They took us down winding stone stairs and through long corridors, ostensibly to have some make-up dabbed on our noses for the cameras, in fact to meet the interviewer and test his disguise. We confronted a tall, blond-ish man in his thirties, dressed in leather and studs, his face heavily powdered, his arms and chest shaven. He spoke in a heavy German accent, his movements and mannerisms ultra-gay. He tried to write down our names, but they came out dyslexic.
“This guy is going to interview us?”
“Don’t worry, he knows what questions to ask you,” an assistant producer replied.
We did worry. But we had signed a contract or release form (we’re both interviewed so frequently, neither of us bothered to read it carefully). And we, an Israeli and a Palestinian, are gentlemen; we do what we promise to do. Besides, we had been suggested to the production company by a respected Middle East expert in Washington whom we both know. We had bargained for a fee and received it. Rob, the producer who spoke to us earlier on the phone, had a British accent and seemed serious and professional. The interview was taking place in an appropriate setting, near the Zion Gate of the Old City of Jerusalem. Obviously, this production company, with its three cameras and large coterie of assistants, was serious and very professional.