Jamal Khawaldeh

The border crossing had changed since the last time I was here. New fences, new guards, but the same waiting, the same dust in the air. The bus was packed with others making the journey—some for business, some for family, some for reasons they kept to themselves. I sat near the window, watching the road signs in Hebrew and Arabic blur past as we neared the bridge.

At fifty-four, I had made this trip more times than I cared to count. I was from Amman, Jordan, but my brother’s grave was in Jerusalem, in a cemetery that overlooked the hills, quiet except for the crows that perched on the stones. He had been gone for years, but obligation didn’t fade with time.

When we reached the checkpoint, the soldiers boarded with their rifles slung across their shoulders, young men with sharp eyes. They moved down the aisle, checking passports, looking too long at faces, searching for something invisible. When one stopped beside me, I handed him my documents without a word.

"Why are you traveling to Israel?" he asked in Arabic, his accent sharp.

"To visit my brother’s grave."

He studied my face, then the passport, flipping through the pages too slowly. He wasn’t in a hurry. We never were, but they never had to be.

“Step outside,” he said.

I followed him into the sun. The others on the bus avoided my gaze. This was routine. Some were pulled aside, most were not. I had been chosen today.

They searched my bag, my pockets, my shoes. Another soldier asked me the same questions in different words. Why are you traveling? Where will you stay? How long? He asked if I had ever been arrested. I had not.

It took an hour before they let me go. No explanations, no apologies. Just a nod toward the road ahead.

When I reached the cemetery, the city stretched out below, untouched by the small humiliations that played out at its gates. I placed my hand on the rough stone of my brother’s grave. The dust here was the same as in Amman, the same as in every place we had ever been.