Last December, my journey from the occupied West Bank to Istanbul — which should have been a three-hour drive to the airport followed by a two-and-a-half-hour flight — took almost 36 hours.
Why did a regional trip take longer than traveling to South America or Asia? Because of how absurdly difficult it has become to cross the notorious Allenby Bridge (also known as the King Hussein Bridge or Al-Karameh Bridge) to Jordan — the only gateway connecting West Bank Palestinians to the outside world, which effectively functions as another Israeli checkpoint.
Over the course of crossing Allenby, we waited in the blazing afternoon sun and under the early morning stars; made last-minute arrangements to sleep at a local family’s house; and were forced to part with our luggage, purchase new flight tickets, and take two taxis and two buses. In between, we drank dozens of black coffees, most of the time having no idea whether we would make it to our destination at all.
Traveling anywhere as a Palestinian under Israeli occupation has long been a gamble. But in recent months this crisis has worsened significantly, as the Allenby crossing constantly closes without notice amid Jewish holidays, war with Iran, and various arbitrary “security concerns.”
Despite living under Israeli rule, Palestinians in the West Bank cannot travel through Israeli airports, meaning our closest airport is Queen Alia International Airport in Amman, Jordan. And to get there, we first have to cross Allenby. When the crossing closes, as it did when I tried to use it last December, Palestinians are left stranded at the border, scrambling to rearrange their itinerary and make alternative plans without any warning.
‘Everything is up to the Israelis’
Our flight out of Amman was scheduled for 6 p.m. It was still dark when we left home that morning and headed to the border crossing. We knew to schedule in hours of extra time, so we arrived at 7 a.m., an hour before the crossing opens (it usually closes at 1 p.m.).
Some 600 travelers were already standing in long lines or waiting in their cars while Palestinian police officers distributed the numbers that marked their place in line. When your number is called, you board a bus that takes you from the Palestinian crossing point to an Israeli terminal, where Israeli soldiers carry out extensive security checks. If you are let through, another bus takes you to the Jordanian side of the border.
We kept our numbers and waited. The border was supposed to be functioning by this point, yet two hours later, no official had come to open it.
We got out of our car to buy coffee from a nearby stand. While we drank it on the curb, rumors began circulating among other travelers that employees on the Israeli side had announced a strike without prior coordination, which meant that the border was effectively closed. When we asked the few officers at the gate what was going on, they told us that it could open in two hours, so we waited until 11 a.m.
Despite the Palestinian and Jordanian presence at various stages of the crossing, Israel alone decides when the crossing will be opened, who is allowed through, and who will be turned away. Political activity, criticism of Israel, or unspecified “security concerns” can all be reasons to deny a person entry into Jordan; several of my journalist friends and my cousin were banned from traveling for years, without being told why.
Five hours had passed when we were finally allowed into the Palestinian terminal by noon and paid a routine departure tax to Israel (even though it is not Israel’s terminal). There, we each bought two tickets: one for ourselves, for the bus to the Israeli terminal, and the other for our luggage, which was supposed to travel separately to the Jordanian side. We parted with our bags and headed to the waiting hall, tired and hungry, but more concerned about missing our flight.
The first bus to the Israeli side left, and already some 100 people were lined up waiting for the next one. We sat on plastic chairs inside the terminal between several families, knowing that making our flight would be really tight, but there was no point in protesting. Around us, people approached the Palestinian police officers requesting they be let through — desperately waving their flight tickets and showing proof of medical issues or urgent procedures abroad, relatives waiting for them, or meetings they would miss.
Again and again, everyone was given the same answer, which was later also announced over the loudspeakers: “We would like to let you all pass, but it’s not our decision. Everything is up to the Israelis.”
We waited a few more hours until officials confirmed that the crossing was closed for the rest of the day, and that if we wanted to get through we would have to return tomorrow. A bus that had already departed returned. We missed our flights, as did everybody else.
As the Palestinian terminal shut down, we got up to leave. Outside, we saw hundreds of travelers who had been there since morning and did not even make it into the terminal. People got back into their cars or walked away defeated. The day was done.
‘A systematic policy of humiliation’
Without our luggage, which for all we knew was somewhere between Palestine and Jordan, we went looking for a reasonably priced place to sleep. Finally, we found a family near the crossing, on the outskirts of Jericho, that was willing to let us sleep on the second floor of their house for NIS 150 ($50) each.
We only slept for a few hours before heading back to Allenby at 3 a.m., anticipating an even longer line than the day before, full of all those denied entry like us. When we arrived, some 20 vehicles were already lined up.
For the next four hours, we waited on the asphalt, drinking coffee and talking to fellow travelers as thousands more lined up on foot and in vehicles. The scene was a metaphor for Palestinian existence: a crowd stuck in no-man’s land without a face to complain to or any idea what challenges the day would bring.
Luckily, that day the border opened on time. By 8 a.m., we were allowed into the waiting hall where we paid for our tickets, and boarded the first bus to the Israeli terminal. We went through security, thankful that we didn’t get pulled aside for interrogation — or even arrested. We then boarded the second bus to take us to the Jordanian side.
Upon arriving at the Jordanian terminal, where we were joined by taxis carrying Palestinians from East Jerusalem as well as cargo trucks loaded with goods, travelers were ferried into three separate lines: one for Palestinians doing the standard crossing; one for VIP travelers, who pay an extra $150 to get such designation; and the last for diplomats and international NGO staff.
Up to 25,000 Palestinians cross back and forth to Jordan via the crossing each weekl. Poor as we are, there is still profit to be made from our travel: Israel imposes its taxes, while Jordan sells VIP passes. On one visit, I saw someone bribe a Jordanian officer to cut the line.
It was 10:30 a.m. when we passed through the Jordanian terminal and reunited with our luggage. We took a taxi to the airport, went through security, and at long last waited for our flight.
This is an increasingly normal experience for Palestinians living in the West Bank. As a result, more are demanding action from the Jordanian and Palestinian authorities, while making Israel the central target of their complaints.
“I also hold the Israeli occupation fully and directly responsible for this crisis, as the occupying power that effectively controls the crossings through reducing working hours, imposing arbitrary measures, and deliberately creating congestion,” Tawfiq Tirawi, the head of the Palestinian General Intelligence Service and a senior leader in Fatah, wrote in a recent statement posted on Facebook.
“[It’s] a blatant violation of international law and human rights and part of a systematic policy to humiliate the Palestinian citizens,” he added.
Travel routes severed, one by one
Before the Israeli occupation severed our remaining connections to the outside world almost entirely during the Second Intifada, Palestinian travelers had several options. The Jerusalem International Airport near Qalandiya, established during the British Mandate era, was Palestinians’ gate to the world for decades; it is now the site of an Israeli settlement project.
Gaza, too, briefly had its own international airport as a result of the Oslo Accords — which Bill Clinton landed in while president — before Israel bombed it out of service. Since 2002, Gazans’ only route out has been through Egypt. The Oslo Accords additionally mandated the establishment of a “safe passage” land corridor between the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, which existed for only a matter of months before Israel shut it down.
There was also the Damiyah Bridge, known in Jordan as the Prince Mohammad Bridge and in Israel as the Adam Bridge, located near the Palestinian city of Tubas. Constructed during the reign of Mamluk Sultan Al-Zahir Baybars, it was used until the 1967 War — after which it was closed, briefly reopened in 1976, and closed again at the end of the Second Intifada.
Another option was the Sheikh Hussein Crossing, also referred to as the Jordan River Crossing by Israeli authorities, which connects northern Israel to the Jordanian town of North Shuna. Originally built in the late 19th century by Sheikh Hussein Al-Shaqran to facilitate the passage of pilgrims from Jenin to Mecca, it was closed after the 1948 Nakba and later reopened after the 1994 Wadi Araba Peace Treaty between Jordan and Israel.
To this day, it provides passage for all except West Bank Palestinians, who are forbidden from using it. The UAE has recently used the Sheikh Hussein Crossing to supply Israel with cargo after the Houthis attacked ships bound for Israel in the Red Sea; Jordan officially denied this arrangement, despite ample evidence confirming it.
In June 2025, a few months before my trip to Turkey, I was traveling home with my wife and our six-month-old daughter from Athens. We took a taxi from Amman to Allenby Bridge, where we found hundreds of people already waiting on the Jordanian side, even though it was only 9 a.m.
I stood in front of the gate watching dozens of taxis and buses loaded with people arrive. After several hours, it seemed that the police were allowing families, especially women and children, to enter the hall. I asked my wife to come forward with our daughter and try to enter.
As soon as she arrived, the police opened the gate completely, and hundreds of people surged into the small terminal. Inside, people pressed against each other as the sounds of crying children, including my daughter, filled the space. We stood there for three hours, feeling intensely thirsty and exhausted from the heat.
When we were finally asked to move forward, there was no space to walk; instead, we were pushed by the crowd pressing toward the narrow doors. After showing our passports, we stood in more lines to pass security checks, and then waited another two hours for the buses to take us to the Israeli side.
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By the time we got there, it was early afternoon with summer temperatures soaring above 110 degrees Fahrenheit. At least two ambulances were called to evacuate those who fainted from heat stroke.
We boarded the bus at 3 p.m. and remained on it, standing, for another two hours. When we reached Allenby, we spent another hour in line before finally getting through to Jericho at 6 p.m.
Throughout the following four-hour taxi ride home through the West Bank’s roads and checkpoints, our daughter continued to cry. She had not stopped since we began our journey 12 hours earlier. I wished I could soothe her — and myself — with the knowledge that when she grows up, she will not have to endure the same humiliation with her children. Sadly, I imagine that by the time she is an adult, the journey will only have grown longer still.
