The Tourist Gaze

The golden-brown sands of the Judean Desert engulf our bus in a dusty cloud as we wind our way along the highway to Kalia, south of Jericho. Glimmers of shimmering blue water emerge into view across the otherwise arid landscape that defines most of this wilderness.

Located more than 400 meters below sea level, the Dead Sea is the lowest spot on Earth. Although it is technically a lake, the salt content of its waters is approximately 34%, making it over ten times more salted than the ocean. Its future is uncertain, however, as the Dead Sea has been quickly receding—by up to one meter annually—due to climate change and excessive water extraction from the Jordan River.

Nevertheless, for centuries people have sought the mineral-rich waters and black mud found along its shores for their alleged medicinal and cosmetic properties. “This place is nature’s spa,” Iad, our guide, explains. “The Dead Sea’s waters, dense with salt and minerals, also contain unique compounds that are said to soothe the skin and relieve joint pain. Spa enthusiasts–even scientists–marvel at the lake’s therapeutic benefits.”

According to Iad, despite the name’s ominous connotations, even a little plunge in the Dead Sea is calming and rejuvenating.

After a few minutes that seem longer, the bus finally parks at the entrance of Kalia Beach, the portion of the Dead Sea where we’ll be swimming. Kalia Beach is in Kalia, an Israeli settlement in the West Bank and lies within Area C, which grants Israel full civil and military control despite being within a territory claimed by Palestinians and considered illegal by international law. Because the beach is marketed for its Dead Sea experience, visitors might not see the tensions between Israelis and Palestinians right away. Its presence within disputed territory, however, illustrates the region’s complexity, where leisure and geopolitics frequently converge.

We spill out of the bus and rush to the toilet to change into our swimming attires—in my case, a used pair of shorts. Iad gives us a final set of reminders: “Remember, don’t stay in the water for more than 10 minutes at a time. If you are not careful, the excessive salinity can cause your skin to get dehydrated and your eyes to become irritated.”

I move quickly in the direction of the lake, whose still, mirror-like surface is softly shimmering in the late afternoon light. The air is heavy with silence, broken only by the crunch of salt crystals beneath my Crocs and the occasional splashes from other visitors. The mood is unusually calm, as though the Dead Sea itself enforces a silent reverence, even though there are people dotted along the shore.

The horizon stretches endlessly, the hazy outlines of Jordan’s mountains across the border blending seamlessly with the water’s edge. It feels like stepping into a different world—a vast, tranquil expanse that swallows sound and time. The soft lapping of the water against the shore barely registers, and I am struck by an overwhelming sense of solitude. It’s not loneliness but rather a peaceful detachment.

As I dip into the water, I find myself effortlessly floating, the high salinity keeping me buoyant with barely any effort at all. It’s an odd and calming sensation, like I’m wearing a floatation device in my shorts.

Finally, my group catches up and goes into the water. Even with their laughters, the scene remains calm, almost meditative. The Dead Sea doesn’t invite raucous activity; it encourages stillness. There’s irony in how the Dead Sea transcends borders—lying between Jordan, Israel, and the Palestinian territories—while the human experience of these borders remains marked by division and struggle.

I feel the urge to linger beyond the 10-minute limit Iad told us. I just want to soak in the strange juxtaposition of life and barrenness, and to let the timelessness of the lake’s waters–salt, minerals, healing properties, and all–imprint themselves on my skin.

But I’m an obedient group member, and the little scratch at the side of my neck is starting to hurt like heck, so I get out of the water to take a shower.