Border Crossings: Jordan 1994

Even a long and bitter conflict can
sometimes create a deep and secret
kind of intimacy between enemies.
                       - Amos Oz
"Israel, Palestine and Peace: Essays"

“Dammit, you’re going to ruin this entire trip! We’ve gotta get to the border crossing at Jericho before noon tomorrow, before the customs office closes for Friday shabat. If we don’t we’re stranded in Jerusalem until Sunday afternoon. How could you be so stupid as to miss the connection?”

Standing at a pay phone in Gatwick Airport, London, I was talking to my wife, long distance, in Jerusalem. I had just told her that I had missed my connecting flight and wouldn’t arrive at Tel Aviv Airport until morning, twelve hours later than planned.

“What? Hey, why are you getting so angry? You can’t blame me. It’s not like I can control the weather. I told you, there was a thunderstorm in Boston. We left an hour late and I got to Gatwick too late to make my connection. It’s not as though it’s my fault.”

“You should have planned the connections better,” she replied. “Anyway, I’m not going to come to the airport in Tel Aviv for your arrival, it’s too early in the morning. You can get to Jerusalem alone, you know how to get a sharoot.”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that,” I said.

“And don’t delay at the airport when you arrive. Just get here quickly.”

Already, this trip had a bad feeling about it. My wife, Mary, had been living in Jerusalem at an research institute for two years now and we hadn’t seen each other for over three months. I wanted her to be excited by my arrival. Instead, she was angry at me. I was hurt by her unwillingness to come to the airport. Also, I had an uncomfortable feeling about her urgency to get me out of Jerusalem so quickly—almost as though she didn’t want anyone to see me.

When I finally landed at the Tel Aviv airport I was tired but also restless from the extended flight. Approaching the customs desk, I felt excited to be in a foreign country, about to embark on an adventure. On the other hand, I felt unwelcome because Israel is clearly a country for Jews and I am not Jewish. Non-Jewish visitors are typically faithful Christians on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. But I am not Christian—not even religious.

These conflicting feelings might have been eased if I knew that Mary and I were going to have an enjoyable and intimate visit, that she was keen to see me, and wanted to share all that she’d been doing. Instead, I got the feeling I was only an imposition, an unwanted intruder. Altogether, I felt isolated and lonely. Finally, I cleared customs and retrieved my suitcase. I walked outside and focused on finding a sharoot, or minibus, to Jerusalem and Mary’s institute.

When the van pulled up to the institute, Mary came out to meet me. She moved deliberately towards me, expressionless and stood about three feet to my side as I paid the driver. The sharoot drove off, leaving us on the sidewalk, just outside the institute gates. I tried to kiss her. She moved away abruptly, saying, “You know better than to publicly kiss someone in this part of town!”

Instantly, I felt humiliated, “Come on, there isn’t anyone out in the street, it’s early in the morning,” I replied.

Without comment, Mary picked up one of the bags and started for the front door. I took the other two and followed behind.

We went inside and up to Mary’s room. It was early and no one else was yet awake. We set about repacking for the trip to Jordan. I had brought a suitcase heavily laden with clothing and household items for Mary, so I selected only the clothes I required and packed them in a separate, smaller suitcase. While transferring my clothes, I looked around the room thinking that Mary was quite established here.

Even now, in the private of her room, Mary stayed away from me. She did not hug me, kiss me, or even extend an invitation to make myself comfortable. Rather, she busied herself about the room and left me feeling awkward and unwelcome. Having already attempted a friendly kiss outside I wasn’t going to risk rejection again. Instead, I chose to make simple conversation while repacking.

“This bed covering is nice, did you get it recently?” I asked.

“I got it at a Palestinian women’s cooperative. Did you bring those two black summer skirts I asked for? And the extra film?”

“Yes, the skirts are in the bottom of that suitcase. Here’s the film. The scotch is in that bag, too.”

“Oh, good, you remembered that. I’m almost out and it’s expensive here. Don’t bother looking for more of the stuff you brought, we’ll deal with the rest after the trip. Just pack your clothes quickly, the taxi will be here any minute. Remember, we’re late!”

In less than an hour after my arrival at the institute a taxi was outside and we left for the crossing. I felt as though I was being smuggled out of the country.

*

Mary and I had met nearly fourteen years before and been married for twelve years. When we met, she was just divorced, had a daughter, and was about to move to Boston to begin graduate school. She seemed a little intimidated by this, but determined to follow through. I was attracted to her determination as well as her vulnerability and saw an opportunity to provide support and encouragement.

Mary was ten years older than me. She was an attractive woman with green eyes and long, auburn hair. She was thin and had a hesitating smile. She was smart and engaging, but not showy or loud.

Her daughter was ten at the time, very cute. She was a miniature of Mary—long hair, often braided, she had high cheek bones and a round face. She really loved her mom, there was a strong bond there. I found this attractive. Her daughter, Ann, and I got along well from the start—immediately she called me Daddy. This was a special bonus to the relationship with her mother.

We all moved in together after a year. Then about eighteen months later Mary and I got married. Mary attended classes, I worked, and Ann was in school. With all of this, we still spent lots of time together, making dinners, listening to music, visiting friends, making weekend trips. I was so happy to be part of a family.

*

We left the institute where Mary lived in a Palestinian taxi—distinguished by its blue, West Bank license plates—using back roads that passed through Arab suburbs and villages. Soon, we joined the main, commonly used highway that leads down steeply off the high plateau on which Jerusalem sits. From here we continued our descent to the floor of the Judean desert, with the Dead Sea just a few miles south. Then the driver took us through Jericho and on to the Jordan River and the Allenby Bridge, which mark the Israel-Jordan border.

While the trip took little more than half an hour and appeared to be an ordinary drive, the route is fraught with meaning. Even in April, one leaves the relative cool of Jerusalem for the hot, 100-degree temperatures of the Jordan Valley floor. With this passage into the heat of the valley, you also descend into the disputed territory of the West Bank with its obscure boundaries and troubled juxtaposition of Arab villages and Israeli settlements. Here in the West Bank, Arabs and Israelis share a common history in what each considers their homeland. Despite this long and intimate association, they are deeply separated by hatred and distrust that breeds overpowering hostilities.

Soon the taxi delivered us to the customs building just five minutes east of Jericho. We collected our belongings and entered a square, cinder block structure with a narrow front porch. Nothing on the outside belied the mayhem that we confronted once inside. The one large room was packed with English and German tourists, business people, Palestinian families, and Jewish border officials. People were standing, sitting, queuing, milling about, looking anxious, or acting indifferent to the whole scene. Nowhere were there signs or officials to provide any explanation of the procedures.

Immediately upon entering the building and seeing the crowd and confusion, Mary became agitated. “Damn, this isn’t good! We would have avoided this if you hadn’t been late. Why are all these people stuck here? No one seems to be moving at all. Did the Israelis close the border?”

We stood around aimlessly for a few minutes. Then I sat down among some Palestinian families while Mary wandered through the crowd, assessing the situation. She came over to me and said, “Come on, take the bags and let’s get in that line over there.”

I followed, pushing past the Palestinian families who stared at us silently. Then we nudged our way among a group of tourists in the long line and planted our bags on the ground as though staking a claim.

People from the group spoke to us in German and, although I don’t understand the language, their message was clear. We were breaking into their line and they felt that we didn’t belong there. Mary got the jist of their comments too and was quick to respond, in English.

“This is the customs window for single travelers. Tourist groups like yours are supposed to be in the line over there to the left. You’re blocking the way for the rest of us.”

Then she turned to me, saying, “I hate these tourist groups, especially the Germans. They take over a place wherever they go and just bully their way through. There is always supposed to be a customs window for those traveling alone, but these people just disregarded it.”

The Germans responded, although I couldn’t understand them. Soon, however, they turned their backs on us and dropped the issue. We had succeeded in entering the line and relaxed a little knowing that we would get through customs before they closed for shabat.

After we cleared Israeli customs, we passed through the exit and were outside where it was quiet once again and getting hot. We boarded the bus that stood waiting for passengers. Soon it left with an Israeli soldier stationed in front as we travelled the few hundred yards to the Jordan River. At the river, in the middle of the Allenby Bridge, the soldier disembarked and the bus proceeded into Jordanian territory unattended. For all of their historical and political significance, the Jordan River is little more than a modest stream and the Allenby a utilitarian, one-lane bridge. On the Jordanian side of the river, the bus travelled through a no-man’s land enclosed by high, barbed-wire fences. Looking out on flat, barren land, we passed through a checkpoint manned by a Jordanian soldier and proceeded to their customs station. This was no routine border either, but one between two countries that have fought each other in three major wars. Theirs is a hostile border and a nexus of political suspicion. Little of the hostility, however, is openly expressed, few words are exchanged, and none of the rules are clear—rather, everything seems designed to heighten one’s apprehension.

Within a half hour we were through Jordanian customs and Mary said we would take a taxi, rather than a bus, to Amman. Seated in the cab, traveling up a wadi, or deep river valley, we could finally relax after having successfully crossed the border before shabat. Now, I also thought of Mary and considered how she had treated me since my arrival. I had anticipated that she would be cool towards me. We had had serious disagreements about her extended stay in Jerusalem. However, I was not prepared for the aggressiveness of her criticism nor the blunt refusal to show the least affection towards me. But I couldn’t yet muster the will to confront her. Instead, I mused about my surroundings, running through what I knew of this region’s history.

As I was silently cataloging the history to myself in the cab, I looked at Mary, attempting to read her thoughts and intentions. It was then that I looked down at her hand and saw that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I was stunned at the blatancy of this act. Had she blundered and forgotten to put it on before my arrival, or had she reached a degree of estrangement that she didn’t care?

Suddenly, I forgot where I was and my pulse started to beat faster. I considered my choices. Did I have the courage to create a confrontation here in the car, or should I just pretend I hadn’t noticed? Finally, with as little inflection in my voice as possible, I said, “You aren’t wearing your wedding ring.”

I watched her intently as I said this, trying to decipher her reaction. Was she surprised, shocked at being discovered, disinterested, or simply annoyed?

“I have it here around my neck!” she said impatiently, pulling out the ring on a thin gold chain inside her jersey. “I don’t wear it because my journalist friends believe that it’s a fake and tease me constantly. Single foreign women living here alone often wear a ring as a way to avoid being hassled. I got tired of the teasing and stopped wearing it.”

I paused, stunned and confused. Her explanation didn’t make sense. I knew that women alone often do wear a ring in order to discourage men’s attention, but Mary’s explanation involved a confusing twist on this habit.  The ring was not a fake and she was not single. I could only conclude that Mary encouraged people here to regard her as single and, thus, the ring was contrary to a lifestyle she did not otherwise maintain.

I knew before I left home that this trip was not a simple vacation. I had anticipated some hostility from Mary and knew I would be confronted with some harsh realities about our marriage. Still, following this incident, I felt shaken and vulnerable, riding with Mary in this old taxi, far from home, in an arid environment, with little to say or share.

*

Shortly after Mary and I were married, all three of us went to Cairo for nine months thanks to Mary’s dissertation grant. While there, I taught English and Ann went to an American school. Mary worked in the archives on her research. It was a wonderful and enriching experience for all of us. But, I believe, even this early in the marriage issues began to arise for Mary. Unlike the other, younger, and single graduate students we met who had the flexibility to move about freely, hang-out socially, and work whatever hours they chose, Mary’s actions were limited by family obligations. Towards the end of the stay, although we never discussed this at length, Mary indirectly expressed resentment that she couldn’t stay in Egypt alone for an additional year of research.

Then, once back home, Mary began to encounter difficulties within her graduate program. Particularly, she believed that she was overlooked when recommendations were given for teaching positions. She blamed this on the fact that she was married and that the faculty—in their prejudice against older women students—did not view her need for a job as urgent because she had a husband to support her. Whether true or not, Mary began to feel confined.

At the same time, through conferences and association meetings, Mary befriended an increasing number of foreign academics. She travelled more and frequently made comments about how much she enjoyed working in Europe and that her foreign colleagues respected her research much more than her graduate faculty. She hinted that there were many more professional possibilities for her abroad than in the United States.

Although Mary’s travels added interest to our lives, particularly when I visited with her following a conference, I could not escape being envious as well. I also felt resentful because clearly Mary was looking for something more adventurous than our marriage seemed to offer.

*

Once in Amman, at the end of that first day, Mary and I spent our first night together in months. We were staying at another academic institute with which Mary was associated. We talked as we undressed and changed for bed. Despite the privacy of the moment, there was no intimacy between us. She changed into a nightgown and sat on her single bed and asked me to massage her legs and feet. While I did this, I asked some questions about her research in Jordan and her plans to return home.

“Look,” Mary said, “I told you months ago that I didn’t want you to visit at this time. But you insisted, so I decided that I wanted to get out of Jerusalem and the tension there. I brought us here so I could have a vacation. I don’t want to talk about the marriage or answer your damn interrogatory questions.”

“You never explicitly told me not to visit,” I responded, while still rubbing her feet and thinking that she was again twisting the facts, as she had about the wedding ring. “In fact, we discussed different alternatives on where and how to meet for over a month. Besides, we’re married and it seems that I have the right to ask when you plan to return home. I don’t like living alone.”

“Well, I don’t have the energy to worry about your loneliness. I have my career to worry about now. At home it was impossible for me to advance my career. What with moving twice in three years and fulfilling your demand that I earn an income, there has been no time to do research and write a book. If I don’t publish something in the next year, my chances for getting a teaching job are finished! And you will undoubtedly leave me if it comes to that, if you have to support me.”

“Hey, look, it’s not my fault that you went back to school as an adult when you had obligations,” I replied in defense.

“I went back to school late because of my first marriage. I am not letting marriage hold me back a second time. I am thinking about me now. You have friends at home. Here’s your chance to see them. You always said you didn’t have enough time to socialize.”

“But I am married to you,” I said with rising desperation, “I want to do things with my wife. And what do you mean by saying that I would leave you if I had to support you?”

“I’m not discussing this further. And I don’t intend to argue about it for the remainder of the week. Just drop it or we can end this trip now.”

The conversation stopped. Mary pulled away and got under her blankets. I got up, got in my bed, turned out the light on the table between us and lay awake. I was angry at myself, feeling manipulated. How could I let myself sit there and soothe her, while she blamed me for her own difficulties or failings?

A single word, cuckold, came to mind. I felt ashamed. Is this what’s happening, I thought? But it wasn’t clear, any more than most of the events this day. I could get angry, wake Mary, yell at her, accuse her of cheating on me. But did I have proof? Was that the point? Then, what? Pack and go home in anger? No, I realized that I just had to see this through, the visit, and consider the consequences later.

The following day we went to the ancient city of Jarash, about an hour’s drive from Amman. To get there, we rented one of the small four-wheel-drive pickups made available to residents at the institute. Despite my disappointment and injured feelings from the previous day, we made this trip with little incident. In fact, it is remarkable how years of marriage can provide a script for the partners to follow, like actors stepping into the role of a play. I did the driving, while Mary navigated, just as we had done on many other occasions.

We arrived in Jarash in an hour. It is the ancient city of Gerasa, established by the Greeks and further expanded by the Romans after the first century B.C. One of the Decapolis cities, ten semi-independent cities that became part of Rome’s Province of Arabia, including Damascus, Pella, and Amman (then Philadelphia), it boasts an impressive Cardo (a main colonnaded street), a large entry arch build by Emperor Hadrian in 129 AD, two Roman theaters, and a temple built to the goddess Artemis.

It was a lovely, bright day and warm. We began our tour with the southern theater, one of the first built in Roman Syria. I have always been impressed by these structures because their functional design is so successful. It is astonishing to stand high up in the bleachers and hear how well sounds and voices are projected up through the aisles. One also got a wonderful view of the rest of the city from the upper balconies.

After visiting the theater, we wandered, stopping to look at the Temple of Artemis and then returning south along the cardo, which provides a tangible connection with the distant past. When you see the well-worn tracks and ruts in the stone-paved streets formed by the ancient wagons, it is easy to imagine the sounds and noises of people in the street, of the shopkeepers in the shadows of the roof, and the bustling activity of the then commercial center.

Leaving Jarash, we went to a restaurant adjacent to the site for lunch. It had a large outdoor terrace overlooking the new town across the river. The waiter was friendly and eager to learn if we enjoyed our visit to Jerash. He was able to ask in simple English, “Do you like old city?”

We told him it was wonderful and this brought a big smile to his face. He gave us a table that offered a good view of the new town across the river.

“What are you going to eat?” I asked.

“A salad and the lamb shishkebab,” Mary replied. “Oh, and a glass of wine, I think.”

“I’ll do the same. Do you want any appetizers? Some grape leaves, hummus, something?”

“Yes, let’s get some hummus.”

Emboldened by the evident easy atmosphere, I approached Mary with a suggestion.

“You know, we could sell our house and split the profits. With the improvements we’ve made and rising prices, we could get a fair amount for it. I could get a small condo and you could buy a flat in Jerusalem,” I suggested.

I don’t know exactly why I made this suggestion or what I intended by it. Sitting there, relaxed and removed from my usual obligations, I sensed that there were more choices about our living arrangements than I usually considered. Also, the possibility of such an arrangement gave me an unexpected feeling of flexibility and freedom. Was it simply the result of my taking the initiative?

But the positive feelings were momentary as Mary responded, “That’s a silly idea. I like that house and we put much of our savings into it. I don’t intend to sell it. Evidently, you never liked the place and you aren’t willing to spend the time maintaining it. You’d rather be out riding your bike or something.”

Sensing the miscalculation of my remarks, I said, “No, it’s a nice place. I just don’t like doing the work there alone.”

“Look, I am not getting into that discussion. Just drop it!”

So, I paid the bill and we left our sunny interlude. While I barely knew Mary’s plans, it didn’t serve her purposes for me to challenge the status quo.

*

About a year after our return from Egypt, the marriage began to grow ugly and abusive. It wasn’t physically abusive—rather, we did things or said things, that tore at the other’s self-confidence or hopes. After years together one knows too well the vulnerabilities of the other and can target them. Resentment set in and the marriage became a limitation. Yet there was a sense of indebtedness that did not allow either of us to simply walk away.

It was insidious. Neither of us would admit to what we were doing. Neither of us would say how awful we felt, admit to our inadequacies or fears. Rather, we took actions or made decisions to our own advantage. I decided we should buy a house, hoping to keep Mary closer to home. She made plans to get a post-doctorate in Israel, claiming to research a book, but really just wanting to get away.

Meanwhile, Ann had graduated from college. Little was discussed, but she clearly knew that it was an unhealthy environment. Within months of graduation, she moved out and got an apartment with her boyfriend.

*

A few days later, Mary and I left Amman for our trip to Petra, the Nabatean city of rock-incised buildings and spiritual high places, about four hours south by car. We traveled in another of the institute’s pick-ups, using the desert highway located just west of Amman and that runs north-south along the edge of the desert.

In Petra we stayed at a house belonging to the institute in Amman. Once there we unloaded the truck, prepared lunch, then unpacked a bit and settled into the house. The wind was blowing and there were numerous drafts through the many cracks around most of the windows and the front door. We tried to fill these using towels or tape, wanting to stop the cold air, the noise, and the fine sand from entering. Later that evening the wind began to blow in earnest, rattling the windows of the house.

This was the khamsin, or desert winds, so infamous in this area and throughout North Africa. Occurring just before and after summer, these winds are the result of low pressure in the Mediterranean, that draws wind from the south and southeast and, thus, raises sandstorms. The khamsin is accompanied by a gray, hazy sky which looks like the onset of rain, and there is a related fall in barometric pressure. This wind can blow for up to ten days and is said to carry spirits with it and drive people mad. I could certainly appreciate this belief as the wind gained force and whistled through the windows and doors and blew fine sand through the ill-fitting frames.

We made dinner and did our best to disregard the din. When we went to bed, however, it was difficult to sleep. First the noise of the khamsin kept us awake. It made Mary particularly uneasy and agitated by all the noises throughout the house. Meanwhile, the fall in barometric pressure gave her a headache.

By morning, it was quiet and clear outside, the storm had subsided. Neither of us slept well that night. We were both tired and moved slowly and tentatively. After breakfast we drove to the entrance to Petra and began our visit.

Petra was the capital city of the Nabateans, nomads from southern Arabia, who ruled over a powerful trading nation from the second century B.C. until the second century A.D. We approached the entrance to the city along a broad valley path with funerary monuments on either side. These are simple, block structures with large doorways, flat roofs, and raised on pedestals. Then the wide path begins to narrow as the valley walls pull in on themselves. Here begins the actual gorge, known as the Siq, formed by a natural fault through the mountains, the entrance to which was once distinguished by a monumental arch—Babas Siq or the Gate of the Siq. The arch itself has collapsed but the pillars on the sides remain, carved directly from the rock walls. Mary and I paused for a picture and then entered the Siq that is about three quarters of a mile long and cool inside, as it is protected from the sun and kept moist by the water running through it. Along the walls are the rock-cut water channels that brought water from Ain Musa into the city.

The Siq becomes quite narrow and, in places, the rock almost forms a roof above. I found myself struggling to see my footing and had to look down in order to make my way. As I did this, something caught my attention. I looked up and there just ahead was an elaborate, bright-pink facade, framed in the dark slit that is the exit of the Siq. This was the Treasury, a beautiful and imposing structure, hewn from the rock walls, with an imposing monumental entrance. Believed to be a tomb or shrine, the building was built around the first century B.C. in a typically eclectic Nabatean style, combining architectural motifs of Greece and the Near East. Originally thought to have been brightly painted, the building is perhaps more striking now for its natural pink hue.

It was a stunning place, which we explored for about twenty minutes. Then, we passed through another short gorge which opened onto the city of Petra itself. From here you could see the valley and city spread out before you with the high walls encircling the whole. All around funerary monuments stood out along the walls, like sentinels.

A wide path lead into the city center and the large Roman theater on the east end. We walked along, took pictures, and eventually passed through Temenos Gate and entered the remains of the colonnaded main street.

At the end of the street and the city there was a modern cafe. We went inside for a drink and something to eat. Various people were gathered here: travelers, people who had been hiking up in the hills, locals just hanging about. Mary told me that people often come here to go backpacking, climbing through the hills and camping overnight. In the surrounding hills are the so-called high places, more tombs and other holy places. I was eager to go to one of these, but the weather was changing and Mary wouldn’t permit it. She said we needed to start back.

I was reluctant to end our visit, instead I would have enjoyed spending at least another day there, visiting the more remote places and further absorbing the mystery of this place. Petra possessed a sensuality, dominated by the presence of the many tombs that seemed to look down in judgment of all that took place below. Still, the khamsin was returning with intermittent bursts and sudden squalls. Disregarding Mary’s protestations, I was determined to continue exploring and decided to investigate one of the larger tombs east of the cafe. Mary said she’d give me fifteen minutes and would wait at the entrance to the theater. The sandstorm grew stronger and it was difficult to make out the tombs ahead. But soon I did reach Urn Tomb and climbed up to it and entered. Just as I got inside the storm grew quite strong. As I looked out the doorway it was like a blanket had been drawn across it, so thick was the sand. I stepped forward and stood just outside the huge doorway, felt the sand burn my face and quickly moved back inside. I was alone in the tomb, it was rather dark and I decided to wait for the storm to subside. As I waited, my thoughts drifted and I reflected on my situation with Mary. Here in the tomb, alone and sequestered, I found myself looking at the marriage differently.

Maybe during the later part of our marriage Mary was struggling more than I was willing to admit. Maybe the pressure of starting a second career, the prejudices of the faculty, the disappointment at being passed over for jobs—maybe all this was harder for her than I recognized. Maybe her drive to appear strong and self-assured was her defense and prevented her from admitting—even to me, her husband—how difficult it was. Was it my failing to not understand this? Isn’t the spouse the one who should know these things intrinsically and provide support? Had I refused to stand in her shoes and recognize her struggles unselfishly?

But now, with Mary punishing me with what I experienced as disaffection and disdain, I could no longer help her. Throughout this trip, in my own way, I and tried to encourage a discussion and see if we could reach some sort of reconciliation, enough to allow us to continue. But Mary showed no willingness to participate in this effort. I couldn’t do this alone, it required our cooperation. I saw that this marriage had to end.

The sandstorm quieted. I quickly darted out and ran along the path and over to the theater. Mary was still there, impatient, but unable to leave herself because of the storm. Within less than an hour we got back to the truck, went home and out of the storm.

That night Mary and I went to one of the more elegant tourist restaurants near the entrance to Petra, a center of sophistication and elegance. The maitre d’ took our name and suggested a cocktail on the patio while we waited. The khamsin of the afternoon had passed and it was a quiet, windless, spring evening. We ordered a drink.

“I must say, Petra is one of the most unusual and spectacular places we’ve ever visited together. I haven’t been anywhere as breathtaking since our trip along the Aegean coast of Turkey,” I said.

“Yes, it is a special place. It’s a shame we couldn’t spend a little more time, then we could have visited some of the high, holy sites. You’re lucky to come during the off-season before all the tourists.”

“Yes, it certainly makes it a richer experience than I could have had on my own. There’s no doubt,” I offered.

Then the maitre d’ called us in to dinner. During dinner Mary talked about one of her previous trips to Petra. During this discussion I began again to feel impatient with Mary. I was tired of her surreptitiousness—the need to leave Jerusalem immediately and avoiding all my inquiries about her longer-term plans. I wanted a clear statement from her that would justify my resolution to end this marriage. I was willing to provoke her, if necessary, to get what I wanted.

“After your stay here this summer, will you return home by September?” I asked.

“Look, I’m getting sick and tired of your insistent interrogation of me. When I return home is not important in the bigger scheme of things. I’m fighting for my career here. Keeping you happy isn't important.”

“I don’t care what you need any longer,” she continued. “If I don’t stay here, make connections, write my book, then no one is going to hire me. And, clearly, you’re too selfish to help support me while I do this and search for a job.”

I responded, “You’re right, I never intended to fully support you, but that’s irrelevant. The point is you’re too proud and stubborn to be supported. You want the teaching job at a good college. And you deserve it. Don’t tell me you need this job just because I won’t support you. You’ve had your time to do research. My question is, after two and a half years, when does it end?”

“When I decide that it does!”

“Fine, I have the answer I want!” I said, with finality.

We sat silently for a time, eating. The main course was brought to us, the waiter poured some wine. Quietly, tentatively, we talked a little about the history of Petra and then our plans to return to Amman tomorrow. We’d take the inland highway and visit a few crusader castles along the way. We finished dinner without any further incident and went home to sleep.

*

The next day we drove back to Amman. It was also time to return to Jerusalem and for me to head back to Boston. We just stayed over in Amman one night and then got to Jerusalem early the following afternoon. While I had hoped we might make a brief excursion into the old city of Jerusalem with what was left of the day, Mary kept me busy with tasks at the institute, as though she didn’t want to be seen with me out on the streets. I did meet a few of the other institute residents over drinks in Mary’s room and then she and I went to dinner.

After dinner, we went to bed early. I had to be up at 3 a.m. the next day because all return flights to the United States leave the Tel Aviv airport about nine in the morning. I had to be at the airport three hours before departure for the extensive security check-in. I also had to allow another hour or more for the sharoot trip.

When the alarm sounded, I dressed automatically and waited for the sharoot down on the front steps. In the pre-dawn darkness, the van arrived and we stood out on the street loading my bags. We were roughly in the same spot where Mary had met me on my arrival and I was thinking about her cold greeting then.

Bags loaded and fee paid, I was about to get my seat when Mary said,  “You don’t like me much any more, do you?”

The remark took me by surprise, and I said that it wasn’t true. Then we said good-bye, exchanged a brief hug, and I got inside. I waved to Mary as we drove off.

I sat quietly in the dark of the van. I was the first passenger. Mary’s parting remark kept repeating itself in my head—it sounded both resigned and self-fulfilling. Although I wasn’t sure then what I would do following this trip, Mary knew that I was unhappy and wished to change things dramatically. Her statement was the only hint that she shared my disappointment and resignation.

*

Mary and I were finally divorced in late 1996. It took too long to reach this finality. We remained self-righteous about our respective positions and could never reach an understanding that allowed for any co-existence between each other. I’ve never once spoken to Mary since our last day in court.

Nearly five years have past since my trip to Israel and Jordan. In this time the Oslo Peace Accords were signed on October 16, 1995, an event that marked the first true step towards the realization of a Palestinian nation and peace in the region. Prime Minister Rabin, Yasser Arafat, and King Hussein of Jordan came to the United States for the signing at the White House. Much has been written by Amos Oz—writer and founder of Peace Now—about the peace process that precedes this historic signing. In one essay, “Clearing the Minefields of the Heart”, he writes: “Between individuals as well as between nations, it sometimes happens that a fragile co-existence can be made possible only by virtue of inconsistency. The heroes of tragedy, driven by consistency, consumed by righteousness, destroy each other.”