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RETURN TO EGYPT - WITH SENTINEL ISRAEL CORRESPONDENT MARIO URIARTE

BY MARIO URIARTE
Sentinel Israel Correspondent
Mario Uriarte © 2009

The Ride

Rob, Hannah and I took turns posing in front of the “Welcome to Egypt” sign as we crossed the border. We were on break for Sukkot and thought the best way to enjoy the commemoration of the exodus from Egypt was to visit Egypt.

Leviticus tells us to gather the harvest and rejoice before the Lord with a feast, and you “shall dwell in booths, [sukkot in Hebrew] seven days…[so] that your generations may know that I made the children of Israel to dwell in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt.” (Lev 23. 40:43) In Jerusalem, the preparation for this holiday begins the second people have finished the break fast after Yom Kippur. Walking the streets of the old city, I was constantly jumping out of the way of eager children dragging palm leaves as they scurried about. Often the only warning I had was a little boy’s laughter telling me to step aside. Lastly, Sukkot is associated with the consecration of the temple in Jerusalem in the time of King Solomon, which occurred during the holiday of Sukkot.

After our pictures with the sign, we made our way to the last of four checkpoints. The three of us conferred and decided not to speak a word of Hebrew. We were on vacation from America. Under no circumstances whatsoever were we going to let on that we were Jewish. God only knows what they would do to us in a Muslim country if they found out.

No sooner had the final guard welcomed us to Egypt and we were inundated with Egyptian taxi drivers vying to take us and they didn’t even know where we were going. The experience was quite overwhelming. The sun was pouring down on us. Rob and I already drank half our water and Hannah had forgotten to bring any. The three of us stepped to the side and conferred once again about what was going on. A traveler with bright yellow crocks and torn jeans rolled up to his knees squatted next to us as he rolled himself a cigarette. Our conversation with this man revealed he was Israeli and I thought of asking him for help, but the man did not stick around for very long. Without thinking we practically shouted, ‘What part of Israel are you from?’ The man cringed slightly before he answered and then ran away to jump in a taxi to Sinai.

With a plan in mind to haggle, we approached the taxi drivers once again. Cairo, we shouted, and a driver ushered us to his ten person taxi. His asking price was much higher than we wanted to pay. You are from Isreal, yes? a second man asked. Cairo is a six hour drive from the border, the second man explained. The bus takes nine hours and won’t leave for another three. This price is fair.

We knew better than to accept his first offer, but he was not interested in haggling, so we walked away. We continued to cry out, Cairo, but no one else responded. After awhile the driver returned and slightly dropped his price. We reluctantly agreed and sat down on furry pink seat covers in his taxi.

We waited in the shade of the taxi as the driver looked for passengers to fill his empty seats. A group of Arab-Israelis approached him and tried to haggle, but even their Arabic did not spur negotiations. They grew angry with our driver and voices rose. Twice the Arab-Israelis stormed away only to return for one last word. We could not understand them, but the word Israeli was mentioned more than once. ‘Why won’t you ride in our taxi?’ we asked them. ‘How much is he charging you?’ What made you so angry?’ They wouldn’t tell us anything except that we should not ride with that man, and they left for the bus station.

We decided to stay and wait a little longer. About a half-hour later, a second group of Arab-Israelis approached our driver and the same argument erupted. ‘Why won’t you ride with this man?’ we pleaded. ‘What is wrong?’ But they wouldn’t tell us anything either. Rob and Hannah decided there was something to these warning signs and we headed for the bus station as well.

The next bus to Cairo did not leave for a few more hours. We found the same taxi driver at the bus station tying luggage to his roof while six people packed themselves into his van. His friend, the one who spoke English, made one last offer nearly half of what we had agreed to pay an hour earlier, but the best part of the deal was that we could leave at that very moment. We agreed and were finally on our way to Cairo.

We were off and flying. The driver blasted his music at full volume. He swerved around slower traffic. He sent us airborne as we drove over uneven pavement. The dance-remix of the song “Allah Allah Hezbellah” blared over the speakers as we were bearing down on oncoming traffic. At the last second he swerved in front of a truck on our side of the highway. Along the way, he stopped three times to have coffee and sheesha, hookah, and once he pulled on to the shoulder so he could dump cold water over his head to prevent himself from falling asleep.

Thanks to Hashem alone, we made it to Cairo alive. It was late and dark and we had no idea where we were. One of our fellow passengers in the taxi spoke English and helped us find our way to the metro. Toda, thank you, we said to him and instantly cringed after using our Hebrew. We swore that it would be our last mistake. The man saw our reaction and told us not to worry, no one cares.

We got off the metro in downtown Cairo and stared at a map trying to find the street of our hostel. An Egyptian, who owns a café downtown and is married to an American woman in Kansas, offered to help and walked us to the street we needed. Along the way he asked where we were from. ‘The states,’ we responded. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a friendly way. We’re on holiday from school, I said. Oh, he laughed, you mean Sukkot. The man saw the three of us shaking our heads and told us not to worry, no one really cares. At the corner of our street, he pointed to the right and instructed us to walk straight. If you get to the synagogue, you’ve gone too far, he said. We thanked the man and agreed to visit him in his café.

The clerk at the hostel had to copy our passport information for us to check in. Of course, he noticed our Israeli student visa and made the comment, Oh, you’re Jewish. Don’t worry, no one cares. Some hostels refuse to take in Israelis, the man explained, only because they have to fill out extra paper work and it’s more of a hassle, but no one really cares.

The Boulevard

The next morning we walked passed the synagogue on our way to the main boulevard. It’s an impressive cement building with a giant Magen David centered above two columns at the entrance. It was surrounded by a locked fence with a state policeman standing guard behind a bulletproof shield.

Walking down the main boulevard felt like any other big city. What was more interesting than the shops or the architecture was the people. Men walked with interlocked arms. Male couples were holding hands while wearing designer jeans and skin tight shirts. We thought we had found the Islamic gay paradise. Even in San Francisco you don’t see so many gay couples being openly affectionate, except in the Castro. Nearly all of the women were dressed in traditional hijabs, head scarves, and several were wearing the complete burqa. There were a few women, non-tourists, dressed in western cloths, like pantsuits, and revealing their hair, but very few.

In Cairo, there are a ton of book stores and almost every street corner has a magazine stand selling books, too. Some of these places didn’t even have a stand, they simply lay their books on a blanket on the sidewalk. One store had a section of “great leaders” containing biographies on Abraham Lincoln, Gandhi, and Hitler. Our favorite game became find-the-Hitler-book. Every single bookstore we walked into and every single magazine stand had at least one book about Hitler.

In a metropolitan area of over seventeen million people, we, entirely by coincidence, ran into friends of ours from school who happened to be in Cairo as well. One of them was Matt, a Jew who fights the label Conservidox although he adheres more strictly to Halacha, Jewish law, than most conservatives but wants nothing to do with the Orthodoxy. Andrea, a reform Jew, was with him. This was the first time I had ever seen Matt without his kippah and his zitzit, the strings Jews tie to the four corners of their prayer shawls, were tucked into his pants. I was even more surprised to find seven American Yeshiva students with our two friends. They all met each other at (you guessed it) the synagogue. Our now huge Jewish-American group was walking around downtown Cairo trying not to act too Jewy.

Acting American was not a problem, the Egyptians love Obama. Rob loved to talk to the Egyptians about Obama; it even helped him get a discount while bargaining in the bazaar.

The girls in our group knew enough about Egyptian custom to dress modestly and cover themselves with pants or long skirts, but that did not prevent Andrea from receiving more attention than she cared for. She constantly rolled her eyes at men whistling or calling to her and was physically groped at one point. Toward the end of the day, she had had enough and rudely told one of the merchants trying to flirt with her to piss-off, to which the merchant responded, ‘You look like Bush,’ ex-President George Walker Bush that is. Truly, a grave insult in any culture.

That night, Andrea and Matt were off to Luxor along with the other group of Americans. Hannah was in the female dorm room of our hostel and Rob was using the internet leaving me alone in the male room when a skinny Chinese guy with black rimmed glasses, Dantes Leung from Hong Kong, walked in and sat in the bed across from me. He had graduated with his first degree about four months earlier and had been traveling around the Mediterranean by himself ever since. He was eager to introduce himself and swap stories about our travels. East Asia is a popular travel destination for many Israelis after completing their service in the army, because it is one of the few places in the world where they can get away from religious and political issues between Jews, Christians, and Muslims. I thought nothing of admitting to Dantes that I was from Israel. And I thought nothing of telling him I go to school in Be’er-Sheva, to which he asked if that was inside or outside our 1948 borders? I told him it is part of Israel. (The real answer is no; Be’er-Sheva was not part of Israel in the 1947 partition plan). Next he wanted to know why we weren’t happy with the original partition plan, a proposal, he claimed, we received only because the world felt sorry for us after the war. I felt it was my duty to set this misguided soul straight. I explained about the Jewish refugee problem that none of the countries wanted to deal with and the political struggle between the U.S. and U.S.S.R. who each wanted a political and strategic hold in the Middle East, therefore they each supported Israel’s existence. I explained about the violent revolts of the Palestinians against the Jews of that area in 1920 and 1921, the riots against the Jews from 1936-39, and the attempted invasion by the surrounding Arab states that started in 1947 before Israel was even a recognized state.

Dantes then wanted to know why we think those old arguments give us the right to discriminate against the Arabs today and to hassle him like he’s a criminal or terrorist when he came to Israel as an ordinary tourist. He told me about being hassled coming in and going out of the country. He believes he was purposefully misled into buying a visa he did not need because the state wanted his money. He told me he spoke with Arab-Israelis about how they are treated and he was appalled at what they told him. I apologized about the way he was treated, and I explained further that the metropolitan area of Cairo has 17.8 million people—Muslims—to say nothing of the rest of Egypt or the other nations surrounding Israel who openly refuse to acknowledge Israelis right to exist. Compare that to the whole of Israel’s population of 7.4 million. The truth, as I see it, is that Israel is a tiny country scared out of its mind.

I don’t mean to give the impression that Dantes was hostile or even rude. I would characterize him as pissed off, but genuinely willing to listen. I think, and hope, we both walked away having learned a little something.

The next day Rob, Hannah and I decided it was best to experience the pyramids of Giza with Elana and Rosanna—more friends of ours from Israel, who would join us after another day—so we headed north to Alexandria.

Alexandria

Alexandria, also known as the “Pearl of the Mediterranean,” was founded by Alexander the Great in 331 B.C. It was home to one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the Pharaoh’s Lighthouse of Alexandria. Legend has it that the tower stood 600 feet high, 300 cubits, and emanated a light that could be seen from 100 miles out to sea. The tower was, in fact, christened between 279 and 283 B.C. and stood tall until it was toppled by an earthquake in 1303 A.D. Today there is nothing left of it to see. Situated on the exact site of the former lighthouse is a 15th century citadel. The citadel was an effective safeguard against the invading Turks, and later against the Ottoman Empire. It was eventually over powered by the British in 1883. It’s no where near 600 feet tall, but still offers spectacular views of the harbor and the coast line. For sunset, the three of us sat along the pier enjoying the colors as the sun sank behind downtown Alexandria. The dark orange sunset transformed the water into a sheet of glass that led up to a blackened skyline, whose dominate feature was a minaret, the tower of a mosque from which the calls to prayer ring out.

We agreed to head for the minaret before returning to Cairo. I stopped on the way for a liver and pickled carrot sandwich. I was in need of a snack. This sandwich stand smelled delicious and had the right price. I tried asking if there was anything besides liver and pickled carrot sandwiches, but there was not. The entire business was based on liver and pickled carrot sandwiches. I decided I could not claim to have experienced Egypt without one. The man even told me, Welcome to Egypt, as he handed it over. I offered my friends a bite, but they each declined. This sandwich was my adventure alone. Believe it or not, it was pretty good, though it could have used some ketchup.

Tireless merchants called to us as we continued to amble down the street. We ignored all except for a scarf salesman. Hannah wanted to go inside the mosque, which meant she had to cover her hair. She was very pleased with the selection of scarves and picked three. The salesman’s first offer was thirteen pounds for each, but we knew better than to accept anyone’s first offer and buying in bulk should get you a discount, right? But the salesman was asking fifty pounds for all three, and he seemed to think that included a discount. Hannah protested, of course, so the man took out a calculator and typed in thirteen times three. The solution came out to be sixty-nine. It was a compelling argument. At this point her goal became getting the price back down to the man’s first offer. If memory serves me right, they settled on forty pounds for all three.

On our way to the mosque we cut through an Egyptian state fair, complete with a marry-go-round and a petting zoo with sheep. As the mosque came into view music and clapping filled our ears. There was a large crowed of people in front of the gate to the mosque. They were singing, dancing, and beating drums. A man from the crowed saw me standing hesitantly with my camera. He beckoned me over and encouraged me to take all the pictures I wanted. The party moved into the courtyard of the mosque. The man waved me onward. It wasn’t long before the procession moved into the mosque and again the man beckoned me to follow. I forgot the man’s name, but I remember he told me he was a teacher in San Antonio Texas. He came back for a few weeks to visit his wife and to see family. He explained that the celebration was an engagement party. The couple was going to the mosque to lock keys, symbolizing their betrothal to each other. Sadly, the future bride’s father had passed away and could not be there, so the procedure was overseen by her eldest uncle. After the document was signed and the keys were locked, we poured back into the courtyard. The man gave us juice packets, some of the girls wanted to pose for pictures with Hannah, and all around us Egyptians were singing and dancing.

We thanked the man for his hospitality and said goodbye to the girls. A few blocks further away was another celebration. We stopped at this one for a brief moment because ten feet from where we stood a gray haired man pulled out a pistol and at the request of the crowed fired three shots into the air. That was our cue to return to the safety of Cairo.

We

Elana and Rosanna were waiting for us at the hostel the night we got back from Alexandria. Rosanna has an American friend, Leah, going to school in Cairo and she took us out to dinner the following night. We chose a restaurant with seating on a pier floating in the Nile River. Red, green and white lights glistened off the black water as we bobbed side to side on the pier. Leah and her friend Miles, a Mormon who goes to school in Hawaii, practiced their Arabic with the waiter. Hannah was just beginning to come down with a cold, so the waiter recommended the lentil soup. I offered her some airborne I had brought with me. Miles asked if that stuff really worked? Yeah, I told him, but you have to use it before you really get sick, it’s a preemptive measure. Oh, he responded with a laugh, you Israelis and your preemptive strikes. I could not hold back my smile, but I followed it up with my middle finger.

Leah helped change the subject and asked in what area of the city we were staying. The gay district we said. She shook her head and explained that we were in a Muslim country, which meant there is no gay district. Any gay scene would be highly subversive and underground. For men to walk arm-n-arm is just their custom, she explained. ‘What about the hand holding?’ I asked, to which she shrugged.

I asked Miles if he was coming with us to Giza the next morning. He could not come, but brought to our attention the fact that the pyramids might be closed due to the October 6th holiday. Miles explained, ‘It celebrates the war when Egypt beat Israel and got back Sinai.’ Rob, who loves few things more than arguing politics, did not miss a beat and jumped in, ‘You mean the war in which we were gracious enough to give back Sinai?’ Miles did not refute that Israel willingly gave up Sinai, but added, ‘It celebrates Egypt finally standing up for themselves, refusing to be pushed around anymore, and it forced Golda Meir out of office.’ Politically Egypt did win, but militarily we won hands down, I thought out. Which prompted Hannah to ask why Rob and I were saying we?

I don’t speak for Rob, but I say we because I’m the one who has to defend the actions of Israel to pissed off Chinese people I meet in hostels; because I cringe when I’m in a Muslim country and involuntarily say something in Hebrew; because the mere fact that I identify myself as a Jew makes me a target for preemptive strike jokes, even by people who know that I am an American; because the world does not know the difference between a Jew and an Israeli, nor do they care to; and because I have lived in Israel, however briefly, and am proud to say I have Israeli friends.

That was not the exact speech I gave Hannah at the dinner table, but it is what I wish I had said.

The next morning the pyramids were, in fact, open. We even got the student discount with our Israeli student IDs. The pyramids were spectacular. They tower over the city, dwarfing twelve story buildings miles closer as you approach them from the freeway. They date back to around 2550 B.C. and are the only wonder of the ancient world still standing. At the foot of the pyramids is the Sphinx. Legend has it that after the great library of Alexandria was burnt, only a handful of their most sacred scrolls—scrolls supposedly containing the truth about Atlantis—were rescued and stored under the right paw of the Sphinx. Archeologists acknowledge there is a cavern under each paw, but have no interest in pursuing such fantasy.

Luxor

Our next stop was Luxor. By the time we arrived, Matt, Andrea and the other group of Americans were long gone. We took the “tourist” train down. It leaves once a day at ten in the evening. Every car is first class with room to stretch out and sleep. The five of us had a car to ourselves for most of the night. At some point along the twelve hour ride an Egyptian man sat with us and shared his apples—apples imported from Washington State. In the morning we got a good look at the country side along the Nile River. It is a lush green stretch of farm land. Farmers rode on horse drawn carriages along dirt roads as they collected their harvest. Mosques and the occasional chateau dotted the landscape. The towns along the way were sparse, comprised mostly of brown brick buildings and often the only color was laundry that dangled out of apartment windows.

Upon our arrival in Luxor, we met a man, who called himself Ziggy, and worked for the Bob Marley House Hostel. We knew right away that was the place for us. Rob and Hannah wanted to buy return tickets while we were at the station to make sure we did not somehow miss our train. While we were in line the ticket agent left on a break for reasons unknown even to the Egyptians waiting with us and did not return for God knows how long. After nearly an hour we left for the Hostel and returned to buy our tickets later.

The Bob Marley House Hostel was Rastafaied all over with dozens of Bob Marley posters and walls marked by red, green, and yellow stripes. Ziggy set us up with a tour the next day to see the Valley of the Queens, Valley of the Kings, and the Temple of Hatshepsut, a woman who ruled as a man, and went so far as to wear a fake beard at times.

For our first day, we rented bicycles and rod around town. A simple bike ride in Egypt was more of a death defying feat than you can imagine. There are no cross walks. People cross the street whenever and wherever they feel like. Women carrying babies step in front of busses and then yell at the bus driver. Traffic lights are meek suggestions. Horns are constantly honking at pedestrians in the middle of the road. Driving in Egypt is anarchy in action. This was the mess we threw ourselves into when we decided to ride bikes around town. This was how I learned the Egyptian word for excuse me—SSSSSS. Just hiss like a snake and people understand to move aside. When you’re in a crowded bazaar, it feels like someone is spiting on the back of your neck. At first I thought it was because I was a tourist, but they do the same thing to each other.

We rode our bikes to the Temple Karnak and other ruins around Luxor. Lastly, we went to the bus station and tried once again to purchase tickets. The ticket agent tried to tell us that there is only one “tourist” train and it leaves at ten in the evening. That was unacceptable because it would get Rob and Hannah back after they had to catch their return bus to Israel. Rob, who loves to argue, insisted there had to be an earlier train. Sure enough, he was right. It took a while, but eventually the ticket agent gave in and confessed there was a five and a six o’clock train. Tickets for that train are purchased on board, but it’s only for Egyptians, he said. If that was the only way to get back to Cairo in time for their bus to Israel, then we were going to be on that train, even if we are not Egyptian.

Our tour guide the next day was a lovely Egyptian woman. She explained to me the reason she was so lovely and charming was because she was a real life princess. When she was five, her family tattooed a cross onto her right wrist as part of her Christian upbringing. You see, she said, when Rome took over Egypt they forced the whole country to convert, but the only ones who really took to it were the Pharos and their families because they were the ones most closely scrutinized by the Romans. She spoke impeccable English, but said she had never once been to the U.S. or any other English speaking country. She applied five times for a visa to see the states, but was declined every time; left in the dark to guess why.

The Valley of the Queens and Kings were underground with amazing colorful hieroglyphics. The temple of Hatshepsut has a mix of Egyptian ruins and Roman ruins from Alexander the Great. He helped restore and add on to certain sites because he genuinely loved Egypt and he wanted the people to love him. How could he spend so much time here and not fall in love? our charming guide asked.

In Luxor we ran into more Israeli tourists which fueled our relaxed vibe about the whole Jewish thing in general. We slipped back into using a few Hebrew phrases and we did so without batting an eye. Ziggy never made a comment about our Israeli visas when we checked in, and it really felt like no one cared. But then at the entrance to the Valley of the Queens, our tour guide told me about a dispute she just had with the ticket agent. This was during our conversation about her cross tattoo. She told me she was Christian and she knew we were Jewish but did not care. She also confessed that still some Egyptians, older Egyptians like the ticket agent, do care. She was buying entrance tickets for the group and when she tried to buy our student tickets the man refused because our school IDs were from Israel. I don’t want Israelis here, the man told her. She explained we were Americans, to which the man said he did not want any Jews here. She fought with the man and ended up getting us the student tickets, but it was an abrupt crash back to reality.

The Train Back

The Egyptian police were quite pissed off that we were on the “Egyptian” train and not our designated “tourist” train. None of us spoke Arabic, no one on the train spoke a word of English including the police, but their hand gestures and poking fingers said one thing clearly: What the hell are you doing here? Our best guess was that the cops wanted us off the train, but that was not an option for Hannah and Rob. They were determined to make their bus back to Israel, and Rosanna, Elana and I were not going to leave them. Thankfully, the rest of the passengers were on our side. One of the cops poked me firm in the shoulder, which made me stand up, but, what seemed like the whole car, motioned for me to sit down and yelled at the cops. Some man a few years passed middle age was sitting next to me and seemed to be telling me to stay seated. Then he turned and scolded the cops. Across from us were two Egyptians about our age who were the loudest ones yelling at the cops and the most demonstrative with their hand gestures. Back and forth the five us went between standing as the cops order us to and sitting when crowed yelled back. The people in the car with us would not let the police push us around. Eventually the train started to move and the cops left us alone. A few cops moved into our car to keep an eye on us, and there was a passenger who we determined was one of the undercover cops the British man with the hook told us are everywhere in Egypt. We were sitting on the roof of the Bob Marley House in a circular powwow when the British man told us that in Egypt you are never more than a good scream away from an undercover cop. Although, it’s best not to call for them, he said, unless it’s life or death because it’s the law that they have to respond and you’ll be endangering their lives, too.

It turns out you can buy almost anything on an “Egyptian” train. There were people walking by selling tea, wafers, bread with a dollop of chocolate in the middle, ice water in used soda bottles, thread and needles to repair clothes, socks, ties, and scarves. Rob broke the ice with the two Egyptians our age by talking about Obama. They shared salted pumpkin seeds with us, which are like sunflower seeds only there is nothing inside them. I drew a funny look from the man next me when I spit my seeds into a napkin and put the napkin in my pocket. That made me tell Hannah, ‘I think you’re supposed to eat the seed.’ It turned out you’re supposed to spit the seed on the floor. I did not care for the pumpkin seeds, but I highly enjoyed the boiled and salted chickpeas with a little lemon juice squeezed on top. One of the Egyptians showed us his tattoo, so I showed them two of mine. I shared my I-pod music with one of them who really enjoyed rock-n-roll. I showed them how to do an elaborate American handshake and they showed us a magic trick. At one point they started a drumming on their seats, which inspired me to drum on my seat and Rob was inspired to sing-out some sort of sound from deep within himself.

There was a baby, maybe three-years-old, who I enjoyed exchanging funny faces with. He fought with his mother to take a closer look at me. She held him back for a while, but eventually decided to let him go and the boy stumbled close to me. He took a good look. I smiled, and he went running back to his mother—clinging to her leg. The father laughed and carried him over to me. I shook the baby’s hand and the father held him close enough to kiss me on the cheek. Then, I think the father asked me if I had children of my own and seemed surprised when I responded la, no in Arabic. Either that or he was offering me his own child, but either way the answer was the same.

At some point in the middle of the night the mother, who was wearing a hijab and had been completely covered except for her face, began breast feeding the three-year-old’s baby sister. It was the last thing I expected to see in a country where most women don’t even show their hair in public. And no one seemed to notice. None of the men around us were staring or even stealing looks on the sly. This woman breast feeding her child on a crowded train was completely normal.

About nine hours later, a few hours faster than the “tourist” train, we arrived in Cairo plenty of time before the bus left. The police on the car escorted us to their boss at the train station. He apologized to us for the condition of the train and wanted to make sure we made it to our hostel safely. I tried to tell them there was no need and although the train was more dirty and less comfortable than the “tourist” train, it was a much more worthwhile experience, but there was no way to make them understand that. I left it at shukran, thank you. Rob and Hannah went to the bus station while Rosanna, Elana and I went to the hostel and spent another day exploring Cairo.

The bus ride back to Israel gave me a lot of time to reflect on the people I had met, and all that I had seen. Some of my travel companions felt no need to return, but I was sad to leave with so much left unseen. I would not hesitate to go back and, if I am not alone, if my travel companions are adventurous enough, I just might sneak back onto the “Egyptian” train. Although, I must admit it felt good to be back in Israel; to be able to walk around with my kippah and to be able to get a decent shwarma.

People have told me that they would never vacation in Egypt; they would never support a Muslim state hostile with Israel in that way. Some Israelis have told me that they cannot go even if they want to because they signed a contract with the army saying they would never go. A contract that my friends tell me is only for their safety and is not forever. Of course, I have also heard that some Israelis who sign such contracts have gone to Egypt, regardless. I personally think that it is important for Egyptians and Israelis to meet; to spend time together and realize that we are not so different; that neither of us is the bad guy. I cannot say if the people on the train would have been so friendly to my friends and me had they known we were Jewish, but I’d like to think so. I’d also like to think that the question about our religion never entered their minds. Hopefully, someday I’ll go back.

See Related: SENTINEL ISRAEL CORRESPONDENT MARIO URIARTE ARCHIVE