First she takes out my camera, a brand-new point-and-shoot Canon that I bought specifically for the trip, knowing my entire family would be together for the first time in years. She points it up toward the unfinished ceiling and snaps a picture, making sure it doesn’t explode when she presses the shutter button, the camera shattering into tiny pieces, along with the rest of us. She snaps another shot, this time of the wall. She then points the camera at herself and takes a picture, a sober expression on her face. I hear the film rewinding as she puts it down.

Next, she searches through my clothes. She unfolds them, holds them up to the light, shakes them as though something incriminating might fall from the fabric. She crumples them into little balls before tossing them aside. Then she looks through my toiletries bag. She pulls out tampons and toothpaste before shoving them back into the pouch and dropping it next to my suitcase. She gets to my shoes at the bottom. She picks up a boot and examines it. “Why do you carry men’s shoes?” she asks. “You are lesbian?”

The soldiers all laugh, but she doesn’t laugh along. She keeps her eyes fixed on me.

“They’re mine,” I say. “They’re not men’s shoes.”

“You can put your things away,” she says, dropping my boot onto the table. I do as instructed and zip up my suitcase. I look to her for more directions, but she says nothing. Finally I ask her where I should go next.

“Wait here,” she says. It’s growing darker now, and I am getting anxious. My mind starts to wander. Is she planning to keep me until after the border crossing closes? Until no one else is around? I feel an unexpected wave in my stomach at the thought of being alone with her.

“I need to leave now,” I say. “I need to get across before it’s too late.”

“You want to go?” she asks. “You can.”

What was all this for, then? To make me panic? To make me never attempt to come back?

The customs official is about to stamp my passport and let me through when I stop him. “Can I ask you to not stamp it, please?”

“Why not?”

“Because I plan to go back to Lebanon. To Beirut,” I emphasize. Mine is a common request, and depending on the particular official, it is either honored or it isn’t. I hold my breath. The official keeps his eyes on me while he opens the desk drawer. He then takes out a square of paper and hurls the stamp down onto it. He tucks the square between the pages of my passport and hands it back to me. I thank him and continue past customs, past the currency exchange, until I am outside.