STUCK IN NO MAN’S LAND BETWEEN ISRAEL AND JORDAN
WRITTEN IS AUGUST 2017
“So what were you doing there?” he looks startled now. “I already told you, I went there as a tourist” dazed and confused and unsure why he keeps asking me the same questions over and over again. “But no tourists go to Iran, there’s nothing to see there!” He continues to ferociously question me over and over again along the Jordanian/Israeli border.
“What are you hiding” he yells. “Pardon me?” I respond “Nothing, I’m hiding nothing!” “Who did you go to meet?” this time glaring into my eyes. ”Nobody, I went as a tourist.” “Why are you lying?” He is awkwardly moving his head now. “Lying, what are you on about?” “That’s ridiculous, you’re an Irish citizen, why would you put your life in danger and go to Iran?” this time looking deeper into my eyes. “I wanted to visit Tehran and Mashhad” I reply for the hundredth and twenty-seventh time. He pauses and, this time rephrases the question. “So you didn’t go to Iran to meet somebody?” He is walking around in a mini-circle now. “No, I don’t know anyone in Iran, I went alone because I don’t like traveling with people, I prefer my routine and schedule.”
“What did you see in Mashhad?” this time looking more and more irritated. “I went to visit the Imam- Riza Holy Shrine” he interrupts again in a ruder tone this time “But you said that you weren’t a Muslim.” “I’m not, I went as a tourist to observe and take pictures of the shrine because it’s shown in most of the Iranian tourist brochures and online.”
“Their government sponsors Hezbollah in Lebanon, Hamas in Palestine along with the Houthi rebels in Yemen, not to mention others.” He continues to lecture me as if I’m the main problem. “Well that has nothing to do with me, I don’t care about their government. I’m a genuine tourist, check my passport, I’ve been to lots of Middle Eastern countries, look Kuwait, Bahrain, Oman, UAE, Jordan.” “Yes, but the Iranian government sponsors terrorism and has a long history of religious feuding,” this time in a fuming tone. “Again, that has nothing to do with me, I don’t get involved in religious segregation, these things are irrelevant to me, I don’t judge the people based on the political situations, I judge them on their hospitality and personality.”
“What did you see in Tehran?” this time gnashing his teeth. “I went to the Glestan Palace, Jamshidieh Stone Garden, Masoudieh Mansion, and to the Azadi football stadium and walked around Tehran a lot, went to the markets, and ate some local food.” “Alone?” he fiercely questions “Yes, of course.” “Were you not scared?” he looks completely baffled now. “Scared of what?” He looks at me in disbelief, once again close to giggling in the process. He begins talking in Hebrew on his speakerphone. He finds my story humorous and once again I find this situation to be even more humorous, though I wish that he would offer me some food or at least a glass of water now. He walks aside and begins to speak to another customs official, this time in greater detail. He returns looking more alarmed. “Did you like Tehran?” he asks “I like most of the bigger cities in the Middle East, I like the experiences of being in faraway places and I usually treasure every memory because every Middle Eastern country offers different experiences.”
“Sit down”, he orders, as I’m now entitled to another break. I wonder how long this one will last for, ten, twenty minutes, maybe longer….He speaks to the other government officials, whispering with one another, so impolite I tell myself, again irritated at the fact that I’m stuck in no man’s land with no access to food.
“Open your bag” he demands in an even ruder tone this time. He takes everything out and checks each item individually, scanning my clothes and electronics closely. He even opens all of the side pockets and checks every paper, fridge magnet, iPhone, iPad and chargers. He scans the lot again, making me walk through the metal detector for a second time, only this time including a full body search. He then scans my shoes and walks me back to the room. “Clean up the table” he demands, leaving my clothes and personal belongings in a mess, refusing to fold them the way that they had originally been.
“What’s this?” he pulls an Iranian fridge magnet from my collection, this time going through another thorough check. “I’m collecting fridge magnets from every country that I’m traveling to.” He wipes the magnet and begins chatting to his co-worker, once again in Hebrew. “What are you planning on doing with this” he screaks. “I’m planning on setting up a collection” I reply, “again trying to include magnets from the other majority Muslim countries that I have visited, look here’s one from Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Bangladesh, and Tajikistan.” “How much did you pay for it?” he asks absurdly this time. “About 3,000 Rial.” “Wow, so you contributed to the sponsorship of Hezbollah,” he continues to remind me, “you should be using your money in a more appropriate way.” “I’m confused” I reply, “are you accusing me of sponsoring terrorism?” Once again, he turns to his co-worker and begins debating something in Hebrew. He then begins asking me about the train journey from Tehran to Mashhad. “What did you see?” this time getting more and more trivial. “I slept for most of the journey,” I respond, what were they expecting me to say and do? “How long did it take?” this time looking thick-headed.”About 10 hours, but it seemed like longer because it stopped a few times along the way.” Another customs official is gawking at me from a different angle this time.
“Who did you talk to on the train?” another idiotic question. “I was asleep for most of the journey, absolutely shattered because it was a busy trip. Regardless, I don’t speak Persian, or can’t read in Persian, so it would have been extremely difficult to chat to the locals anyway.” He looked shocked at my response, maybe it sounded a bit cheeky, but what exactly was he expecting me to say? He leaves the room, this time with a cup of coffee in hand. “Can I have a coffee as well?” I request. He refuses to answer and leaves the room.
“Could you at least offer me some food?” I ask politely, as I’m once again reunited with the earlier government official, assuming that this one is responsible for my well-being. He walks away and dismisses the question. So rude, again I tell myself. I wish that I had packed a sandwich or some snacks pre-arrival. It’s now been over half a day since my last snack.
He arrives back, this time wearing a pair of sunglasses and he looks a little more stressed out.” Are you planning on going to Palestine as well?” he begins to quiz me, this time in great depth, at a newly introduced speedy rate. “Yes, I plan on visiting Bethlehem” another awkward stare occurs. “Give me your phone number and email address, father’s name and number, and grandfather’s details, this time looking anxious.
He hands the paper to the earlier customs official and then leaves the room, leaving me on my own once again. 6 hours have already passed since I arrived from Aqaba in Jordan and I’m hungry and frustrated and not sure what necessary steps I should take. I’ve already missed my bus to Jerusalem, so looks like I’ll be staying in Erlian tonight, an Israeli town on the other side of the border once I’m granted entry, though I didn’t expect so many problems to occur when I left Aqaba early this morning. It certainly would have made sense to eat lunch in Aqaba, though nothing I can do about it now.
The fourth customs official arrives and checks my bags once again, individually checking every item and scanning them all again. No words from the fifth government official, though he is armed this time. Maybe he doesn’t speak English I begin to wonder and back to the room once again to wait patiently. I kind of find it humorous in a way, as I continue to wait patiently with no access to food, though this time I am entitled to two glasses of water from a nearby female worker, at least this is progress, maybe a snack will follow.
Another customs official arrives, this time an older man in a friendlier tone, “Give me your Irish details” he orders. I hand them over the appropriate information and continue to wait. The earlier customs officials aren’t anywhere to be seen, they must be on break or working in a different office this time probably scanning the earlier information given to them, or maybe they are leaving me here as punishment because of my trip to Iran and keeping me here until the border closes.
It’s crazy, I’ve been to so many different countries and have never experienced anything even close to this. It’s getting dark now, I don’t know anything about Erlian, an Israeli town on the other side, looks like I’ll have to find a place to sleep at, last minute, also wondering if I should return to Jordan and spend another night or two in Aqaba, though I wish that I could have still stuck to my original plan, had I not have been stuck in no man’s land, but now Jerusalem will have to wait until tomorrow or later on. Still nobody in sight and I’m now the last foreigner left. It looks like they will shut the border soon.
“You can go right ahead,” the friendlier customs official states, exactly 13 hours after I had arrived at the border. He hands me back my passport and a cutout visa, though no stamp, only the stamp leaving Jordanian territory. No word of an apology, or no sign from the earlier customs officials. “Enjoy your stay in Israel,” the even newer customs official says as he directs me to the door into Israel, again no apology anywhere in sight. The border closes and I look around to withdraw Sheckles from a nearby ATM, I then flag down a taxi. Please take me downtown I order, exhausted, starving, and treated like a criminal.
