The Border Crossings

The Borders: An Exercise in Patience and Persistence

Outside the Israeli border crossing building with the infamous "tour" buses 

Sleep in the Arab world is a relative thing. If you are a deep sleeper, you’re in luck. If not, don’t expect to get much of it. Unfortunately, I’m natured like the latter of the two, and around 5 a.m. the “Athan” or call to prayer begins blasting from the tall Minarets that dot the hillsides of Amman. Since the announcer is so loud, and since there are so many Mosques, the announcements seem to run together as if they’re competing to see who can be the most compelling to draw the sleeping devout from their slumbers. Unfortunately, the devout one in our crowd snores right through the Athan, while I lie awake listening. Despite the volume, there is a unique beauty to the call and what it represents.  After a noble attempt to fall back asleep, I decide the day needs to begin, and we drag ourselves out of bed and go downstairs to breakfast on a patio under some deliciously fragrant lemon trees.  The breakfast of leban (yogurt), Zataar (oregano and sesame), fresh olives and olive oil with hearty bread is a delicious way to start our day, which promises to be a long one.

Entrance to the Jordanian side of the border crossing

We leave the hotel in another economy-sized sedan taxi but do miraculously manage to fit everything in. We wind our way down the continuously descending highway to what feels like the center of the earth. The temperature steadily rises and the vegetation becomes increasingly sparse during the descent. We near the Dead Sea, but unfortunately our day will be spent not enjoying its wonders, but at the border crossing from Jordan to the West Bank of Palestine. We pass the baptism site of John the Baptist and the Sycamore tree that Zakkius made so famous. I find it amazing that we so casually cruise past these landmarks of the Christian faith in such a desolate place. We enter Jericho, the lowest point on earth and supposedly the oldest city in world as they sun seems to bake everything in sight. The small, dusty town has a sole main street filled with small restaurants and stores selling cheap Asian-made household items. The only redeeming quality I seem to find in this ancient city is the beautiful row of giant palm trees growing in the dry, hot ground.

Jericho

 The taxi driver, or “Amo” (uncle) as Raed directs the boys to refer to him, takes us as far as he can to the barbed wire-clad, trash ridden, dilapidated entrance to the border crossing. The flies are swarming as the temperature seems to increase with every minute of the sun’s ascent to midday. Since I’ve done this twice before, I now know what to expect. I know how I will feel, angry and dumbfounded by the ridiculous process. I try to keep these feelings in check, and I try to remain positive, though I’m not convinced I’ll succeed. Thankfully, the lines aren’t very long, and we’re only shuffled to three or four different desks for passport checks and security stops. This is the easy part of the journey, I know.

One of the many desks we're shuffled to and from at the Jordanian border crossing

After obtaining our Jordanian stamps, we then board a dilapidated bus that offers a feeble attempt at lukewarm air conditioning. The bus takes a while to fill up, and we wait on every single seat to be filled before we can depart. We drive approximately two minutes to a large checkpoint before we are able to enter the Israeli checkpoint on their side of the border. We must leave our belongings on the bus, valuables and all, and stand outside it while two Israeli guards armed with M16’s draped across their chests board the bus to inspect it. It seems we pass the inspection as we were able to again board the bus. We then drive about one more minute into the gate of the Israeli border check point. We must sit and wait on the bus until it is our turn to disembark. We wait approximately two hours inside the sweltering bus, but thankfully I had brought some water and bread for the boys just in case something like this happened.

Patience is wearing thin

Faces are wet with sweat and indignation as they wait to be checked by an occupying force to see if they are able to enter their own country. The men are mostly wearing suits, most ill-fitted and too large, and some even made of wool, but no one will remove his coat. The dignity of these people is humbling. The women are mostly clad in long Jilbabs (coats) that cover their clothing, and one or two layers of scarfs on their heads. I feel I have no right to complain of the heat after looking at these women. While we wait, the boys have fun as we speak with some fellow passengers. The boys are surprisingly patient, and introduce everyone to their beloved stuffed creatures, Lyda, the stuffed Ikea mouse, and “Hami” the stuffed hamster from Berlin.

About an hour and a half into our wait, a bus full of Orthodox Christian pilgrims has been allowed to bypass our place in the bus line and go ahead of us, so our wait is extended, but finally we are able to leave the sweltering bus and stand in a sweltering line with our luggage in order to have our passports checked to see if we are allowed inside the building.

The long, hot wait to enter the building at the Israeli border crossing--note the M16 on the guy in plain clothes!

 At this point, tempers are flaring and people are getting impatient. Young men attempt to break the line as others restrain them and yell curses at them in Arabic. After the pushing and shoving subsides, we make our way to yet another armed guard, who allows us inside. Our luggage is taken to be searched, and we are escorted to the metal detection area where we all pass through, finally. We then have to wait in line to have our passports stamped in order to enter Palestine, which is always sticky since I have an American passport, but Raed and the boys have both an American and a Palestinian passport. I was issued a visa to travel anywhere in Israel (including the area outside of the West Bank), but despite having an American passport, Raed and the boys are denied that “privilege” because they hold a Palestinian passport as well.

I'm not sure what the poster at the Jordanian border crossing is urging me to "think twice" about (the smoking sign below??), but the featured noose is encouragement enough for me to behave!

The guard who checks our passports is unapologetically rude, and rattles off things to her counterpart in Hebrew as we stand there. There’s eye rolling and gestures in our direction, but I figure it’s probably for the best that we aren’t able to understand. I receive my visa on a small piece of paper because so many people refuse to have an Israeli stamp in their passports due to travel restrictions to other countries. With an Israeli stamp in a passport, most Arab countries deny entry, so the Israelis have apparently resorted to issuing stamps on a separate piece of paper. During this ordeal, the boys are alternating between whining about the heat and hunger and doing acrobatics on the railings near the counter. Finally, we’re able to pass, and we head to the baggage claim area. This entails giving our passports to the guard and sitting in a holding area waiting for them to call our name to see if our bags are subject to “extensive” searching. Luckily ours are not, and we miraculously receive all of our bags.

The line at the Palestinian border crossing

But, the journey doesn’t end there. Then we must put your bags through another x-ray machine, one by one, before you can exit the building, despite the fact that they’ve already been checked minutes ago. We then have to haul our bags to another, yes another, sweltering tour-like bus. After waiting, again, for the bus to fill up, we are driven out of the Israeli check point area to the Palestinian authority checkpoint, which takes about two more minutes. We shuffle out of the bus and into another area to line up and have our passports stamped again by the Palestinian authority. After receiving the final stamp, by the third country in less than a two-mile radius, we can finally enter the West Bank of Palestine. We find a taxi headed toward Hebron, which is about 15 miles from Raed’s town of Thahryieh, and sit again for half an hour or so waiting for more passengers. Finally, the taxi is full and we can leave. We begin the steady ascent out of the Jordan River Valley toward the villages and through the rocky hillsides of Palestine.

The ascent from the Jordan River Valley into Palestine. It's a little steep!

We arrive at Raed’s home at last, and we’re greeted warmly, as always, by his large family. Our arrival is soon followed by steaming platters of Maklouba, which is a dish of rice, vegetables, and chicken that just happens to be Raed’s favorite. We settle in for the night, and finally feel the cool night breeze blowing through the house as we exhale in relief, for our journey is complete. 

Chicken Maklouba