“Want to go to Jordan with me?”
This was September, 2013, and so my answer was swift.
“Are you crazy? We just invaded Iraq.”
Her answer was equally swift. “So?”
Linda is a New York Speech Pathologist. She had been invited to lecture at a conference in Amman. The doctors there asked her to recruit an ENT surgeon to come along to teach them a procedure that restores voice to patients after removal of a cancerous voice box.
It was a worthy project and I wasn’t too busy to go. I had just relocated to Springfield, Illinois, and my practice hadn’t ramped up yet. No State Department advisories about travel to Jordan. So, after a few days of equivocation, I agreed.
Getting there was easy: A direct flight from Chicago O’Hare to Amman. On landing at Queen Aliah airport , I spied three Iraqi passenger jets, grounded since the onset of Desert Storm.
A couple of other activities had been added to my agenda. I was immediately whisked from the airport to a conference at the Jordan University of Science and Technology, about an hour north of Amman, near the Syrian border. In the midst of a sea hijabs, my long blonde hair was exposed for all the world to see. At first, I was embarrassed, intimidated, thought that I must look like a harlot to them. But I was received warmly. I was told that the hajib is a choice, not a commandment.
I lectured in the morning. In view of my jet lag, I was humanely excused from the afternoon session. After lunch, when everyone else returned to the conference, I was instructed to wait outside for a driver.
I stood on the sidewalk, near the curb, gazing at the new and modern buildings that gleamed in the bright sun. I wasn’t wearing my watch, so I don’t know how long I stood there. It was long enough for me to be concerned.
The car that screeched to a stop in front of me was a far cry from the sleek Mercedes that had collected me at the Airport. This car had seen better days—had a dented fender and needed a paint job. The driver leapt from the vehicle, grabbed my rollerbag, and motioned for me to get in.
As we sped off, I thanked him for picking me up. No response. He leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I couldn’t see the speedometer, but we were moving very fast, and the wind was doing a number on my hair. I struggled in vain to close the window, but the hand crank was broken.
I started to wonder, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten into this car. Who was this driver who would not speak? What if I’m a hostage? Visions of beheading videos played out in my mind. Would I ever see my family again?
My chest felt tight and it hurt to breathe. I had felt this way once before, when our two year-old son disappeared, briefly, from our home in La Jolla. We called 911 and searched desperately for what seemed to be forever. I couldn’t stop thinking, “My son is going to be a picture on a milk carton.” Within 10 minutes, he reappeared, pedaling up the sidewalk on his tricycle. He had just toodled off, right under our noses, as my husband and I stood in our driveway, consulting with an architect about a wall to secure our front yard.
I wouldn’t be on a milk carton. Worst case scenario, maybe on the news. And as the car continued southward, I convinced myself that my fears were unfounded. I resolved to dismiss the dark thoughts and put my trust in the kind people who had arranged the transport.
Until the car began to decelerate. As far as I could tell, we were in the middle of nowhere. To add fuel to my paranoia, a large sedan was parked on the roadside ahead and it was clear that we were pulling in behind it.
The driver of that car got out and turned to face us as we approached. Two figures stepped out of the rear doors, one on each side, each clad from head to toe in light gray gowns and hijabs.
“My handlers?” I wondered. My heart pounded in my throat. I only hesitated a moment after my driver yanked my door open. What options did I have? Out in the middle of nowhere?
As I climbed into the back of the sedan, a bright, voice called to me from the front passenger seat, “Hello there!”
All was explained. The passenger in front was a Professor of Midwifery from Australia who had also been lecturing at the same conference. The sedan was already en route to take her back to Amman when the decision was made to send me back to my hotel, so a second car was dispatched to catch up . It was a perfectly logical plan. The only flaw was that my driver didn’t speak English. Or that I didn’t speak Arabic.
The remainder of the drive delightful. The two women who flanked me in the back seat were also midwives. They were charming, intelligent, ardent feminists. Not as in free loving bra burners. They were strong and vocal advocates for women’s rights: education, health care, autonomy… We arrived at my hotel too soon.
My husband and I have made multiple visits to Jordan to help care for patients and have forged strong friendships with our colleagues there. It is not a wealthy country—no massive mineral resources—but is the most compassionate and hospitable place I have ever been. Consider the ratio of refugees to the general population. At my last visit, the Iraqi jets were still on the runway.
