In late 2008, I had returned to the Middle East for the first time nine years after escaping Saddam Hussein’s regime.
I was a newly qualified orthopaedic surgeon living with my then wife Irina in Berlin, studying orthopaedics and particularly osseointegration. Winter in Berlin can be ferociously cold—and, on the spur of the moment, we decided to take a break from the bitter conditions in Germany. We wanted to sample some warmer surroundings for a few days.
Iraq was far too dangerous at the time, so, without ever harbouring a great yearning to return to the country of my birth, I arranged a holiday in neighbouring Jordan.
The Jordanian capital, Amman—a city of about four million people with some spectacular Roman remains—had been my first destination after crossing the border when I escaped from Iraq. And within a short time of arriving back there, it became clear that the changes had all been for the worst. It was obvious that the local economy had been struggling for many years.
For a long time, Iraq had been Jordan’s main source of income. But after the US invasion, Iraq’s trading routes and political allegiances had switched to Iran. Jordan, as one of the few safe nations in that part of the Middle East, had little choice but to survive on tourism.
We visited my cousin Laheeb. She’s now living in Perth in Western Australia and has gone on to work as an electrical engineer in the mining industry. We also met up with my Islamist uncle Ahmed. Like us, he and his new wife—a doctor from Anbar Province in Iraq—were holidaying in Jordan. At the time, they were living in Riyadh in Saudi Arabia.
Uncle Ahmed was the only man my father would never discuss ideas and philosophies with. My father explained that, years earlier, Ahmed had made up his mind about everything of any significance—especially religious matters—and wouldn’t even consider anyone else’s opinion. There was no point in having a discussion with him—you wouldn’t get anywhere.
Ahmed’s new wife shared his radical religious views—and, if anything, she appeared to have hardened his line against Western nations, even though he’s an American citizen.
We spent the best part of two hours arguing about religious fundamentalism and violence in the region. My point was that the invasion of Iraq was led by the United States, which had then effectively occupied the nation. As a result, I felt the only solution would be for an American withdrawal and the arrival of international forces to create stability and buffer the influence of Iran and Saudi Arabia.
While Ahmed made some attempt to lighten the conversation, his wife became extremely agitated. She was fully covered with the exception of her face and spent a good deal of her time criticising Irina for the way she was dressed. Irina’s originally from Russia, and wasn’t used to having any restrictions on her clothing. At the same time, there was nothing outrageous about her outfit. Sure, she was wearing a top that was unbuttoned around the neck, and she wasn’t wearing a head covering. But, to Western eyes, this was far from provocative.
To spite us, Ahmed’s wife put on the full burqa just as we were about to take a family photo. Ahmed then suggested that Irina should button up her top before the photo.
‘Look at my wife,’ he said. ‘She’s beautiful.’
I responded, ‘You think your wife looks beautiful? How can you tell when she’s all covered up in black? I don’t ask you to uncover your wife. That’s up to her. Similarly, I can’t tell my wife to button up her top. That’s her choice.’
Needless to say, the photo was never taken. After such a tense encounter, I was left with no alternative but to cut all ties with Uncle Ahmed. I haven’t been in touch with him since.
In addition to the family tension, I ran into trouble with the Jordanian police as we drove to the Dead Sea. The rental car I was driving was stopped twice, and each time I was given a speeding fine. But at least the Jordanian police were thoroughly pleasant as they dished out the punishment.
Happily, there was a positive side to the journey. I was able to dip my toes back in the waters of the Middle East—in this case, in the Dead Sea, which borders Jordan on its eastern shores and Israel to the west. The Jordanian side of the Dead Sea is by far the more attractive.
If it’s possible, the Dead Sea—which is actually a salt lake and is 400 metres below sea level—is getting ‘deader’ by the minute! The Israelis have built huge irrigation networks on the Jordan River to divert the flow of water running into the salty lake. The lack of fresh water has served to further intensify the salt levels. Its salt content is now almost ten times greater than the ocean, which means you can’t sink. Pick your feet up off the bottom and you’ll float.
Bathing in the Dead Sea is a unique experience. As you walk in, you feel like fish are nibbling at your feet and lower legs. In reality, there are no fish in the Dead Sea because of the salt levels. The sensation is simply the sheer concentration of salt interacting with the pores in your skin. You certainly wouldn’t want to get the water in your eyes. And there’s even advice to avoid shaving for a couple of days before taking a dip because of the danger of skin irritation.
Not far away is the ancient city of Petra, located in a desert valley that runs from the Dead Sea to the Gulf of Aqaba in the south. The city dates back as far as the fourth century BC and is now the most visited tourist attraction in Jordan. The architectural remains at Petra—some carved into the rose-coloured rock of the hillside where the city was built—are truly remarkable and amazingly well preserved, at least partly because of the desert climate.
Petra owed its early prosperity to its position on one of the major intercontinental trade routes. The people of the city were skilled in their management of the rugged and challenging desert environment and had developed advanced techniques including capturing and storing rainwater and dry-land farming. The Romans took over the city in the first century AD and, subsequently, Petra’s significance declined as trade was transferred from land to newly opened sea routes.
An earthquake in the fourth century caused significant damage and, by the eighth century, Petra had been abandoned. The city was rediscovered in 1812 by Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt.
Petra was at the centre of a successful uprising against the Ottoman Empire in 1917, organised by famed British military officer T.E. Lawrence—also known as Lawrence of Arabia. The Bedouin women of the region played a crucial role in the fighting.
The city is now on UNESCO’s World Heritage List, and in 2007 it was included among the New Seven Wonders of the World.
Just getting into Petra—which was famously featured in the movie Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade—is an adventure in itself. The entrance is through a 1.2-kilometre long, five-metre wide gorge called the Siq, with cliffs soaring hundreds of metres above on both sides. At the end of the walk is an elaborate mausoleum, designed by Greek architects in the first century and known as Al Khazneh—literally the Treasury. It was given that name by local tribesmen who believed that robbers had hidden their riches inside. Further on is a Roman colosseum, a cemetery dug into the rock face and a spectacular monastery.
Altogether, visiting Petra was an amazing experience and helped make the Jordanian jaunt thoroughly worthwhile.
A few years went by before I had any further direct contact with the Middle East. This time, a friend who’s a dentist in the United Arab Emirates (UAE) gave me a call.
‘The Beirut Arab International Festival has nominated you for an award. An organiser will contact you,’ she told me.
All of which sounded as though it could be interesting.
In due course, someone who said he was one of the festival’s organisers did, indeed, call and confirm that I’d been nominated along with Iraqi architect Dame Zaha Hadid, who by that stage was based in the United Kingdom. Zaha was the first woman to win the Royal Institute of British Architects’ Royal Gold Medal. She designed the aquatic centre for the London Olympics and had been commissioned to design buildings around the world, including structures in Hong Kong, Germany and Azerbaijan. Sadly, she died of a heart attack in the United States in 2016.
Everything seemed legitimate, and the contact at the festival assured me he would ring back with more details. He did just that. But the additional details weren’t exactly what I’d expected.
‘You need to pay US$100,000,’ he informed me.
My response was simple. ‘What?’
‘That’s the way it works if you want to get the award,’ the caller explained in a matter-of-fact tone.
In a state of shock, I asked, ‘Why would I pay you any money?’
The answer came quickly. ‘Well, we’ll get the media here. It’s a great opportunity to raise your profile.’
I wanted no part of the corruption and bribery and immediately ended the conversation. Since that moment, I have avoided further contact with the festival organisation.
When I did eventually go to Lebanon, it was at the request of the Lebanese Army. They had asked me to operate on two Christian soldiers who’d each lost a leg above the knee during the destructive month-long war that had followed the kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers in a border raid in 2006. The Lebanese servicemen had been stationed on anti-aircraft guns when they were hit by an Israeli air strike. Despite being Christians, they’d been fighting alongside the largely Shi’ite, pro-Iran group Hezbollah, which is committed to wiping out Israel and is considered a terrorist organisation by the United States. Clearly, compromises can be made in times of war.
I carried out pro bono osseointegration operations on both the soldiers, and the plan was that I would return to lead further clinics and surgery. But, like much of the Middle East, Lebanon is disorganised and the military has never followed up to plan a schedule.
In addition, many of the military and government leaders seem to be more focused on their own survival than conditions for their soldiers. That point was emphasised for me when I was invited to visit the head of the Lebanese Army, who wanted to thank me for carrying out the surgery.
I went to his headquarters, which—not unnaturally in a country with such a volatile history as Lebanon—was surrounded by heavy security. I was ushered into his office and he made a point of locking the door behind me. The head of the Lebanese Army was so paranoid about his personal safety that he had to lock the door whenever he was in there. More than that, he’d arranged a security system that meant he was the only person who could unlock the door to his office.
The whole system seemed utterly bizarre to me. What would happen if he was taken ill while he was in his office? No one could gain access from outside to treat him! For someone who presumably specialises in strategic thinking, this strategy seemed badly flawed.
In its heyday under French occupation, Beirut was known as the Riviera of the Middle East. It had a thriving port and was popular with wealthy tourists. That was brought to an end by the civil war of the late 1970s, which was followed by widespread destruction caused by the Lebanon War involving Israel and Syria in the 1980s. Those conflicts have left enormous scars.
The city has a population of between one and two million people. It is extremely crowded and the traffic jams are massive. You can see that plenty of wealth has been injected into Beirut by expat Lebanese trying to restore some of the grandeur of the capital. But development is chaotic and many buildings remain badly damaged after the wars. For example, I stayed in a Christian suburb in the oldest five-star hotel in the city, the Phoenicia. In contrast to the relative comfort of the hotel, a high-rise building next door was still derelict.
Not unlike Iraq, the recent political history of Lebanon is a reflection of the many attempts by outside influences to effectively control the nation.
One of the most important political and commercial influences has been the Hariri family, which is backed by the Saudis.
Billionaire Rafik Hariri was prime minister of Lebanon from 1992 to 1998 and again from 2000 to 2004. Four months after leaving office, on 14 February 2005, he was assassinated at the age of 60. As his motorcade was being driven past the St George Hotel in Beirut, a 1000-kilogram bomb was detonated in a nearby truck. The occupying Syrian forces were immediately suspected of the atrocity—although four Hezbollah supporters were later charged with the murder and were tried in their absence.
The people of Lebanon are notoriously divided. The Christians and Sunnis live pretty much side-by-side in the north of Beirut, while the Shi’ites largely occupy the south of the city. You can sense the tension between the Sunnis and Christian Lebanese on one side and the Shi’ites and Hezbollah on the other.
Despite that, after Hariri’s assassination, a wide range of groups joined together to voice their anger against the occupying Syrian Army. Subsequent rallies and demonstrations became known as the Cedar Revolution. On 14 March 2005, as many as one million people gathered together to protest against the Damascus-based regime. A month later, Syria withdrew its soldiers from Lebanon.
Rafik Hariri had been the driving force behind the redevelopment of much of Beirut’s city centre after setting up real estate company Solidere in 1994. His second son, Saad Hariri, also entered politics and was prime minister from 2009 to 2011 and again from 2016. In 2017, he was involved in one of the most bizarre political sagas of recent years—again influenced by an outside regime.
On 4 November, he travelled to Saudi Arabia to meet senior government representatives and, completely out of the blue, announced his resignation on Saudi television, saying he believed his life was in imminent danger. Subsequent media reports suggest Hariri had been lured to Saudi Arabia on false pretences. The real reason, sources claim, was to persuade the prime minister to take a tougher line against Hezbollah. It’s even been reported that violence was used to force Hariri to follow the Saudi administration’s instructions. French President Emmanuel Macron is believed to have intervened and the Lebanese leader was flown to France, where the two met to resolve the situation. Within days, Hariri was back in Beirut, announcing that he had put his resignation on hold. He finally withdrew his resignation in early December 2017. No plausible official explanation for the strange episode has ever been given.
On reflection, I have to say that I’m not keen to return to Beirut or, for that matter, Lebanon. There are so many poor people there who need help, but the amount of corruption you encounter is disheartening. There is also a great deal of obvious paranoia at the official and political level about the Israelis.
I went to Lebanon twice in 2016, and both times the first question I was asked by the immigration officers was, ‘Have you been to Israel?’
In fact, I had. Twice. But because the Israeli authorities don’t stamp your passport, there was no evidence of my previous travels. I didn’t directly answer the question, simply responding, ‘I’m an Arab. Do you think they’d let me into Israel?’ Each time, my interrogator nodded knowingly and moved on without pursuing the line of questioning.
Not surprisingly, it’s even more difficult for an Arab like me to enter Israel.
For my first visit, I’d been invited to deliver two papers at the Israeli Orthopaedic Association Conference, which was being held at the King David Hotel in Tel Aviv.
Just the act of getting from Australia to Israel is complicated. After leaving Sydney, I flew to Dubai. But because of the UAE’s opposition to the existence of Israel, there are no direct flights to Tel Aviv. Instead, I had to fly to Amman in Jordan, then board a ridiculously short flight—probably no more than twenty minutes—from Amman to Tel Aviv.
As I discovered soon after landing, security and immigration controls going into Israel are among the tightest in the world. There’s a huge downward ramp to enter the arrival hall, which ends with Israeli and other passport holders being separated into queues. Security cameras are everywhere, and on the right is a blocked-off room that looks like a waiting area. I glanced over and inside were dozens of people who appeared to be Palestinian.
I decided to join one of the immigration queues behind the most Jewish-looking person I could find, because I thought it might make entry into Israel easier. It wasn’t difficult to spot him: an ultra-Orthodox Jew wearing a black hat over ringlets in his hair, with the religious scarf, the tzitzit, and strings hanging from his belt. He seemed to be travelling on a US passport.
He reached the front of the queue and started speaking to the immigration officer, a woman who looked as though she could still be in her teens. Clearly, she wasn’t going to allow him in—at least not without further verification. Inevitably, an argument followed. The officer was laying down the law to the Orthodox Jew, but he wasn’t having any of that and screamed at her. His protests only served to worsen his plight. He was sent to the blocked-off room to await his fate with the Palestinians.
Of course, it didn’t bode well for me. By now, the officer was angry and agitated. There was every chance she’d take her frustrations out on me. I walked to her post, handed her my passport and tried to defuse the situation with a cheery, ‘Good afternoon.’
The immigration officer was unmoved and inspected my passport, which included details of my birthplace.
The conversation didn’t last long. ‘Baghdad, Iraq?’ she inquired.
‘Yes,’ I responded.
‘Go to the corner room.’
I knew there was no point in arguing and simply followed her instruction. Funnily enough, I felt quite at home in the corner room. Everyone else looked just like me: Arab. Apart from the Orthodox Jew, of course, who stood out like a sore thumb.
After about twenty minutes, a middle-aged woman wearing civilian clothes and carrying my passport entered the room. She called my name in a perfect Iraqi accent. I was escorted into a nearby office, with dated decor. She nestled behind her desk, avoided making eye contact and started typing my details on the old computer keyboard in front of her. I was left standing on the other side of the desk. I had a folder in my hand with the invitation from the Israeli minister of health and the conference organiser, my business card and the synopsis of my talk.
After flicking through the pages of my passport, the immigration officer finally broke her silence. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ she inquired.
‘Please do,’ I replied.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thank you, I’m pleased you asked that question.’ With that, I handed her my business card and folder and explained, ‘I’m an orthopaedic surgeon and I’m here to speak at a conference. I’m here to teach your surgeons how to give robotic legs to your injured soldiers.’
She looked through the papers in the folder and asked, ‘Is there anyone in Israel who will verify this?’
‘Yes, of course. My surgical Fellow, Guy Raz, is waiting for me. Here’s his phone number. Please feel free to call him.’
Her reply came quickly. ‘We will!’
She made the phone call and, after a two- or three-minute conversation in Hebrew, looked at me and pressed the button on her desk. Another woman promptly arrived. The immigration officer looked at the new arrival and said, ‘Didn’t I tell you not all Iraqis are idiots!’ She then turned to me and asked, ‘How long are you planning to stay?’
‘One night … and I’d like to see Jerusalem.’
‘Enjoy your stay,’ she said, handing over my passport.
As I pressed on through the immigration process, a visa was slipped into my passport. There was no permanent stamp. The Israelis know full well a stamp in your passport that shows you’ve visited their country will prevent you travelling to a host of other destinations.
So, what did I make of Israel? It’s a land of contrasts—from the successful co-existence of Jews and Arabs in the coastal area of Jaffa to the smouldering tension of Jerusalem. From the modern, clean, peaceful and pleasant city of Tel Aviv to the open discrimination and hostility of Jerusalem.
In Tel Aviv—parts of it also known as Little Russia because of the large numbers of Russian migrants and tourists there—street signs reflect the multicultural nature of the population. Hebrew is at the top, English is in the middle and Arabic is below. In contrast, Jerusalem was one of the most disquieting cities I’ve ever visited. Everyone in Jerusalem seemed to be on edge. Instead of the three languages showing on street signs, in Jerusalem the Arabic lettering had been scratched out and covered with Hebrew or English stickers. On one sign, the Arabic lettering had been covered by a sticker saying, ‘You are Arabs—you are trying to rape my sister.’ It didn’t make any sense whatsoever and was purely a gratuitous insult.
The Arab and Jewish areas of the old city of Jerusalem are completely different as well. The Arab section is dirty and overcrowded. All the market traders sell the same souvenirs: Arab crosses, Jewish religious items and Christian artefacts. The Jewish area is much bigger, cleaner and obviously more wealthy. There you’ll find only Jewish souvenirs. Ultra-Orthodox Jews openly walk through the Palestinian areas of the city. The Palestinians aren’t afforded the same level of freedom in the Jewish quarter.
At one point, I watched as an Arab driver tried to reverse his vehicle along a street. Immediately, an armed plain-clothes security officer intervened and told him he wasn’t allowed to reverse in that area. The confrontation quickly escalated from there as the driver screamed abuse at the security guard. Within seconds, the whole incident became even more ugly—around ten security guards surrounded the driver.
As an outsider, the whole situation seemed extremely dangerous, and I said to my Israeli surgical colleague, Guy, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He was much less fazed by the turn of events. ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured me. ‘This happens all the time.’
Jerusalem is a different world.
This was graphically illustrated during my second visit, when I was accompanied by Sydney-based anaesthetist and friend Dr Mark Bukofzer—a South African Jew with Australian and New Zealand citizenship. Mark was excited to be in Israel and assumed the role of our tourist guide through Jerusalem. In freezing and wet conditions, he took us to the Museum of David and the site of the crucifixion. We went into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and saw the stone where it’s believed Christ’s body was laid after he was cut down from the cross, as well as Christ’s tomb.
Despite being one of the holiest places for Christians, there’s nothing grandiose about its presentation. It’s larger than an average Christian church, but still a far cry from the huge Islamic shrines in the Middle East. All the same, it attracts an equal level of devotion and dedication from worshippers, many of them clearly overcome with emotion, sobbing and kissing the floor.
Mark’s reaction to being in Jerusalem was an interesting snapshot of the thinking of the Jewish people. He was extremely anxious when we walked through the Arab area of the city, saying how unsafe he felt. At one point, he saw two Orthodox Jews walking through the streets and suggested he should help them out. In his estimation, they were obviously lost and were prime candidates to be molested. On top of that, he refused to buy anything from the local traders. As soon as we reached the perceived safety of the Jewish quarter, he felt more comfortable entering shops and set about buying all the necessary items for his son’s bar mitzvah.
One of the holiest places in Jerusalem for Jewish people is the Wailing or Western Wall—Al Buraq Wall to Muslims. It’s one of four retaining walls that were built around the Temple Mount. And, these days, it’s the closest place to the site of the second temple where Jews can worship. Men and women are separated at the wall, praying and reading from their religious books.
I visited the area on my first visit, accompanied by Guy. It’s at the very heart of the clashes between Jews and Muslims, because the Al Aqsa mosque was built on the site of the temple after it was taken over by Muslim invaders around the seventh century.
The guide for the tour was a Jewish woman with a strong American accent who was clearly passionate about her faith and its history. She recounted a series of historical events associated with the temple site—and, at times, talked about Muslims building a mosque on top of the temple. But, strangely to my mind, she made no mention of Christ or Christianity. If an event happened before Christ’s lifetime, she would refer to ‘before the current era’. Anything that happened subsequently was described as ‘during the current era’. I guess it was her way of establishing that Jews don’t believe in the legitimacy of Christ.
At one point, the guide identified a giant stone slab—maybe 15 metres long—which she said had been moved there as one of the miracles of Solomon. As we reached the end of a series of narrow corridors, we saw a woman reading from the Torah, the book of Jewish religious teachings. She asked for two people to help her light the candles associated with her prayers.
Guy and I volunteered, even though I have no religion and, while Guy is certainly Jewish, he’s far from a zealot. So, three people with completely different views on religion managed to collaborate without anyone being harmed. In its own small way, it proved cooperation and mutual respect—even in this disputed land—is possible. Happily, not all interactions between Arabs and Jews are fuelled by anger and hatred.
In Haifa, I visited an Israeli hospital that was treating 1500 Syrians—soldiers, militants from various factions and civilians—who had been wounded in the fighting against ISIS. They’d all been transported through Syria by their families, friends or colleagues and dropped at the Israeli border, in the hope they’d be accepted as genuine casualties and would be cared for by the health services. The Israelis rose to the challenge. They collected the wounded, transported them to nearby hospitals and fixed them up—before sending them back to their own country.
Sadly, there was no hint of the same generosity of spirit when I visited the West Bank—the disputed land to the west of the Jordan River, which is widely regarded as Occupied Palestinian Territory. The Israelis had captured the West Bank from Jordan during the Six-Day War in 1967 and, as a result of the peace treaty between Israel and Egypt in 1982, the Israeli Defence Ministry took administrative control.
Since the Oslo Accords were signed in 1993, 60 per cent of the West Bank has been under Israeli control, and 28 per cent has been under joint Israeli and Palestinian military control, with the Palestinians in charge of civil matters. The Palestinian National Authority in its own right controls 12 per cent of the West Bank. With the imbalance of power in the sector, it’s not surprising that there are regular outbreaks of unrest.
During my first trip to Israel, I wanted to arrange a clinic at the hospital in Ramallah, which is around 10 kilometres north of Jerusalem and serves as the administrative capital of the Palestinian National Authority. I realised that I couldn’t simply saunter into the West Bank on my own, so I contacted the International Red Cross to find out whether they could organise the trip. They helpfully arranged a car and driver to take me there the next day, which happened to be the Sabbath.
I was picked up by a taxi—with a Palestinian driver who actually lived in Tel Aviv—at the hotel at 7 a.m., fully expecting there would be a long and bureaucratic wait at the Israeli checkpoint that guards the passage into the West Bank. I had mentally prepared myself to be queuing there for hours.
The reality was completely different. When we arrived at the checkpoint, the boom gate was down and there were no obvious signs of anyone in attendance. The driver honked the horn in an attempt to grab someone’s attention. To no avail.
So, after a few minutes, he simply slipped the cab into gear and drove on to the next checkpoint. This time it was a little more rigorous. The gate was down, and one Israeli soldier was on duty. He watched as we drove up and stopped, then pressed a button to open the gate without emerging from his guardhouse.
The moment we crossed the border, the vista changed—and, as in Jerusalem, the distinction between the areas occupied by Israelis and Palestinians was plain to see. If the houses were modern, tidy and clean, they were Israeli. If the homes were haphazard, untidy and run-down, they were Palestinian. The conditions I found at the Palestinian hospital reflected the same lack of resources and planning. The hospital was ill-equipped and obviously the funding was completely inadequate.
Abortion is illegal in the West Bank and there’s little or no antenatal screening. You ask the parents whether there was any screening during the pregnancy—some say ‘no’, others say ‘yes’. I wondered about the follow-up treatment for those who had been lucky enough to undergo antenatal examinations, because most of the patients I saw were suffering from congenital deformities including club feet and hip displacements.
We went about planning their treatment. But, because of the lack of resources and organisational structure, I’m not sure whether any of those plans were put into action. I left with a sense of uncertainty about the contribution I had made.
On the way back, I asked the cab driver what he thought about the current situation in Israel. ‘People are sick of fighting,’ he said. ‘I take Israeli friends to Ramallah. But I have to disguise them as Arabs while they’re in the car so members of Hamas don’t kidnap them.’
It seems the will of the people and the actions of the military and politicians on both sides are way out of alignment.