Israel – June 2011

The year I turned forty was also the year my mom turned sixty. Being Jewish, I thought a good way to celebrate would be to take her to Israel. Unfortunately, a few years before this, she was diagnosed with bladder cancer, and she lost her battle with it just a month before turning sixty. She let me know that she wanted to be cremated but made me promise not to keep her ashes “in a damn urn.” I knew what I needed to do.


My wife has an aunt who resides in Israel with her Israeli husband, so we asked if we could visit during my summer break. I wasn’t entirely sure where I would spread my mother’s ashes, or even if I could get them through Israel’s intense security, but I just knew I had a promise to keep.


I’ve only ever been called into the little room beside the immigration windows twice, once in Dubai and this time in Tel Aviv. As we are visiting my wife’s family, we decided it would be best to let her do the talking. For some reason, the immigration official doesn’t seem to understand how my wife, who is Chinese, could have an aunt, also Chinese, living and working in Israel. She explains that she lives in Israel with her Israeli husband. “Is she an Israeli citizen?” she is asked. When replying yes, the response is, “How can that be?”


After a few more minutes of this back-and-forth, a second immigration official arrives, seems just as confused, and we’re asked to follow her to a sitting area while our passports are taken away. A few more minutes pass before I’m called into the little room, which consists of a desk and another official. I’m asked to have a seat, then ignored while the official types on his computer, then gets up to consult with a colleague. I can see our passports sitting on the desk between us, so that’s something.


Given the confusion earlier, I use this time to develop a strategy. When my existence is finally acknowledged, and I start being asked the same questions that seemed to confuse the officials outside, I go into teacher mode. I say that I am an American, pointing to my US passport, and that my wife is traveling with me, pointing to her UK passport. The passports are open to their respective photo pages, so I point to my wife’s photo and note that she is Chinese and that we are here to visit her aunt, also Chinese (pointing again to the passport picture), who is married to an Israeli. I am speaking slowly and calmly, and hoping the visual aids help. They do, as the new official seems to approve of my explanation, and soon our passports are stamped and returned to me.


Finally, in the country, I decide to spread my mother’s ashes in the Sea of Galilee, finding a quiet spot for my final moment with her. Before leaving the country, I told my wife that I thought I should do the talking on the way out and tell them that we were in the country to visit my Israeli uncle. Given my full name, Jeremiah Abraham, it seems to me a much easier story for them to follow, and it doesn’t hurt that it’s also true.

This travel tale is included in my collection, Can’t Get Here from There: Fifty Tales of Travel. Buy it on Amazon.

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