Out of Israel

Crossing the famous Allenby Bridge wasn't what I expected. I mean, I've crossed over from Indiana to Michigan without noticing before. And I've crossed over from the United States to Canada in two minutes without any identification. But you don't cross over from Israel to Jordan so easily. You pass through several checkpoints manned by well-armored militia; you say goodbye to your driver because he likely is not allowed to go through this border; you go through interrogation at customs; you get on a bus and have your passport examined again; you go through customs on the other side; and then you hope another taxi is available for you there—a process of at least an hour when all goes well.

Even with all of that, I was amazed and how calm the procedure was. I didn't feel stressed out at all—actually, just bored with all the waiting. And we did have a ride on the other side because our friend Mr. Nessur arranged a driver for us. Mohamad stayed with us all day, serving as a our driver, tour guide, and companion.

I am discovering that Arabs are the most hospitable, warm-hearted, relational group of people I know. They are passionate about their faith, their nation, their family—and free to show their affections. Everywhere I looked little boys walked around with their arms around each other; many smiled at us, waving. Three little boys I met at the site of Hadrian's Gate—which was built in AD 129, a most impressive site—asked me what happened to my hand and told me I was special and would be used greatly by God because he spared my life in that car accident; they asked for a blessing from me (a kiss on both cheeks).

We visited a Nazarene missionary (though he is not to be called that in public) who oversees a Christian school, among other ministries. We visited the school just in time to join the children's celebration of Independence Day (61 years from the Brits), and we danced along with them. Rod then took us to the home of an Iraqi pastor, whose passionate faith humbled me. I nearly cried when he talked of his longing to visit the Holy Land—a privilege we were blissfully enjoying and one which he will likely never realize in his lifetime, all due to where he was born.

Mohamed gave us a tour of Imman, showing how advanced this city is becoming. "Now that there is peace we can focus on things other than staying alive," he told us. From universities to McDonald's to an architecturally stunning bridge, we could see the advancements with our own eyes. And all that was placed among ancient artifacts, like remains from the Roman civilization, including homes and amphitheaters.

I mostly slept as we drove to the Northern border (the Allenby Bridge closed at 2pm), gearing up for the 3 hour procedure of crossing the Jordon River (which is merely a stream) and the two hour drive back to Jerusalem. Mr. Nessur himself came to pick us up. He is a Palestinian muslim. Nessur has the right visas to get in and out of Jerusalem, but the strict rules do not allow him to have in his car any Palestinian without the same identification ... which includes his own brothers. His brothers live in the West Bank, and have to adhere to the 6pm curfew. They may not enter Jerusalem, even to visit their own families. "We will never be at peace with the Israelis," Nessur told us, "as long as they stay on our land and try to make us live by their rules." He told us a story he heard since he was a little boy of a snake who killed a boy who had cut its tail—neither the father nor the snake would ever forget the wound that had been afflicted. "That is the same for us. We will never be at peace."

We shook hands goodbye, but the comraderie of earlier was replaced with a sort of embarrassed goodbye. Maybe he had been too vulnerable with us when there was nothing we could do with the information.

Tomorrow we visit with organizations who work with Jews. The different perspective will no doubt be jarring.