The Promising Land – Part I

What’s in a name?
We passed the Jordanian security checkpoint and all signs adhering to The King Hussein Bridge were now replaced with the Allenby Bridge. I remember not being too crazy about the idea of crossing by way of vehicle; there was something more authentic about crossing by foot. But perhaps that’s the flagstone of a persecuted mentality, which was long overdue for a revamp.

The Women of Zion
We were greeted by a blond Israeli Border Security Officer along with her pernicious M-6 Assault Rifle. My noxious thoughts regarding her blunt instrument were quickly ameliorated by her natural ability to charm. She looked positively delicious in that uniform. She blushed every time she spoke to me, her eyes never making contact with mine for more than a second. She was shy in that cute way, as if she wanted me to instruct her where to go, and not the other way around. Her diffidence evoked flattery rather than odium. Women…My life’s work. There’s something about every one of them, no matter how small or subtle. Something so inviting, as if pointing to a specific vulnerability for me to explore. And what was it about the Israeli border having an all playboy bunny staff? She took me to Border Control and gave my Palestinian ID to an African goddess sitting behind bullet proof glass. The blond held my ID open between the two of them for examination. They got giddy as their eyes wavered between the photograph and the real person in front of them. Giggles were garbled and Hebrew was spoken before the African Israeli looked at me and said, “its been a long time,” the nozzle of her rifle pointing to the picture on my ID that was taken sometime in 1997. The African Israeli was holding a big phallic symbol in her hands as she gave me the sweet eyes. The irony was very amusing. It was a good morning, two IDF hardasses were soliciting me to reciprocate their woos. The two sirens waved me goodbye before reverting back to the business of segregation at their respective stations.

Bridge Patrol
As we waited for our ride from the border, I was toying around with the fantasy that when all political discourse fails, I could seek out IDF coquettes and convince them to lay down their arms as they lay in mine the morning after. I was the chosen one…until, all of a sudden, an IDF officer, a male this time, started sprinting after a mini-van which appeared to have breached some security protocol. Panic ensued. Three IDF officers ran to where we were standing and started screaming at us “INSIDE NOW! YALLA FOOTU JUWA! SOMETHING HEBREW!” Surely the van had some explosives I thought. This is it. I’m gonna witness it first hand. There was confusion and chaos. My party, being the affluent VIPs and all, didn’t know whether to leave their luggage outside or to stay close. The metaphorical image of belongings owning the owner was never more poignant, but this was no time for philosophical meandering, our lives were seemingly at stake. We swayed back and forth, I grabbed my Dad and started running for shelter. As he tried to grab his brother, whose hands were tightly clutched to his baggage, and man did the guy come with a lot of baggage, the three officers received a radio transmission that seemed to calm them down. “Okay okay, don’t worry, its over,” said the one officer with two stars on his shoulder. We never asked what it was that was over, but we were all glad it was. It was too early in the day for smelling gunpowder and wiping tears. The situation then seemed precarious. Not because of the false alarm, but because of how the IDF officers reacted. Why would they come out for us Palestinians? Surely I am not suggesting that they are good Samaritans, am I? There was a certain degree of goodwill in their instruction. Why would they come out for us sub-humans if their self-preservation instinct dictated that they stay indoors? “There is hope in compassion,” I thought to myself, but our ride was already waiting, and one fantasy was more than enough that morning.

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