just then, a man wearing suit pants and an elegant purple shirt came out of the embassy. The ambassador showed him the passport and asked a question in Dutch. The woman with the little boy gave him a pleading look.

“I can do it,” the man that had just come out from the embassy said. “As long as you have another valid form of ID, it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.” The woman started to say thank you. “But first,” the man continued, “I have to make sure where you live.”

The woman paused. “I live here, I made aliya 14 years ago,” she said. “But I still have a lot of family back in Antwerp.” She pursed her lips and looked back and forth between the man and the ambassador.

“He means what city?” the ambassador said. “Because we are no longer able to serve anyone residing in an illegal settlement.”

The woman frowned. “You mean Yehudah and Shomron?” The ambassador nodded. “I used to live in Ma’aleh Adumin, but we just recently moved to Netanya. I don’t understand why that should make any difference.”

The ambassador smiled, then directed her to the booth to go through security. She hurried to oblige.

“Even if you oppose Israel’s policies, what does that have to do with her?” Shalzed asked as the woman went inside. “Does she run the government? Does she command the army? Did she seize land?”

“And the kid in my friend’s yeshiva probably picked it based on the program, where his friends were going, and the price. He might not even know anything about the ’67 borders,” I added.

The ambassador held up a palm, signalling for me to stop. “Living in a settlement displaces Palestinians. Anyone who chooses to live there is complicit and has to face the consequences,” he said.

That made my stomach tighten. “I have a good friend named Yehudah who lives in Gush Etzion,” I told him. “He volunteers for an organization that works to facilitate dialogue between Israelis and Palestinians. . .”

The ambassador interrupted. “I very much support that type of activity, but it does not justify living on occupied land.”

“So are you also going to put Belgian citizens who live in settlements in jail if they return to your country?” Shalzed asked.

Thijs sighed. “Of course not. But the current situation calls for strong action. If we make life in the settlements harder, then fewer of our citizens will move there. This is my government’s way of making a statement.”

“So you are punishing your own citizens simply to make a statement?” Shalzed asked.

The ambassador shrugged. “It’s our only leverage. Now please excuse me,” he said. A black sedan was pulling up by the curb and he quickly got inside, and then Shalzed and I were back in the dark tunnel. I didn’t bother this time looking for more information about how Shalzed made it work because I was upset about the ambassador. He probably imagined that everyone who lived in the settlements was a violent extremist, and I knew very well that wasn’t the case.

A moment later I was back in the park across from my house, with Shalzed nowhere in sight. My phone rang, and I saw it was Yehudah calling back.

I swiped to answer. “Sorry,” I said. “I was away a bit longer than I thought.”

“No problem,” he said. “I just heard one of the rabbis here has connections with a member of the Knesset. He’s going to try to get help with that passport. But don’t you think withholding passports violates people’s rights?

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure Belgium would, either.