The Jordan River

After spending countless years wondering in the deserts of Sinai and the Transjordan, the time had come for Joshua--prophet and general of the Israelites--to make an assault on the Promised Land. There was one critical problem: a large, flowing river blocked Joshua's army from the "land flowing with milk and honey" on the other side. Thinking, perhaps, of his ever-resourceful successor Moses, Joshua ordered the priests to carry the Ark of the Covenant across the river. When their shoes touched the River Jordan, the river stopped its flow, and the Israelites crossed it on dry land.

Yesterday, that legend became entirely unimpressive.

Chronic hydrophobics might need a small tree to ford the Jordan, but everyone else could simply wade across. They would be wet a whole of three seconds. Nor need they fear a raging flow; if I hadn't known I was facing West, it would have taken a minute to discern which way the water was flowing.

I did, however, reserve an iota of sympathy for Joshua on account of the water itself. It was actually more mud then water, moving in small swirls like brown oil paint. I glimpsed a fish jump from the muddy water a few yards off--covered in mud like all his surroundings--before he fell back to the river, spraying brown droplets of water in all directions.

In short, there was nothing romantic about it.

A long-jump's distance away was the West Bank--or was it?

On the other side, in front of a marble observatory and stone church, stood a tall pole. A gust of wind blew across it, unraveling a white and blue flag. I had almost forgotten--it was occupied territory.

Surrounded by tourists googling over the Israeli flag, I couldn't help but notice that the other side of the river was entirely vacant. No wonder it's third-world living conditions over there, I thought. It's the site of Jesus' baptism and no tourist is brave enough to snap his camera there. I thought of the images of "Palestine" that run through the Western media--usually barbed wire, armed guards, heat, and poverty. Places like Bethlehem, Qumran, Hebron, East Jerusalem, and Jericho seem locked away in another world. No wonder no one ever goes to Palestine.

My friend was standing down by the water smoking a cigarette and staring at the flag. When the cigarette was reduced to a short stub, he shook its ashes on the earth and threw the butt at the Israeli flag on the other side.

Thankfully, the wind caught it and it fell en route, sank into a swirl of muddy water, and disappeared beneath the muck.