Enemies in Embrace: Episode 18 – Crossing the Silence

 

Outside the booth, an older man in civilian clothes waited, his face kind but distant. He handed me a form and said softly, ‘You’ll be escorted to a processing center—held for 48 hours, then your case will be reviewed,’ but I already knew that freedom could feel like another kind of prison.

By Julia M Cross

The first thing I noticed at the border was the silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that feels peaceful—it was the kind that squeezes your throat. The kind that makes children grip tighter to their mother’s dress, even if they don’t understand why. My sons didn’t say a word as we stood in the line outside the Jordan River crossing, just beyond the checkpoint near Sheikh Hussein Bridge. We had crossed the forest, ridden in the back of an old grain truck for hours, and walked the last stretch in sandals that were too thin for gravel roads. But the boys were brave. Maybe too brave. They didn’t cry. They didn’t ask where their father was.

They just watched me. Waiting for answers I didn’t have.

There were guards on both sides—Jordanian and Israeli. They stood like statues, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes sharp beneath dusty helmets. Every now and then, one of them barked something in Arabic or Hebrew, and the line shuffled forward like sheep. My hands were sweating. I had braided the boys’ hair into tight rows, dressed them in second-hand sweaters that didn’t match, and scrubbed their faces until they glowed.

I didn’t want them to look Palestinian. I didn’t want them to look Israeli. I just wanted them to look like children.

My Israeli passport burned in my pocket like a match.

When it was our turn, a young female officer motioned me forward. Her hair was pulled tight in a bun. Her badge said Sergeant Galit.

“Passport,” she said flatly.

I handed it over. My fingers trembled.

She flipped through the pages, scanning each stamp. Then she looked down at my sons.

“Yours?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where is their father?”

“Gone.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Gone where?”

“Dead,” I said quickly. “Car bombing. In Syria.”

It wasn’t the truth. But it wasn’t entirely a lie either. In a world like ours, men disappeared more easily than smoke.

“Names?” she asked, tapping her tablet.

“Eliel and Ronen.”

She blinked. “Biblical.”

“Yes.”

She motioned to a second guard, who came over and spoke in low Hebrew. I caught a few words—“unaccompanied,” “mother only,” “background check.” My heart slammed against my ribs. My knees wanted to fold.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Traveling. Trying to get home.”

“From where?”

“Turkey. Jordan. Short stays.”

She eyed me again. “Why no return flight?”

“I ran out of money.”

“What about the father’s family?”

“There is none.”

She turned to the boys. “How old are you?”

The twins looked at me. I nodded. They answered together, “Five.”

She didn’t smile.

“We’ll need to verify your identity and relationship,” she said. “Step aside.”

A gray metal chair sat in a corner near the gate booth. A camera faced it. I sat down. The boys clung to my sides like ivy. A male officer entered the booth behind me and whispered into a radio. Galit stepped out.

I tried not to cry.

I focused on my breathing. On the scent of the boys’ hair. On the small scab near Ronen’s eyebrow. On the faded lion printed on Eliel’s sock. Anything to keep from unraveling.

Then came the second interview.

They asked for my family’s names. My childhood address. The date of my last menstrual period. They asked about my synagogue. My voting record. Whether I had ever posted political comments online.

I answered everything.

I gave them my mother’s birthday. My father’s army unit. The name of my piano teacher when I was eight.

Still, they hesitated.

The man in the booth looked over my file again and again. My name. My face. My children.

Then he leaned in. “You left the country in 2021. With a return ticket. You didn’t use it.”

“I stayed longer than planned,” I said.

“Two years longer?”

“I got married.”

His eyes flickered. “To whom?”

I paused. “An American.”

“Name?”

“John Darwish.”

He blinked. “Darwish?”

“D-A-R-W-I-S-H.”

“Muslim?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“Deceased.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it. But he couldn’t prove it either. He stamped my file and passed it to Galit.

“Proceed,” she said.

I stood up on numb legs and gathered the boys.

“Last check,” she added, gesturing toward a body scanner.

The machine whirred to life as we stepped in. My heart beat so hard I thought it would register on the monitor. But the screen stayed green.

Outside the booth, an older man in civilian clothes waited. He held a clipboard. His face was kind but distant.

“Resettlement?” he asked.

I nodded.

He handed me a form. “You’ll be escorted to a processing center. Near Tiberias. You’ll be held there for 48 hours. Then your case will be reviewed.”

“Can I make a call?”

He nodded. “One.”

They put us in a van with six other women and eleven children. Some cried. Some slept. The woman beside me held a photo of her husband folded into a Quran. She didn’t speak.

The drive took hours.

I watched the fields pass by—dry grass, olive trees, broken fences. This was my country. But it didn’t feel like mine anymore. I was a stranger to it. A refugee with blue papers and no name.

At the resettlement center, they gave us blankets and thin soup. The boys were placed in a cot beside me. I didn’t let them out of my sight.

That night, I dialed the number Yousef had written on the inside of my shoe—barely legible in black ink.

It rang once. Twice.

Then: “Hello?”

“It’s me,” I whispered.

“Leah.”

My name in his voice made me tremble.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Tiberias. The center.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. For now.”

“The boys?”

“They were amazing.”

He exhaled. “I miss you.”

“I miss you more.”

“We’re not done,” he said. “We’re not even close.”

“What happens now?”

“I don’t know.”

Neither of us spoke.

But the silence wasn’t empty this time. It was full of everything we couldn’t say over a monitored line.

Finally, I said, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t disappear.”

“I won’t.”

The line went dead.

Two days later, we were moved to temporary housing. A crumbling motel on the outskirts of Tiberias with a peeling blue sign and rusted balcony rails. But it had clean sheets and a bathroom. And the boys laughed for the first time in days when they saw a working TV.

I tried not to think about Yousef.

I cleaned. I cooked. I read bedtime stories in Hebrew and Arabic. I applied for asylum. I told the government our story—most of it. I said my husband had died in Syria. That I feared persecution. That I needed help. I didn’t tell them about Fontainebleau. Or Ramallah. Or the hill house with the storm shutters. I kept those pieces for myself.

Weeks passed.

Then one morning, a letter arrived. No stamp. Just a folded page beneath the door.

It read: You’ve made it this far. But are you ready for what comes next?

 

 

From the romance series by Julia M Cross. Next episode releases Saturday at 8 PM.