Our tour bus lumbers toward immigration signs labeled in Arabic and English, directing us toward Jordan’s border while we all sit on the edge of our seats ready to disembark. We receive detailed instructions on the tedious entry process, which ends up changing anyway, and I clutch my travel documents excitedly while excitedly picturing this country’s natural wonders. I’ve seen pictures in magazines, many Facebook posts about Petra, and Instagram newsfeeds.

                We slowly maneuver through lines, checkpoints, minimal interrogation, waiting areas, passport stamps, important slips of paper, and luggage rearrangements. Egads. What a process. Lastly we filter through security, sending bags onto the conveyor belt just like an airport, our Jordanian bus driver and new tour guide waiting on the other side. My bags are pulled aside, and I know better than to show exasperation or any sort of annoyed attitude right now. Just let them do their job, Hannah, I tell myself. Several ladies in beautiful pastel head coverings began searching every fold of clothing, every crevice, every makeup pouch. I calmly and patiently wait. More corners, zippered compartments, bags of souvenirs are searched. I begin wondering what on earth they’re trying to find, and whether a stranger placed a threatening item in my bag unbeknownst to me…But I kept an eye on my things the whole time, so how could that be? Our entire tour group now on the air conditioned coach, my Jordanian tour guide strolls in to speed up this process.

                “Do you have a menorah with you?” one of the security ladies finally asks me in a thick Arabic accent.

                “Um yes, in this pink carry-on bag,” I quickly reply, openly inviting her to freely search with no qualms of conscience. Great. We just spent ten minutes on my suitcase alone. Suddenly every item is unwrapped, including my new menorah, a shofar ram’s horn instrument, scented prayer oil, and other Jewish items spread out all over the stopped conveyor belt. Many words in Arabic are exchanged with varying voice intonations. Baffled, my stomach tightens and I innocently watch with confusion, trying to understand the issue here. I feel sweat beading under my arms, the type of sweat no brand of deodorant would successfully stop, my mind desperately grasping onto some shred of logic or knowledge that might help me navigate this situation.

              Finally my Jordanian tour guide calmly leans in and explains, “Hannah there was a recent political issue here just a few weeks ago. Several Israelis recently brought in a menorah, ram’s horn, and anointing oil to film a movie, the premise being that Petra rightfully belongs to Israel. It caused a big stir, and they don’t want these items going into Jordan.” My head spins. The issue revolves around my religious mementos, not me. But it feels personal in a way I cannot explain yet. I breathe shallow breaths, my face hot, looking in shock at my dismantled belongings as he continues, “I’m going to explain you’re a tourist, and try to convince them to let you into Jordan with these items. Let me help, okay?” I nod in agreement.

                We make our way back through a stone walkway tunnel to several entry guards with the menorah and shofar. One of the men glances at my face, then I inwardly gasp as I catch his eyes roaming from the top of my body to bottom, and back up. I tried to pull off “conservative dress” today, but I feel his stare practically penetrating through the fabric, my stomach squirming as I cannot force him to avert this grotesque gawking. I feel like a fish in a fishbowl in a kindergarten classroom. More words in Arabic. Panicked, I perform some emergency self-talk. Stay bold. Pray. Don’t let them see your scared state of mind right now. You know how to play a role when it comes to acting, so be strong here.

                My tour guide introduces himself and encourages me to have a seat as we now wait in the immigration police office. Have a seat?! I have enough adrenaline to run the fastest 5K of my life right now. Have a seat?!! I perch on the edge of a worn down dusty chair, its frayed fabric highlighted by light streaming through a window. Clearly noting my nervousness, Mauyyed begins small talk with me to avert my racing thoughts. Suddenly several men in uniform enter, they take my menorah and shofar from my tour guide, and for what seems like an eternity, Mauyyed and the officials exchange many words.

                I naively blurt out, “But I’m a Christian! I’m touring Israel, and these are really just souvenirs!” The men question me in thick accents, and no amount of justification proves the innocence of these items not to mention the hole I just dug myself deeper into by blatantly announcing my faith in Arab territory, despite the fact this country is working hard to be accepting of other religions and cultures. They ultimately confiscate my things never to be seen again, my mind now dizzy, heart stunned, speechless, and this little room feeling oppressively hot. Mauyyed apologizes to me as we quietly make our way to the tour bus, and he firmly tells me, “Personally? Its nobody’s business what religion you are.”

                Sheepishly I board the coach, making some sort of obligatory apology I feel necessary, “Sorry guys. Had a little issue with immigration,” while making a beeline for the back seat, completely out of character for me. I slump down and hide, trying to calm the whirlwind inside. I quietly cry. Not for “stuff.” Not for items. Not for money lost. Not even for this slightly traumatizing experience. But for my religious freedom- to be Jewish or Christian. Suddenly I long for home, my entire being yearning just for the sight of an American flag and all it symbolizes. During private prayer time before embarking on this trip, I remembered sensing, this trip will be full of perspective. Perspective. Perspective. Now I get it. More so than I wanted.  

                Mauyyed gives us a thorough history lesson as we bounce over cracked, potholed roads, but I obliviously stare out my window, my senses incapable of taking on any more stimulation. I neglect to even think about texting home. We pass dry, arid desert land. Its hot. Its flat. Red dirt. Abandoned buildings. Little roadside establishments selling local food or goods, adorned with graceful Arabic writing, and perhaps a stray camel or goat.

                At the convenience store, they help the men first. I quickly realize I am considered less of a priority here due to simply being female. Slightly aghast, I tell myself to respect this culture’s norms and wear my poker face, but inside my jaw drops as I watch this scenario play out multiple times.

                I notice trash along the streets, graffiti, and pry my eyes away for the comfort of my travel journal instead. While journaling, my handwriting looking like a child’s as the bus thuds and rattles over broken pavement. I hear our tour guide’s voice, “The best resource here is its people, the most important thing is education, and the biggest issue is a water crisis.” One of my biggest loves is water. We can’t drink it here. I feel so far from it. And so far from…Home.

                In Amman, tall white buildings stained by the elements stack themselves like blocks, electrical wires running from one establishment to the next with more European style cars buzzing by. I don’t see any…Well, Westerners. I see various styles of head coverings and turbans, and I can’t read a single sign. Despite my initial negative first impression, our tour guide shows us great kindness, revels over the beauty of his country and why to visit, and enthusiastically speaks of its rich history. The hotel staff welcomes tourists with exceptional customer service, smiles, and grand appreciation. Still feeling a bit uneasy and…unwelcome, I appreciate their warm hospitality and try to keep my whirling mind open.

                The trip results in spectacular activities despite a rough start. We visit the Iraq Al-Ameer Women’s Co-Op, an organization run by women for women to further their workforce skills. With unemployment at 33% for ladies in urban areas, and up to 45% in rural areas, I admire the idea of creating a sanctuary for them to begin earning income. We partake in a delicious meal- vegetables, rice, and dips laden with exotic spices surrounded by mysterious foreign herbs, the taste lingering on my inquisitive pallet, deciphering flavors and savoring simple richness. I wonder where to find these seasonings back home. We admire the women’s art pieces, and giggle at the older lady shooing off feral cats with a stick, sharply saying something in Arabic to them.

                We visit impressive Roman ruins in two different cities, the daily call to prayer siren eerily wailing as I wipe sweat, rearrange my camera to the other shoulder for the twentieth time, and finish yet another large water bottle. We soon come across three men jovially playing bagpipes in the amphitheater, a musical instrument apparently not limited to Ireland and Scotland. Several locals mingle for the impromptu concert, our group meanders in, and we perch ourselves on white stone seats warmed by desert sun, ready to sit after wandering around in oppressive heat. The men finish playing, and our tour manager asks if anyone in our group sings…Everyone sits on their hands. Not one volunteer. I nervously look around, and before I could think, my hand shot up into the air. Oh God NOW what’s coming? I think.

                “Stand here,” my tour guide Mauyyed instructs with a warm smile, the bagpipers now standing around for my impromptu little show and an air of heavy anticipation hushing my trip mates.

                “Sing something!” Someone shouts out. The National Anthem? A song…Any song…What song?! My mind races, despite my years of musical training and plethora of song choices to draw upon. “Amazing Grace” whirs through my head. It blares through my inner ear, refusing to hush, so I begin to sing,

                “Amazing grace…” The amphitheater falls as silent as a sound proof room. Someone echoes,

                “How sweet the sound…” My cue. From the depth of my spirit, every lyric rolls off my tongue, every voice lesson, every worship practice, and solo rehearsal. Every inch of breath space, my soul clinging to His power in this moment, projecting a song from the depth of my being, the sound ricocheting, waving, racing up the structure and producing the most magnificent, unimaginable acoustics I’ve ever heard. I lean into the words, press into each syllable, launching my notes like playing keys of a piano in my mind. As it draws to a close, I suddenly notate my shaking legs and trembling hands.

                Now, some adventures I anticipate. Perhaps a wild night of dancing, some sort of travel hassle, reservation debacle, interaction with an eccentric individual, or something involving elements of danger. But singing a Christian song in a Roman amphitheater in front of Middle Eastern bagpipers with Muslim onlookers in an Arab country wasn’t one of them!

                We visit Petra. Horse drawn carts rattle through the canyon at blazing speeds, ancient red stone structures rise majestically from the ground, each attraction bustling with tourists, camels, merchants, and animals. Saturated with rich history, I now wish I’d read more on Petra. We hike to the Monastery.

Longing for my Colorado hiking gear, I shift my heavy camera equipment, rearrange my bag, and drinking water proves unhelpful for my strange dizziness right now. I sit, leaning my head down, blood rushing to my hot face as hair sticks to sweat. I try to deeply breathe. I smell donkey shit. Flies perpetually land on my skin, gnats flitter, and I hear the sound of local mountain dwellers calling out, coaxing us to buy goods from their little huts. Bewildered, I sometimes see children by the path’s side, selling jewelry or rugs, or occasionally leading a donkey up the trail. Right before my eyes, I watch aghast at the mistreatment of animals here, or at least according to our Western standards. I want to go home so bad. I use putrid facilities at the top, an exercise in holding my breath I prefer never to repeat.

                The Wadi Rum Desert. More vast expanses of dry land, picturesque views, caravans of camels, and colorful saddles. We take a 4x4 tour, the truck wildly bouncing over red dirt, ripping through red ground baking in the blazing hot sun. We hike up a sand hill putting off searing heat like an oven (not recommended in flip flops) upon which we see Saudi Arabia in the distance, with the option to take a snowboard down. My feet practically broiling on the ground beneath us, scorching even the undersides of sneakers, we rally down the searing hot mound of earth and pile back into the truck, one of which has no speedometer. We make our way back, passing Saudi oil trucks and slogans painted on walls such as, “Education is the movement from darkness to light.”

                Mauyyed shows me extra graciousness throughout the trip. At one particular overlook stop, he slowly approaches me with a smile as I fiddle with my camera settings. I feel at odds with my camera at this point in the trip, exasperated with its nuances and level of devotion required to carry the thing everywhere. I look up, and he extends a beautiful scarf in his hands, lowers his head and voice, quietly but firmly stating, “This is from me, on behalf of the Jordanian people, to apologize for what happened to you at the border.” Once again, I am reminded never to lump an entire culture into one particular stereotype or judgement, but to look at individuals.

                The Muslim women I met showed me a beautiful level of kindness. Not all the men treated me sub-par, nor did every guy gawk or stare. Our tour guide brilliantly represented his country, and although I plan to visit other places in the world besides Jordan in my coming years, I will always remember his thoughtfulness and the priceless perspective this experience gave me.