I pulled up a crime, a cold-blooded one.  It was meticulously planned for months and hatched across continents.  It had to be executed in the hottest bed of terrorism.  Everything was done precisely, but my knees started wobbling when crossing the bridge.  I was about to commit the crime.

I felt the neck chain with the dog tag where my Kolkata addresses were engraved.  If unlucky, these soldiers were trained to open fire in the blink of an eye.  But they were professionals.  They would dutifully send my dog tag with a note.  My mom, in Kolkata, would receive it through diplomatic channels.  She will at least know I will never return.  That didn’t stop my wobbling knees on that rickety steel bridge.  Now, let me explain why I had to do it.

It all started in 1977 in Evanston, Illinois, the home of the venerable Northwestern University.  They had a travel club where students often presented their travel slides and exchanged experiences.  Someone gave a lecture on how she crossed overland to Israel from Jordan, which didn’t even recognise Israel’s statehood.  In those days, if a passport was stamped with an Israeli visa, Jordan would consider it invalid and wouldn’t even allow it to enter their country.

After the show, I bought coffee for the girl and her friends in Norris, their student centre.  We discussed the nitty-gritty of their travel experiences.  One of the girls in the group, who must be well-informed and possibly a political science major, said something striking, “We have US passports, a friendly nation to both Jordan and Israel.  We don’t need visas before reaching there.  India does not have full diplomatic relations with Israel.  They only have a consulate in Bombay.  So check it out, buddy” – million-dollar advice!  I asked if a consulate is not a diplomatic relation.  She explained, “No, a nation must have an embassy for a full diplomatic relationship”.

Men are always sinister.  One of them announced, “Imagine he goes to the Israel border, and they kick him back with a refusal stamp on the passport.  Then, Jordan will not consider his passport valid with an Israeli stamp on it.  He will be stuck at the border forever.”  We all laughed, but I started to think about it on the El (elevated train) while returning that evening.  Crime planning had to be initiated.

India established proper diplomatic relations with Israel in the 1990s, but I had been planning for the visit a decade before.  I researched in the University of Chicago library and walked into the Israel embassy near the Chicago River downtown.  I told the desk girl my requirements.  She asked me to sit in a typical Midwestern accent, and the boss came out for the interview.

Mr Avraham had close-cropped hair and a barrel chest.  He wore an ordinary jacket but an expensive Van Heusen tie.  He spoke fluent English with a thick Yiddish accent.  I fantasised that this man must have Mossad training and was rehashing his manual in mind.  Now, I have to prove that I know what I want.

At first, I didn’t talk about crossing the Jordan River.  I asked about joining a Kibbutz as a volunteer.  He was startled and smiled.  He said, “I don’t think an Indian can work as a volunteer in Israel.  Tel Aviv has no such policies.” He was lying to fend me off, but I was prepared.  I spent several evenings in the ‘Reg’ for nothing.  Reg or Regenstein Library, the University of Chicago’s central library, was one of the most famous libraries in the world.

I meekly produced a photocopy printed in the Regenstein by Ein Gedi, a well-known Kibbutz.  It listed India, from which people joined as volunteers.  He carefully read it and looked at me when I fired my second salvo.

I said, “My present employer was doing some studies for future expansion of the Lod.” The word Lod startled him.  He said, “Did you mean the airport?” I said, “Yes, the Ben Gurion, of course.” Lod was the old name of Ben Gurion Airport, which I learned from a project report in our office library.

Spending a month in the Kibbutz would help me to improve future project reports.  Whether he was Mossad-trained or not, I could sense a dilemma in his face.  He could not so easily say goodbye to someone who might return with a letter from the higher-ups.

At that time, I sent my last feeler, a trick question.  I asked, “If border guards would allow me to enter via Allenby Bridge.” But men were men.  He acted like the Northwestern student who wanted me to be stuck on the Allenby Bridge forever.  The officer chuckled, “Any foreigner with a valid visa could enter by the Jordan River.” He knew well but didn’t mention that the David star on my passport would make me an untouchable at any Jordan entry point.  I could never reach the Allenby Bridge exit point in Jordan with an Israeli visa on my passport.

I asked if I could get the visa on a separate piece of paper.  He realised that I had ignored his trap and possibly got angry.  He narrowed his eyes and said in a grave tone, “Israel does not give visas other than on passports.” Again, he could have explained the whole truth.  They only provided visas on passports, which was correct.  But they also issued stay permits separately, which should have been mentioned.

The critical query of whether they would give me a stay permit on the Allenby Bridge remained unanswered.  I decided to activate the convoluted plan of beating the bureaucracy.  He closed the discussion and said, “Come back with an official letter of acceptance from the Ein Gedi.  It has to be verified by Tel Aviv; it might take time.” I got what I needed and left his table with a profuse thank you, but the crime planning continued.

Kibbutzim is something unique to Israel.  Hundreds of people joined to live together in communes, giving up their ownership rights on the land.  Daily essentials like the kitchen, nursery, pharmacy, and barber services were free for members.  The members worked freely to produce goods that generated funds to run the Kibbutz.

It was a rare example of people voluntarily giving up their rights to form a utopia that communists dreamed of.  It was possibly taken off when Jews came to their promised land to create Zion with their dreams but no resources.  However, it was never a significant movement.  Less than three per cent of Israelis live in Kibbutz.

Kibbutzes devised an astute plan involving tourism, spreading their messages, and acquiring additional hands during harvesting seasons.  They actively encouraged volunteers to work in the Kibbutz for a few months in exchange for free food, accommodation and some token money.  Initially, kids from the Jewish diaspora worked as volunteers, but the program became secular with time.  European countries became affluent in the sixties after the war.  The concept of a gap year started taking root.  After high school, students took time off to travel, volunteer work, etc.

In the States, the hippy movement provoked young generations to leave their comfort zone and taste life differently.  Kibbutzes tapped these young groups to have a steady supply of extra hands.

Volunteering in Kibbutz has matured into a popular program where young people worldwide congregate for cross-cultural exchange in a safe and meaningful environment.  I wanted to taste the same.

A volunteer organisation in New York City arranged volunteers for the Kibbutz.  I collected the addresses from the Student Volunteering information section in the Reg and applied to their New York office.  They scheduled an interview with Jonah, their Chicago representative, in a Jewish community centre.  It was on the North Side of the town, near my residence.  I wore a formal dress, white shirt, tie, and a jacket for the interview.

He reviewed my application and asked, “You are an engineer earning a decent salary; what makes you interested in volunteering for free in a Jewish community?” What he didn’t say but locked in his heart was, “You are a heathen brownie who sneaked in and somehow settled in the US, your dreamland.  Then why are you after our promised land?” Luckily, I was prepared for his query while studying in the Reg.  I started lucidly.  “Have you heard of the Baghdadi Jews of Calcutta?” I knew his face would be blank, and I started a long story with authority.

“When I was a kid, my uncle took me Christmas shopping at a century-old plaza, which we surprisingly called the New Market.  We went to a famous bakery called Nahoum for Christmas cakes.  I didn’t know about Jews then.  I later learnt that Nahoum was a Jewish name from the Old Testament.  It was a fortnight before Christmas, but there was hardly any fruit cake.  Instead, the whole place was stocked with jelly-filled desserts I never had before.  I wanted to know the name of the cake.

The owner was a tall, fair-complexioned, heavy-set person with a skull cap who stooped to say, “We call these doughnuts soofganee.  When we bake these, we are having our light festival, like your Diwali.  Try it; you would like it.  Christmas cakes will be baked next week.  I had no idea he was talking about the Hanukkah festival, but the soofganee was divine, and that’s all I could remember.”

Then, I told Jonah about the Jews in Kolkata.  To escape prosecution, some Jewish families drifted from Baghdad during the British era.  They did well in business.  We had about half a dozen synagogues in Calcutta and a couple of schools, including one called Elias Meyer School & Talmud Torah.  It meant a religious school in Hebrew.  Jonah became keenly interested and exclaimed, “They taught Jewish Scriptures in Calcutta!”

I countered, “What was wrong with it?  The cemetery I visited might have two thousand graves, each having tablets in Hebrew.  Unfortunately, I could not read these.  There was even a Genizot structure in the cemetery.” I knew he would be impressed.  Genizot is a kind of graveyard of worn-out scriptures that they can’t just throw away but demand a burial.  He was fascinated by now when I dropped the tale.

I continued that one of my granduncles, Peary Mohon, was married to Simcha Gubbay, a Baghdadi Jew.  Peary converted to Judaism also.  Their two daughters, Regina and Hanna, were my aunties.  They were stalwarts in women’s education when India became independent just before Israel was formed.  My aunts did not emigrate to England like their relatives but took part in nation-building.  I was proud of them and wanted to know more about Judaism that gave them such convictions.

He picked up a pen and started notes about Calcutta, Iraqi Jews, Regina etc.  My story, in reality, was only a half-truth.  I heard of Peary Mohon last month while researching Jewish connections in Calcutta.  Peary was never related to me, but the rest of the story was factual.  My family name, accidentally matched.  I hoped to get away with the alibi.

He listened and accepted the reason for my interest in Jewish heritage.  A Hindu from Calcutta settled in Chicago but claimed to have converted Jews as ancestors, which interested him in Kibbutzim and led him to join a volunteer programme, a heady mix for sure.

Before an acceptance or recommendation, he will surely ask his scholarly colleagues to check out Baghdadi Jews and Regina, Hanna from his notes, and they will most likely visit the same place, the Reg, from where I dug out this story.  I had nothing to worry about.

But he still lingered with his last question, “You are a white-collar person.  A manual job in the arid weather of Israel might be challenging for you.” I was ready with an answer.  I produced an old photo ID card identifying me as a food industry worker in Oklahoma.  I said, “I flipped burgers on weekend nights to fund my tuition.  I would do the same here.” He resigned and accepted a brown fellow for the first time, which he then confessed to me.

I had a special request to volunteer work for one and a half months instead of the usual three or six.  Jonah was almost relieved to see it and readily approved.  At least, his all-white flock from Chicago will be less polluted with brown skin for one and a half months.

I had a distant uncle living in Paris.  He didn’t mind hosting me in his apartment.  The crime happened while residing there.  My passport was full of stamps.  I needed a new one for further travel.  The Indian Embassy in Paris was next to a park near the Claude Monet Museum.  I walked from the museum and appeared at the embassy desk.  I showed them the passport.  They took the fees and asked me to come two days later.  The embassy resolved the issue of too many stamps using an arcane method.  They sewed the passport with another blank one and put a colossal lacquer seal on the sewing threads to authorise it.  This was a perfectly legal means.

I happily wandered off to the Normandy coast to the famous St. Michel.  The abbey could only be reached by a causeway during low tides.  After a week, I returned to Paris.  I dropped off the metro near my uncle’s apartment and went to a bank across the street.  I encashed fifty dollars of traveller’s cheque when they verified my name from the passport.  I was vigilant inside but casually put the passport back in my jacket pocket.  I walked back to the apartment with high adrenaline in my veins.  I immediately hid the passport in a concealed pocket of my side bag.  I waited for my uncle to return from work and faced him with a grim face at the dining table.  I claimed I lost the passport while exchanging money in the bank.  That was the last time I saw it.

From his expression, I could not guess if my uncle was disgusted with such botherations after office.  Still, we went to the police station immediately in his car with a spare photocopy of the passport.  It was only about a few minutes drive.  I didn’t follow a thing in their fast-spoken French, but the young lady case officer possibly called the American Express bank.  My uncle explained that the bank teller confirmed that the passport was verified at the counter but was returned, and it was not dropped into the lost and found section as if all lost passports were deposited in the lost goods section.

I couldn’t help but notice the dark red lipstick and the nose ring, punk fashioned at the time, worn by the lady.  Americans were more conservative and wouldn’t put on a piece of punk jewellery while on police duty.  She finished her job in five minutes and issued a paper describing the loss.

I ventured to the Indian Embassy the following morning, armed with the police report.  The middle-aged Indian bespectacled lady at the desk looked intently at me and admonished, “How could you lose the new passport?” In such instances, she chuckled; “We could only give you a paper to return home.  You should apply for a new passport from your permanent address at Calcutta.” A cold wave passed through my spine, but I still kept a brave face.  I said that would be expensive.  She replied, “What can I do?  I have to follow the rules.” I was thinking of the Indian bureaucracy.  These IFS officers were among the best brains in the country and could come up with such oppressive regimes.

When I was thinking all this, she relented a bit.  She waited a few seconds and said, “Unless the consular approved the case, I cannot help but give you a one-way passport to home.” At that instant, I felt I was technically in India inside the embassy.  Thus, I am facing its famed bureaucracy.  I missed noting it in the first place because of a long absence.  She was showing her might.  I must bow down now.  Since it was in Paris, I was afraid to place a fifty-dollar bill on the desk.  Instead, I switched to my terrible Hindi and said, “Only you can save me, mam; please help!” She barked, “Pay the fees now, and come next week.”

I left Paris again for Marseille in the south of France.  It’s a large city with typical trappings like excellent museums and a vital basilica.  However, the wonder was the Marseille beaches.  There were nudist and gay beaches at the fringe areas, but the chicks went topless on the regular beaches.  Unlike in the US, bare breasts were not against the law.  I used to go to the beach each afternoon with a bowl of Chichi frégi, pronounced somewhat like ‘sisi few,’ local munchies.  It looked like French fries but tasted like sweet ‘namkeen‘, Indian munchies.  Aha!  What a great taste!  No!  Not the namkeen but the topless girls.

The bird-watching week passed like a whirlwind, and then I had to catch the night train to appear before that dreadful bespectacled lady at the Indian Embassy.  She was more likeable this time and gave me a passport without much fuss but warned me not to lose it again!  I said, “Thank you.” I quickly walked to the nearby garden to celebrate the crime of holding double passports.  I ordered a glace, which is an ice cream cone.  I returned to my uncle’s apartment.  Using my brand-new passport, he helped me apply for new visas in Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Egypt, etc.

I found that I was lucky to obtain a new passport in Paris.  In the Syrian Embassy, I noted that an American couple was grilled because they did not take visas from their hometown in New York.  They were quiet with my case, possibly because my passport was issued in Paris.  The old one, now stitched, had the Israeli visa obtained from Chicago months ago.  I picked up additional visas on the stitched one for places like Greece, Cyprus and the Balkan countries.  My uncle wasted his time helping me with visas.  He was finding the embassy locations and reading French instructions.  Luckily, he missed seeing the stamped visa pages.  I could not have shown him the Balkan countries’ visas on the stitched passport.  Maybe he knew what I was doing but never embarrassed me.  After getting ready, I said goodbye to my uncle and journeyed towards the East.

I drifted through countries to surface in Amman, Jordan, for a few days’ rest.  One fine morning, I went to the Abdali bus station and managed to get a seat in a battered Peugeot station wagon service taxi.  I remembered how easily I passed through immigration in Beirut with my new passport. The officers didn’t even ask to see my Cyprus exit stamp. At the time, Lebanon was in the midst of a civil war and Beirut was already divided along religious lines. No one seemed to care about mundane matters like passport stamps. There were six other border crossers in the car, all from Western countries.  Some discussed the time limit of the stay permit Israelis issued at the border.  I remembered my interview with Mr Avraham in downtown Chicago, who needed to clarify whether a stay permit would be given to me.  Then, this second passport would have been avoidable.

My mood dipped.  I started rehashing the immigration desk encounter.  I remembered the Greek port and the Russian train station where I had trouble.  The sudden kiss of a soldier and the hike under the Arctic sun returned to my mind like a movie clip.  And then it struck me!  I was saved only because of my Indian citizenship.  Had I been from the West, I would have been a pawn in international politics like the Olympic basketball star Brittney Grinner years later in 2022.  Thus, I settled the plan to deal with the Israeli officer at the border with my Indian-ness in mind.

It took only an hour to reach the Allenby Bridge at the border.  Its history was fascinating.  It was first built by the Ottoman Empire in 1885.  It had to be rebuilt about four times for war damages in the next hundred years.  I could not think of any other bridge that had such records.  The present King Hussein Bridge is a modern concrete affair built in the nineties after the peace treaty with Jordan.  Only automobiles are allowed on the new bridge.  My times were different.  I walked across the rickety steel truss bridge repaired after the six-day war that occurred in 1967.  Saudi Arabia and Jordan have allowed Israeli Muslims to participate in the Haj since 1978.  Since then, Haj pilgrims and foreigners have been allowed to use the bridge.  Israeli citizens were never permitted to cross the bridge.

I paid the Jordanian exit tax Dinars in exact change and received the stamp on my passport.  I practised my double passport manoeuvre routines a dozen times and put the passport correctly in the right pocket of my side bag.  I exited the tin shed and walked towards the bridge with other Western tourists.  I remembered the Mahabharata story when Judhistir walked towards heaven’s gate.  His wit forced Yama Raja to accept Yudhisthira’s terms.

Similarly, I must convince the immigration officer to open my gate.  Otherwise, I shall be forever crucified in the middle of the bridge.  I knew I was nervous and told myself, “Don’t be a fool; you are no Yudhisthira; just be calm and deal with confidence.” I purposefully walked slower to be the last person on this lot.  There were militias all around.  Both sides were concerned about any weird Palestinian disturbing the fragile peace.

A thought again passed through.  Would the border guards shoot me in a firing squad?  I rebuked myself.  Don’t be stupid, idiot!  At the most, they would put you in jail.  I debated whether in Israel or Jordan.  I recalled the student laughing in the Norris Centre in North Western.  He said, “How about at the centre of the Allenby Bridge?” I assured myself again.  Why were your knees trembling?  With an Indian passport, people may insult you from a beggar country, but they won’t make you an international headline.  That’s right, and I would play my poor-country plan correctly.  Jai Hind!  I reached the end of the bridge and entered Israeli territory.

The checking was intense with scanners and also with hands.  I was ready.  My side bag was almost empty except for some papers.  Even the camera was stuffed in the pack.  They gave me a tag for the backpack, kept it under a shade, and I entered the immigration hall with only the side bag.  I took out the stitched passport from the left pocket of the side bag as practised.  I had to fill out a form.  I inserted the acceptance letter of the Kibbutz volunteer on the Israeli visa page and offered that to the desk.  He rechecked my Indian passport and the Kibbutz letter, separated me from the line, and asked me to sit.

I was relieved because a senior will interview me now.  I saw the English name tag.  A Noam Dahan asked me to a table with my papers in hand.  His first question was, “What would you do after Kibbutz duties?” I was pleased with his line of questioning.  My Indian passport profiled me as a beggar fellow.  Dahan had to judge if I would stay here forever after the Kibbutz work.  I was confident to pass this line of interrogation.

He might then be lenient when the weak points finally arrive.  He was like the Supreme Court judge as far as I was concerned.  I answered, “I am on a world tour.  I travelled through Europe and the Near East.  After Israel, I would go to Egypt and follow the Nile to the south.” “Do you have enough money,” he asked.  I put a bunch of American Express traveller’s cheques in a folder on the table.  He flipped through these and returned.  It had way above the funds that he usually found from backpackers.  I assumed I had passed the test.

Now, he entered into my weak areas.  He was watching my passport stamps.  He appreciated it and said, “You have been to Iceland and Russia.” He noted my Cyprus stamp.  He examined the pages again and asked, “When did you enter Jordan?” I reached the precipice and handed him the second passport without a word.  He raised his eyebrow but said nothing.  He wondered why I chose to visit Lebanon.  I explained, “The cheapest airfare to get out of Cyprus, Sir.”

He smiled, and now, the dreaded question finally came.  “Your government issued two passports at a time.” I replied, “I got them both from our Paris embassy at about the same time.” He checked the issue dates and the photographs, which were the same.  I continued, “Necessity is the mother of invention.  Otherwise, how could I appear on your desk, Sir?” He nodded his head and muttered, “Smart move!” I breathlessly waited for his next move.  He went up to the main counter and stamped on my stitched passport.

When he returned, I asked Mr Dahan the same question I had asked Mr Avraham in downtown Chicago last year.  “Could I have a separate stay permit?” He smiled, “No, a visa must be on a passport.  Indians are not eligible for a stay permit.  I already told you that you made a smart move.  Even if your second passport has irregularities, it’s between you and the Paris embassy.  We are not a part of that.” Ah!  I passed my case from Mr Dahan, my Supreme Court judge of the Promised Land.

Enjoy your time in the Kibbutz.  “Shalom (goodbye)!” I tried to return the greetings I had just learned from my phrasebook: “Shalom aleichem (peace be with you),” but I fumbled.  He smiled and said, “Toda”, will do.  I tried “Toda”, and he nodded.  I left the office, collected my pack, changed some currency and approached the service taxi stand.  I am in the Promised Land!

While walking, I thanked my stars that Noam did not detain me on the Allenby Bridge forever.  I also thanked the political science student at North Western University, whose name I never knew, for raising the issue for the first time.

I was tense and nervous with the Allenby Bridge crossing.  I couldn’t think about what to do afterwards.  Now relieved, I was thinking about my travel plans.  I pulled a guide map from my pack and noted that Jericho was nearby.  I read about it in my middle school bible class.  So, I got interested.  An old Arab fellow wearing a kaffiyeh (head scarf) was waiting alone under a shade resembling a bus stand.  I asked him, “Jericho bus – Jericho bus”.  He didn’t speak English but grabbed my hand and motioned me to stay there.  Western tourists were still walking, crossing me, towards the taxi stand.  A crowded bus stopped, but he showed sign language to wait.  He pushed me up on the next bus.  Someone, I didn’t know if he was a passenger or a conductor, took a loose note from my palm, returned some coins and pushed me further inside the bus.  The guy said, “Jericho, one hour”; someone sitting corrected “Half-hour”.  Maybe he didn’t know the English of the word half.

Being familiar with Indian buses, I had no problem balancing myself in the crowded aisle.  My backpack pushed passengers around me, but the vibe was friendly.  I noted that I was the only foreigner on the bus; the rest were all Arabs.  They could be easily identified from the headdress, even by non-trained eyes.  A thought passed: how come there were no Jews on an Israeli bus?  Then, I remembered I was on the occupied West Bank; Arabs were a majority here.  But it had a darker side that I learnt later in Jerico.

Jews and Arab citizens enjoyed the same legal rights under the constitution, but their societies were vertically segregated.  It was similar to the deep south of the US in the fifties.  Claudette Colvin, a black girl from Alabama, refused to give up her seat on a bus to a white, claiming her constitutional right.  She was arrested, leading the civil disobedience movement of Martin Luther King.  But there were no such chances here.  An Arab bus system was set up by the government where no Jews would ever board.  There were separate schools for Arabs and different rooms for treating patients in health clinics.  Higher education was integrated, but only four per cent of Arabs were in doctoral studies, while the Arabs constituted twenty per cent of the population.  Arabs were generally poor but had never enjoyed a reservation system like in the US or India.  It was indeed a case of second-class citizenship.

I remembered the Jericho story of the Old Testament studied in school.  The direct translation from Bengali would be, “And see!  The Jews blew their trumpets loudly three times.  Lo and behold!  Jerico’s wall fell.” At school, I didn’t imagine that Jerico was real.  It even boasted a credit for having the oldest inhabited place in the world.  Damascus had proof of nine thousand years of habitation.  Jericho even beat it by a thousand years.  It was insanely ancient for ten thousand years.  Some humans became tired of the hunter-gatherer lifestyle, started growing crops here, and never left.

We reached Jericho.  The bus stop was near the police station and the post office.  I found a bed in a nearby backpacker’s ghetto.  Conversations started quickly with the roommate.  George was an accountant, now travelling solo in the Middle East.  We went out to rent bicycles for sightseeing.  We were okay because the road signs were in English.  Among the sights, I was amazed to see the intricate mosaics in the Hirsham palace.  It was only a hunting lodge, but full of mosaic panels.  The mosaics retained their lustre and beauty in the dry climate of Jericho even after fifteen hundred years.  We spent half a day relishing its beauty.       

Geo knew much more about the Arab world than an average Brit.  We were loitering on a square after supper.  I asked him how he knew so much about the Middle East.  He remained silent for a few seconds.  In a desolate place, it is strange that people sometimes talk about their lives and issues to a like-minded stranger they would never meet again.

Geo started, “I am half Arab.” I then noticed he had dark hair and eyes, which was rarer in Scotland.  He continued, “My father was a Lebanese, working in Glasgow.  He faced some paper issues and quickly married Mum.” They were a happy couple till Mum died.  She raised us as Christians.  My sister visits Dad weekly in a care home.  Dad didn’t take us to his family in Lebanon, but he saw them.  I am travelling to see his world and will tell the old man when I return.  He is a Druze, you know.” He looked up at me, but I was blank-eyed.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  I returned, “I am sorry.  Please enlighten me.” He said, “It’s an offshoot of the Moslems, but they believe in reincarnation like the Hindus in India.  Most Israeli Druze live in the north, where you are heading.  I asked, “Why don’t you come with me?”.  He winked, “Sorry, bloke!  Someone I occasionally sleep with is coming to Aqaba for a week’s holiday.”

The following day, we took buses in different directions.  I wanted to work in Ein Gedi, at the Red Sea, where George was heading.  Ein Gedi was a tourist place set in an oasis.  The Red Sea was only half an hour’s drive.  They could not accommodate me.  I headed towards Dafna Kibbutz.  They accepted me as a volunteer for a minimum of two months.  Dafna was in the north of Israel near the border.  The nearest city was Kiryat Shmona, where I got off the bus.  It was famous for a reason I didn’t know then but learnt soon after.  Someone fluent in English showed me the way; he confidently said, “Keep walking and raise your hand for every passing car.  Someone would give you a ride.” It did occur despite my doubts about his assurance for the ride, and a car soon stopped.  Even before my request, the driver enquired, “Kibbutz?” I nodded and boarded in the back seat.  In fifteen minutes, I was at the Kibbutz gate.  Even before I could say, “Toda” (Thank you), the car speeded away with a tail of dust and smoke.

The boundary gate was wide open, and a fellow sat on a stool at the edge.  He surveyed me for two seconds, and I assumed he was gauging if I was an Arab.  He pointed the way to the office.  I started walking towards it.  I moved in and placed my confirmation letter on the counter.  The receptionist checked from a file and asked why I had arrived three days before.  He asked when you flew to Tel Aviv.  I said, “I crossed Allenby.” He was probably surprised and looked up, then nodded.  I sheepishly said, “I reasoned I could join a few days earlier without an issue.” He grunted, “Sometimes we don’t have an empty bed to sleep you in.  You are lucky; I could give you the bed allocated to you.”

He closed the drawers, picked a key with a room tag from a peg, and motioned to follow him.  We passed through barrack-like rooms, reminding me about the Indian Railway gang men’s colonies.  He guided me to Room No. 20B, knocked on the door and moved in.  When I followed him, I was suddenly transported back to the dorm days of my engineering college near Kolkata.  It was the same steel bed with a thin mattress, rickety steel tables, and jackets on the pegs in the walls, with the aroma of stale beers and unwashed sweatshirts mixed with the smell from the unclean bathroom in the corner.

He sniffed with a disgusting face and opined, “Some people like to live as cavemen.  What do they think?  We would hire janitors to clean up volunteers’ mess.” He turned towards me and said, “See!  We have kept all cleaning materials at the end of the hall, but they like to stay dirty.  Huh!  Your mates would come in an hour from work.  Come down to the office at six o’clock for paperwork and bring one of them with you.” He threw the key on my bed and abruptly left.

I went to the toilet.  It might be two months since it was last cleaned.  Hair and pubic hair have clogged the floor drain.  The little waste basket was overflowing.  Cigarette butts were scattered on the floor.  The toilet bowl was soiled with shit stains.  The washbasin sink was also clogged from long beards.  I went out to the hallway and returned with brush and Clorox.  It took about twenty minutes to clean up.  I shaved and returned to my bed.  I wrote a few pages of the diary, then dozed off.

I got back from slumber at the click of turning the key.  A lanky guy with shoulder-length hair and a young, hardly twenty-year-old kid burst in, startled to see me.  The slim one asked, “Where are you from, bruv (brother in cockney)?” in a British accent.  I clarified, “I am James from India, but presently from Chicago.” My roommates introduced themselves.  The tall one, Ed, was from Lancashire and the kid, Ollie, was from Finsbury Park, London.  Ed had been working here for four months and had two months left.  Ollie joined just a month earlier.  Ed fished out a Time Blue (Israeli cigarette) and offered, “Have a drag?” I never smoked; I had to refuse.  Ed burst out into a peal of laughter and exclaimed, “Atta boy” (slang for a good boy).” Ollie went to the bathroom.  He yelled, “Hey!  Atta cleaned up the loo.  He would be the official janitor-volunteer of the Kibbutz and laughed at his own joke.” Thus, Atta became my nickname in Dafna.  I said, “I should go to their office by six and take one of you.” Ollie made a face, “Atta has to write whom he fucked for the first time.” Obviously, it was a joke, but we became dorm mates.

Israel was a security-conscious country; I filled out a lengthy form in the office.  When he started complaining about the dirty room, Ed said, “Our new roommate already fixed the toilet, and we will do the rest.” He looked at me approvingly and pointed out a chart on a notice board to check my duties.  I found myself as a dishwasher for the next week.  It was the lowest rung of menial jobs in Western countries.  Students often started their working lives as dishwashers for pocket money.  I was relieved.  I launched my odd job career as a dishwasher in the backcountry of the USA.  I fought Christmas and New Year’s Eve dishwashing battles in restaurants.  We went to dinner when Ed announced me as their roommate, “Atta Boy from Chicago.”

A girl greeted, “Chem Cho”, the Gujrati of How are you.  I replied, “Saru chu,” my only known Gujarati words.  Linda was an architectural student at Urban Champaign, near Chicago.  It was an instant connection between us – we had common ground as I worked at an architectural firm in Chicago.  I even knew some faculty members of her department.  She had Gujrati friends in school.  She assumed all Indians spoke in Gujrati.  She was assigned to the cold section of the kitchen, where they manage dairy and desserts.  It was a rank above the dishwasher.  She gave me a kitchen tour.  The dishwasher model assured me that I could handle it.

Linda came to help on the second day, which I didn’t know then.  She told the boss I had grill handling experience in fast food joints.  The boss went to the washer and watched me from a distance.  I knew someone had come but didn’t have time to see.  Breakfast plates were piling up.  I only said, “Good morning.” After a day of practice, I regained my composure in dishwashing and was dancing between the wet and dry sides of the machine.  Breakfast plates always had fried egg remains on plates and syrups in cereal bowls.  Yolks and honey were both sticky and often required rubbing with a sand cloth.  I felt the shadow still there and repeated ‘Boker tov’, my newly learned Hebrew good morning.  While picking up the coffee cups from trays, an American volunteer remarked, “Good try, Atta”, smiled and ran away to set up tables.  I put my last tray in, switched on the wash and turned around.

The kitchen supervisor was standing.  Ben was not a volunteer like us but a Kibbutz member in charge of the whole food service.  He spoke English fluently but with an accent.  He winked, “What did you learn in the States, Atta – only dishwashing?” I saw the joke and said, “Here you meet the Illinois state champion dishwasher.” The boss grinned and said, “Linda tells me you managed a McDonald’s kitchen in Chicago.” I laughed and joked, “Oh, she must be in love with me.” But then I became serious and explained, “Actually, I only did summer jobs on hotplates in a pancake house.” The boss responded by saying, “That will do.  We’re in dire need of a cook; we need your help, Atta.” Soiled plates were already piling up in deep trays.  He asked a busboy to take care of the dishwasher for a while and motioned me to follow him.

I was thinking about my new name, Atta.  I had a very similar-sounding nickname in my undergrad dorm at Kolkata.  How slim was the probability of earning rhyming dorm names across continents?  I later found out that Atta was a common Arabic name.  Since I could pass as an Egyptian, Ben thought it was my real name.  In the pre-nine-eleven world, an American Egyptian could easily be a Kibbutz volunteer without facing any raised eyebrows.  After nine-eleven, Atta became dreaded for masterminding the destruction of the World Trade Centre.

By then, I was standing before the grill, a cook wearing a white cap working furiously to manage the orders.  I remembered the State Health inspector’s warning in Oklahoma, “One must not stand before a cooking device without hair nets.” I picked one from the shelf, moved aside, wore it on my head and washed my hands.  The boss nodded and started, “Atta, I am giving you an order for three at a table.  Let’s see how you can handle it.” I faced many vivas in my student life.  The first one was at the undergraduate final, where I almost failed.  I did progressively better in subsequent tests.  Let’s see for this one!

I murmured, “Inshallah”, and read the order.  The boss kept it simple, like fried eggs sunny side up with buttered toasts, cheese omelette with french fries and a pancake plate.  I didn’t try the flourishes like cracking two eggs at a time, but I tried to work at a steady pace.  He knew that standing behind a cook caused irritation and left me.  I had difficulties finding ingredients in a new setup, but I tried to do the job well.  I was reasonably pleased with my output, but one of the egg yolks burst out, which would fail me.  I would have thrown it away in the States, but not here.  Ben was still watching me from the other corner.  I said in a sing-song voice, “Pick up the plates.” Ben came forward and picked up the leaked fried egg.  He motioned me to have my breakfast.  I picked up the pancake because I was unsure how it would turn out with unfamiliar batter and implements.  Linda was watching; she picked up the omelette with cheese and the french fries.  The boss raised his eyebrows at her.  Linda judged, “Pretty good!” The boss told the chef, Jacob, “Be happy with Atta.  Train him as you need.” So, I became a cook’s helper.

“The gang caught me in the evening at the volunteers’ Moadon (club),” Ollie demanded beer for my progress from a janitor to a cook.  I thanked Linda and gave her a firm handshake, which she returned.  I held my palm for a second more than needed, and she waited.  Or it could be my imagination.  We retired at about nine, half drunk, and this was the Kibbutz life – hard work but real fun.

The club was a large room where we drank free coffee or paid for the beer.  On Thursday evening, the beginning of the weekend in Israel, they had a fountain of gin and tonic – more gin and less tonic.  Moadon was the most rewarding place of the Kibbutz life.  Young people from a dozen countries sat in the same room and talked about everything under the sun except probably Jewish policies towards the Arabs.  During my stay, we had volunteers from Western countries like North America and Europe and faraway places like South Korea and Paraguay.  Such opportunity was the main reason why people gathered at the Kibbutz. 

Hash (Hasheesh) was discouraged but available to those who longed for it.  Israelis had a Western outlook towards sex that it was a relationship between two consenting adults where outsiders had no business.  Pills were available over the counter.  Women had easy access to termination for accidents.  Finding a secluded bed was a practical problem in the Kibbutz, but people could still manage it.  Hash, sex and meeting international friends had an attraction that would offset the hard labour freely provided by volunteers.  As a business case, Jews came up with a clever scheme for extra hands at negligible cost by creating a magical place for the Western youths.

Dafna faced a severe security threat, but it didn’t hinder the flow of volunteers.  The area was close to the northern border with Lebanon, less than ten Kilometres away.  Various extremist factions, the Palestinian Liberation Organisation or Hezbollah, often launch Katyusha rockets targeting Kiryat Shmona.  Katyusha was a Russian multiple rocket launcher that rained missiles on the city.  It was more like the V1 & V2 that Hitler used against London.  These were not specifically targeted to a point like the current intelligent missiles.  The defence was theoretically simple, and Israelis have done it since the nursery school.  One should move to a bunker if nearby or go under a table or bed.  Those who were courageous may go out and look up to the sky.  When a streak of fire comes down to you, dive to the ground and pray that splinters will miss you. 

The siren suddenly blared one morning during my fourth week’s stay; a distant thud followed by a closer one that shook the ground.  I was at the dishwasher during the morning rush.  Volunteers were making nervous noises while a few kibbutzniks moved quickly but calmly.  Military training took over their mindsets.  Jacob, the cook and another one sprinted towards a locker and unlocked it using keys from their belt.  A helmet and a Uzi submachine gun appeared, and they quickly disappeared through the door.  Other kibbutzniks shepherded us under the tables.  One was turning off the power points.  An eerie silence filled the room as explosions continued outside.  Suddenly, a massive blast shook the area.  I noticed that the kibbutzniks had tightened jaws but did not swear.  Maybe it was part of their training.  In the late afternoon, we went out to see the nearest debris.   I was surprised that only a five-foot-long weapon could cause such devastation.  Splinters cut down trees like matchsticks.  The volunteers were excitedly talking during supper, but Jacob was as calm as ever.  I then realised the importance of compulsory military training for Israelis. 

One day, I started at seven in the kitchen.  Ed, my roommate, left at four when I was sleeping to start the morning shift at the shoe factory.  Ollie left with me for his work in the zip workshop.  I was working in the kitchen, serving breakfast and, after that, lunch.  Ed nabbed me in the dining hall and winked.  He said, “Got a fish to hook, attaboy.  She might come with me at three.” It means Ed needs a lonely room, and I cannot return to bed after duty for my diary time.  I have to get lost after work.  I managed to sit with a cup of coffee next to Linda after duty hours.  I pitched, “What would you do now?” She returned, “Take a shower and then a nap.” I sighed, “Ed is fishing and needs a lonely room; I am homeless.  I am thinking of visiting the town.  Would you come?” She didn’t hesitate, “Yes, but after a shower.” She hurried to her room.  I watched the fluid rhythm of her jean-cladded ass and thought, maybe I should start fishing.

We were lucky to get a ride from a Kibbutz van.  They dropped us at Kiryat Shmona, which meant the town of eight in Hebrew.  They named the city because eight Zionist militiamen established the settlement.

The driver told us to wait at about eight when they would return through this corner.  Linda wore some makeup that she hardly used on duty.  I could sense the familiar fragrance of a famous but cheap brand called Charlie Blue.  A student, of course, cannot afford a better one.  I gazed at her appreciatively and exclaimed, “Looking great, Charlie’s Angels.” It was a popular TV series.  She wrinkled her nose and asked, “Do you like Charlie?” I said for two reasons.  First, they hired “Naomi for the ad.” Naomi Simm was the first coloured model to market a fragrance in the US.  A newspaper reported that some racist whites avoided Charlie since then.  I wanted to pass a message that Linda was not of that kind.  She just shrugged.  Secondly, I chuckled, “You wear it.” It was an open flirtation, and I expected her to roll her eyes up with a swearing.  But she blushed, and I was boldened. 

We reached the club by six.  It was yet to be crowded.  The music started at 6.30, and we danced for a number.  I hardly knew how to dance but swayed my hip with music.  Linda was much better.  She became the centre of attraction with Israeli men all around her.  A local asked her to dance.  She looked at me.  I shrugged but told her under breadth, “Watch out!”  She squeezed my wrist and went to the dance floor.  They danced well.  The boy was even better than Linda.  After the second one, she returned to the table with the dismay of others in the line.  I murmured, “Don’t make them crazy and get raped.” She kicked me under the table and squeezed my wrist again.  Another guy approached our table and insisted that she dance, but she firmly refused this time.  She ordered finger foods but avoided ordering beer from the waiter hovering around.  I knew she wanted to get away from the attention of a dozen Israeli men.

We slipped out quickly after finishing food and before other dancing requests.  We leisurely walked back to the drop location for the way back.  We two sat in the back seat of the car.  I quietly interlocked my fingers with hers, and she didn’t mind.  We were walking back towards our barrack.  In the shadow of the moadon, she suddenly stopped and kicked on my shin.  I was startled and turned around to see her.  She made a face, wrinkled her nose and pouted her lips.  I noticed her inviting eyes and stooped for a kiss, light at first and then a long, deep one.  She hissed, “I longed for it so long, Jimmy.” I kissed her again, and we became friends.  We did not publicly touch each other, but hanging out after work and in the moadon, which was noticed.  Ollie charged me in the room, “Are you fucking that broad, Atta boy?” I innocently asked, “Where?”  Ed assured me, “When you net her, bruv, we will go to the swimming pool bar.” I nodded but thought of something else.

We planned for a trip and worked extra hours at the weekend.  The kitchen supervisor checked the duty roaster and allowed us two and a half days of breaks.  Ben said with a smile, “Have a good time.” He then looked at me and cryptically added, “Be responsible.” I was thinking about his remark and suddenly realised what he might have meant, among many other possibilities.  I smiled when I remembered that a travel mate had given me three pieces of Durex in Damascus, still in my backpack.  I could also buy some more from the Kibbutz store.

I wanted to visit Nebi Shu’ayb, a pilgrimage of the Druze near the Sea of Galilee; Geo lectured about it in Jerico.  I was fascinated that Druze believed in rebirth.  Linda was aware of the Hindu reincarnation beliefs because of her Gujarati friends and readily agreed.  We worked for the breakfast hours in the kitchen on Monday, helped ourselves with a hearty meal, and then hit the road.  I asked her a few days before if she had ever hitched, which I should not have asked.  She never did but wanted to try with me for the first time.  I became worried because hitchhiking could be tedious, as one may have to beg for a ride for hours.  It could be a demeaning and insulting experience if approached with a typical attitude.  I scolded myself, “Stupid; your almost honeymoon trip would be ruined from exhaustion.” The easy alternative was to go to Kiryat Shmona, a transportation hub and catch a regular bus.  But it was too late; Linda was excited, and I had to join.  Luckily, the distance, like elsewhere in Israel, was short, only about a two-hour ride in a car.

The first ride from the Kibbutz gate to Route No 918 was easy, and the hitching started.  Hitchhiking had a different name here, tremping a Hebrew word, and so did the hand signal.  In the US, hikers would show the thumbs-up sign to request a ride.  In Israel, they show the index finger a little downwards towards the road for the same.

Our hitching took us around the west bank of the Sea of Galilee, a large freshwater lake below the sea level like the Dead Sea.  But, unlike the Dead Sea, it had a thriving fishing industry since Biblical times.  This is Jesus’s country.  He inducted Apostols like John, James or the Simon brothers from the fishing boats of Galilee.  His New Testament miracles, like walking on the water and calming the storm, took place on its shore.  His lecture, Sermon on the Mount, occurred on a nearby hill.  Like all Westerners, Linda knew the Bible storylines and became fascinated when the Bible came alive.             

We had to switch cars three times to reach Tiberias after about five hours, which was only a two-hour drive by car.  Waiting on the shoulder with Linda was not dull.  We were talking about the Bible as well as our lives.  I pushed Linda in the front seat in two rides, which was uncommon in Israel.  The drivers, enchanted by her girlie smiles, took detours to drop us off at convenient spots for our next ride.  The first day of hitching went well in the Bible country.

Tiberias was at the shore of the Sea of Galilee and had survived since Roman times.  King Herod, a character in the New Testament, established the town in honour of Emperor Tiberius.  Famous historian Pliny the Elder chronicled its hot spring bath, now an archaeological site we visited.  The Roman bath was long gone, leaving the ruins, but the hot spring spas survived through the Byzantine and Islamic periods and were still major tourist attractions.  We found a hotel in a tourist ghetto near the hot spring facility.  We were hungry and went to a small eatery on the lakefront, which was laced with ruins from the bygone era.  The fish with lemon sauce was a local delicacy, and they served dates as desserts.  It went well with the wine distilled in a Golan Height Kibbutz.  Their label Gamla Red was famous even overseas.  After supper, we looked for a spa.  A dip in a hot spring after a day of dusty roads was always refreshing.  When we reached there, my mood dipped because they had only separate sex facilities. 

The following day, we took a city bus to Nebi Shu’ayb, the tomb of the most revered Druze prophet.  The Old Testament and Koran said Nebi Shuʿayb was the father-in-law of Moses and a contemporary of Noah.  He was revered by a tribe called Midinites, to whom they were a nabi, representing Allah.  Druze were primarily an offshoot of Islam, but they had beliefs from other religions like Christianity and Hinduism.  They even take guidance from the teachings of Plato.  They believed that Al-Hakim, an Egyptian caliph, was a divine incarnation of God.  Druze religion has developed since then.  Al-hakim disappeared in 1021 when they felt he was reincarnated to a new life.  A priest advised visiting the Ziyara, their main festival, in April, when people visit the tomb.  Like the Hindus, they don’t convert an outsider to their religion.

In addition to Druze, the area was dotted with many religious sites.  Recently, Israeli tourism developed a neat package called Jesus’s Trail.  It was a four-day walking trail from Nazareth and passing through Nebi Shu’ayb.  In my time, the pilgrimage was there but without such a marketing gimmick.  We needed more time to cover all the places.  We hitched a ride to Nazareth, the hometown of Jesus, but it is an Arab metropolis now.  We found a cosy inn in the old city.  Linda went to the room for a shower when I bought a set of blue junk jewellery.  After dinner, I presented her with an unexpected gift.  She was elated. 

Nazareth had so many must-see places.  The Basilica of the Annunciation was where the Angel Gabriel announced the virgin birth to Mary.  The church was new, but the spot was not.  The Roman Emperor Constantine the Great chose Christianity and built the first one.  St. Joseph’s church, where Joseph had his carpentry shop, was built.  The town was dotted with churches made by all Christian denominations. 

We should have returned to Dafna Kibbutz by Wednesday night, but we were in Nazareth visiting churches in the morning.  When we reached Route No 75, it was four in the afternoon.  We expected the usual driving time to take one and a half hours, so we planned for a minimum of three to four hours by tremping.  We would reach at least by eight in the evening.  Hitchhiking after sundown, especially with a woman, should be avoided.  The girl would attract criminals after dark, and the companion would also be at risk.  Above all, very few would slow down at night, and there was a chance of being run over by speeding vehicles.  However, we had to continue to arrive at breakfast duty by 8 am.

We were lucky to reach Kiryat Shemona by half past eight.  I started walking towards Dafna when Linda said, “Could we not spend the night in a hotel and start at the daybreak?” It was music to my ear.  I was dog-tired from travelling since early morning, but that was of least concern.  I said, “Insha Allah (God willing).  Nebi Shu’ayb must have sent his blessings.  She laughed and kicked my shin because she knew why I praised Allah.  We got a ride in a pickup truck early in the morning and reached the Kibbutz kitchen just in time.

Olle nabbed me first.  He shook my hand and asked in a low tone, “Have you knocked her up, Atta?” It was a slang term for making someone pregnant.  I made a face.  “Don’t you know about Hi-Five” (Slang for AIDS)?” Ed appeared, “Fuck you, Atta!  Beer on you in the club tonight.” Such was the Kibbutz life for the volunteers.

All good times had to end, and so did my time in Dafna.  I talked to Linda in the dining room on the last day after duty.  She wore the blue earrings I gave her.  She suddenly asked, “I noticed you maintained diaries.  Did you write about me?” I said, “Sure!  Someday, I plan to write more.  I wish we meet again.” She objected, “Don’t flirt, Atta.  We will never meet again, and you know it.” She brooded briefly and said, “We had a great time.  I will miss you.”  I asked, “Won’t you give me a parting kiss?” She sharply said, “No!  It hurts more.  Don’t you see I am in pain, Jim?” I saw tears in her eyes.  I clutched her palm, and she returned the same.  We remained quiet for a few seconds, and then, she smiled, still with tears.  She said, “This would be my parting touch.” She started the fling with the same derogatory gesture.  She stood up and said, “Goodbye!”  She kicked hard on my shin, turned around and briskly walked away.  I was still sitting on the chair, watching the fluid rhythm of her jean-cladded ass.  It was etched into my memory; that was the last time I saw her.

The following day, I left Dafna without having breakfast because I didn’t feel like meeting her. It would have been painful for both of us. I hit the road with my pack for Jerusalem.