Reciting Koran at Gunpoint

I will tell you that reciting Koran for me is difficult in the best of circumstances, and that I still am working on it. I never dreamt that the first time I would be called upon to read Koran publicly would at the behest of a 22 year-old hostile Israeli, with an automatic weapon (not mine) squarely between us. It was an experience I can honestly say I had no preparation for.
I was visiting Jordan and Palestine for the first time, shortly after my conversion. I started my trip in Jordan, and had a fabulous time. I visited a good friend, and made several new acquaintances in the process. After a week, my friend and I made our way to Jerusalem overland for the upcoming Eid. I was very, very excited to visit the holy land on a holy day! When we got to the border, we had little problems on the Jordanian side. We waited two hours to make the ten minute bus ride between countries. I remember passing through "no man's land" truly feeling glad I was in the bus and not outside - it really did look desolate and dead. I found myself singing an obscure Loggins and Messina tune that I had not heard for thirty years "it's an hours flight, but it takes all night to get from Cairo to the promised land. And is it people's rights or just people's lights, and can the line be drawn that thin?"
I could not believe the scene at the Israeli border crossing. We got off the bus and walked up to a semi-circular barricade. Here we all pushed to pass our passports over to a very disinterested guard. There were maybe 75 of us trying to get his attention. He just gathered them up and we waited. About a half an hour later, he emerged and just handed all the passports to whoever was closest. I asserted myself and managed to get my passport and that of my friends. We were then allowed to proceed into the building. When we passed through the initial metal detector, they detained my friend (she was wearing a hijab). She told them she was with me, so they made me wait outside the room she disappeared into. After about 20 minutes, they let her out and called me in. The young woman, probably about 19, asked me several questions about our trip and our relationship. I could tell she was looking for inconsistencies, so I simply answered honestly. After about 10 minutes, she released me and we made our way to the next stage. We got in line at the visa desk, and I was horrified by what I witnessed. We were in the "good" line as we were British and American tourists. The rest of the folks were huddled in several long lines beside us. It was a large open room with good acoustics. I could barely tolerate the cacophony that engulfed me. At nearly each desk, at the front of each line, sat a young Israeli woman dressed in a military uniform. And at each desk, at the front of each line, the young woman was screaming at the meek Arabs. They were demeaning, insolent, and openly hostile. Imagine the cruelest clique of girls from your high school with weapons and the power to humiliate anyone they pleased. It was nightmarish.
The woman at the end of my line did not yell or insult me. Nor did she make eye contact or show any interest in my application. When my friend approached the counter, she cast her a terrible look, but restrained her obvious contempt. My friend requested that her passport not be stamped as she was planning a trip to Pakistan where she could not gain entry with an Israeli stamp in her passport. This request is a common one, and the Israelis grant hundreds each day, but she told my friend that she could wait to see. We waited two hours for her to walk twenty feet to get permission to stamp an alternative slip of paper then insert it into the passport. We smiled and thanked her, and I think it irritated her greatly. We walked into another hall, passed through several other gates without incident and emerged into the sunshine of Palestine.
We enjoyed the crowded bus ride to Jerusalem, and I was astonished that I was about to walk through Damascus Gate, into the famed old city. We made our way to our hotel (a former Austrian palace) and cleaned up. We met an hour later to walk about the old city. It truly was incredible. We walked through the crowded streets (many covered passageways) and made our way to the wailing wall. I was very cautious to be respectful as I realized the significance of the place. We did not go up to the wall as there were people praying there and we did not want to disturb them.
When we left the wall, we walked up to the higher part of the city. We came around a corner to see a group of young Israeli boys playing soccer in an open courtyard. I smiled at them. One of them saw my friend beside me, frowned, and kicked the ball as hard as he could at her. We were lucky that he wasn't very talented, and the ball smashed into a building above our heads. I rushed her past the scene into another street. We turned a corner and came upon another check point. Initially, the guard returned my smile until he saw my friend. The smile evaporated into a frown, and we spent ten minutes being hassled to pass that simple gate. We returned to the hotel and arranged to meet again to go to the mosque for Eid prayers. I was so excited! I would be praying at the Al Aqsa Mosque (the Dome of the Rock) in an hour's time. Well it took more than an hour to get there (despite the fact it was two minutes away), and I was lucky my friend suggested we leave early. "It's and hours flight, but it takes all night.........."
To get to the mosque, we had to turn from the main thoroughfare unto a small covered alley. At the end of the alley we could see the checkpoint replete with guards and guns. As we walked up, I was in a good mood, somewhat nervous. Not about the Israelis, but about praying in such an important place so early in my conversion. They waived my friend in but stopped me. I was informed that the mosque was closed to tourists and that I could not come in. I explained that I was a Muslim, and he just smirked. My friend stepped back closer to us and affirmed my statement. The young man looked at me and said "say something from the Koran." I started to recite the Al Fatiha, the first verse in the Koran. After about ten seconds, he looked at me and told me to stop. He told me in broken English that I couldn't go in. I got irritated, as he obviously didn't listen to or understand the verse. My friend stepped in and defended me. He told her that now she couldn't go in. We retreated, and she offered another plan - we go in through another gate.
We tried another time with the same result. We waited for thirty minutes and returned to the first gate where the was now a new guard. Twenty something with a permanent scowl. When we approached, he stopped me. He turned his gun around on its strap, inches away from my chest, and commanded that I recite Koran. I proceeded and as before, he stopped me, this time declaring loudly that I wasn't a Muslim. This really irritated me and I started to protest. My friend grabbed my arm and we retreated once again. Finally, with a few minutes before prayer time, we found a new gate. When we approached, another young man stopped us. When I explained I was a Muslim, he called a young Arab man over. The young man looked at me and smiled. He asked me to recite the Al-Fatiha. I was nervous, humiliated, and somewhat scared. As I began to stumble, he gently prodded me by inserting a few words. I made it through the prayer and he looked at his Israeli counterpart and nodded. They moved aside, and just like that, I was in the compound. I turned to thank them both, tears in my eyes. The young Arab man smiled back.
We rushed to the mosques, one for women, one for men. I made my way through the large crowd, took my shoes off, entered the second mosque with thousands of fellow Muslim men. As we began to pray, no one took notice of me. I was simply another Muslim friend, praying to my God on a holy day. I never felt so at peace, despite the machinations it took to get there. When I left the mosque to meet my friend, it was raining lightly, and thought I was in the most beautiful place on earth.
*Postscript
Several months later, I was at home wathing the IFC (the Independent Film Channel) when I noticed an upcoming movie called "Close to Home" about the Arab-Israeli conflict. I watched it a week later. It told the story of two young Israeli women serving their compulsory military service. The movie detailed their training, particularly the focus on degrading Arabs. I cried openly, not for the Arabs depicted in the movie, but for the fist time facing my humiliation months before, my impotence and helplessness.