Saturday & Sunday, January 29th & 30th - The Road Home

Our last day­­­ in Tel Aviv started with the (by now familiar) effort to pack and consolidate luggage, staged for a quick departure later in the day.  We were then off to a walking tour of Historic Neve Tzedek, led by a comic in a fez whose name sounded like “Iran” but was probably something like Aaron.  He had the gift of physical humor and had several memorable bits, which was probably just as well because the history of Tel Aviv is both brief and a bit pallid compared to some of the other sites we’ve seen in the last two weeks.  We also travelled at a trot to the meeting spot, then trotted along behind him, then limped our way to lunch spots (on our own), and then trotted to another meeting spot, and then trotted behind another guide through the edges of Jaffa.  By the time it was all over, we were footsore, sporting the odd blister, and perhaps not in our best humor.  I remain forever grateful that our bus was available to take us back to the hotel, instead of having to walk.  Several of the tour members have come up with a slogan for our trip:  “We ran where Jesus walked.”

As the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea, we sat in a circle on the beach for a “processing session.”  In other parts of the trip, these sessions had been a chance to vent and question and generally express our reactions to the trip.  This time, there was a clear sense of farewell; we seemed to be talking about everything in the past tense and were reaching for summaries.  Rabbi M lit a candle and sang the short service which bids farewell to the Sabbath and prays for a good incoming week.  We passed around a local orange, smelling the sweetness of life, then recognized the beauty of the light, and then (all according to custom) extinguished the candle into a cup of wine.  Shabbat was over, and the new week had officially begun.

After loading the bus with luggage one last time, we met for dinner at a restaurant off Rabin Square and dined on salmon and fresh pasta and some very good local wines.  We recognized our fabulous guide, Jared, and our masterful bus driver, Raji, with rounds of applause, and lots of paparazzi group shots were taken before we headed to the airport. 

Security took quite some time at Ben Guion Airport.  Bags must be x-rayed before they can be checked, and several of us were bounced out of the x-ray line for further pre-screening.  A young lady ahead of me in the “special check” line was having a difficulties, since between her hearing aids and her Romanian passport the security agents were having a hard time communicating with her.  Their pantomime skills were also a bit rusty, to the point where I stepped out of line and helped her move her luggage to the proper spot.  (This earned me another trip out of line, as the guard suddenly assumed I could communicate with her for them.  Not so much.)  When my turn came, it seems that my Goodwill-procured suitcase must have seemed out of the ordinary to them; they just asked me a few questions about where I got it and how long I’d owned it, and then released me to the next stop in the security maze.  Luggage check, passport check, security check . . . I never had to take off my shoes, and nobody cared about the 5 oz of hair product in my carry-on, but I was feeling quite secure by the time we finally got on the plane.  I shut my eyes in the Tel Aviv night, and opened them again in the New Jersey dawn.  Next stop, Chicago.

A security guard at one of the many checks asked my roommate why she had come to Israel?  “A school trip.”  He then asked her what she had learned?  After hesitation, the most honest answer she could muster was, “It’s complicated.”  (He smiled and let her through.) Meanwhile, I’ve received messages from family and friends urging me to let them know as soon as I’m home safely and warning me about unrest in Egypt, Lebanon, and Tunisia.  From outside, I can see why traveling in the Middle East would excite concern.  It’s a relatively small place, full of factions in extreme disagreement which are neither completely justified nor completely in the wrong.  Emotions quickly become explosive, and weapons (including weapons of mass destruction) are readily at hand.  Like Cathy said, it’s complicated.  And yet, the common refrain among our group is what we will do “when we come back.”  There is something about this land which calls to us; an incredible sense of history (much of which remains undiscovered), combined with unending hospitality and a compelling spirit.  I take a little bit of Israel and Palestine with me (even beyond my complimentary souvenir olive wood thimble-sized goblet, a gift from the tour company); I leave behind hopes and prayers and a deepened sense of the continual tragedy of neighbors who are both somewhat right and both somewhat wrong, living together in a time when none of us really knows which is which.

Friday, January 28th

Depart Tiberias
Teva Ivri and the Sakhnin Region Towns’ Association for Environmental Quality
Travel to Tel Aviv
Visit Independence Hall
Enjoy the Nahalat Benjamin pedestrian mall’s Crafts Fair, including lunch
Join Bet Tefila Yisraeli for Qabbalat Shabbat
Shabbat dinner at hotel with guests from Bet Tefila Yisraeli

The bad news was that we had to be up, dressed, packed, fed and on the bus early this morning - at a point in the trip when mornings are getting rougher and rougher.  The good news was that we had several hours on the bus to make up for lost sleep, as we left Tiberias and headed back towards the center of the country. (The other good news, for several of us, is that my precautionary bottle of Mucinex seems to be working.)

We stopped off at Teva Ivril for a presentation and tour of an environmental facility which is teaching classes (to both Jewish and Arab youth) and pioneering low-tech ways to purify water and walk gently on the planet.  Our host examined with us the concept of living not a life filled with "stuff" but a "worthy life" of service and community.  Their building was designed with a central courtyard to allow natural light into all rooms, and what appear to be glorified hood scoops to capture breezes up high, run them through a swamp cooler and then funnel them into the building for summer cooling.  Prisms embedded in several rooftops reflect light into work spaces to minimize the need for electrical lighting, and a small outdoor seating area tucked between the gardens and used for teaching and presentations was created from used auto tires and local plaster.  I was also offered a wonderful cup of herbal tea - but our host couldn't remember the English names of the herbs and with my sense of smell on strike with this cold, I'll just have to guess from the look of things that anise, mint, and lemon geranium were involved.

Driving on to Tel Aviv (more sleep time!), we disembarked at Liberty Hall and listened to a docent wax enthusiastic about the events surrounding Israel's May 14, 1948 declaration of independence.  The museum consists of a short movie and a presentation in the actual hall where the ceremony took place.  The movie featured sprightly music and a series of historical photos; at one point (as the happy, hopeful music continued), the announcer pointed out that many of the people shown in a particular photograph were exterminated by the Nazis shortly thereafter.  The docent's refrain was that Israelis "wanted to survive" and had been attacked time and time again.  She said that the war for independence may have ended in the 1940's, but that Israel had "never yet had real peace."

Later, we attended Shabbat services at a Humanist Jewish congregation in Tel Aviv, followed by Shabbat dinner at our hotel with some congregation members as guests.  One thing which had been frustrating me during our adventure had been the limited opportunities to talk to Arabs about their situation, and I jumped at the chance to share the dinner table already staked out by our heroic bus driver, Raji.  I learned that his son was getting ready to take college entrance exams, and hoped to study computer science.  Raji had been in middle management in Jerusalem in earlier years, but had to switch to driving a bus because it allowed him to better support his family.  I asked him if it was difficult to see all the things he did and to migrate between the Jewish world, the Arab world, and the world of self-entitlement inhabited by visitors like us?  He said that it was necessary in his position to "see without seeing."  Personally, he doesn't think there will ever be peace.  I also asked him if he had ever considered visiting the US?  He said he was only allowed to go to Israel, Palestine, Egypt and Jordan, and couldn't have gotten the necessary permissions to go anywhere else.  For someone like me, who craves travel and is only limited by the practicalities of time and money, it's an incredibly depressing through.

So, how do I reconcile this?  Freedom to go where I will and do what I want seems to be a very basic right; but I've talked to enough Jews here to know that the long history of Jewish persecution and attempted genocide weighs very heavily on their mind, and they feel besieged by the dark possibilities of an unknown future.  From the Palestinian side, Israel looks like an ugly bully; from the Israeli side, they are doing what they must to secure the very existence of their children.

Recently, Dr. T joked with someone that "At CTS, we do dilemmas."  Well, this one is a doozy.

Thursday, January 27th

Umm el-Fahm Art Gallery in the Israeli Arab/Palestinian Muslim city Umm el-Fahm

The Arabs of Israel: Israeli Palestinians, at Giv’at Haviva, Lydia Aisenberg

Life on the Border and Coping with Stress – How and why one does it , Chana Manne

 We began the morning with a trip to Umm el-Fahm, a town whose improbable name translates to “Mother of Charcoal.”  The village was originally surrounded by woods, and the residents did a tidy business for some time slowly turning hardwood into charcoal (which is a long, dirty job, in case you’ve never explored it).  Today it is a small city of hairpin turns and sharp changes in elevation where rug shops and clothing vendors alternate along the street with empty lots piled high with trash, and peopled mostly with Israeli Arabs.  The Umm el-Fahm Art Gallery is a two story space in one of the more modern buildings, and has plans for a large new $30M building as soon as they can find the funding.  Meanwhile, the top floor shows a variety of modern installations while the lower floor displays an amazing collection of photographs from the history of the area.  The museum is also working to photograph and do video interviews of all the local Arab elders, so that their stories are not lost.  Gallery Director Said Abu Shakra is passionate about his work, and speaks eloquently about the role of art in preserving the dreams of humankind, and proudly lists Yoko Ono among the artists whose work has been exhibited in the gallery.

We moved on to Giv'at Havia, an educational facility which works to promote equality and common understanding between Israeli Arabs and Jews.  Our guide for this segment was Lydia Aisenberg, a tiny formerly British woman who cheerfully overrode our schedule to take us on a physical inspection of the “green line” which divides Israel from the Occupied Territories.  She brought us to an overlook where the divide could be clearly seen, and then to a village which had been split in half by the line.  She also told us of an Arab man who had two wives (according to local custom) living on opposite sides of town.  When the green line was drawn, he had to decide which set of wife and children he would live with and which would be left on the opposite side of the border.  (The green line is not marked at this point, but there is a clear understanding of where it lies and those found on the “wrong” side face significant punishments.)

Our next segment had been planned as a presentation on being Muslim in Israel, but the presenter discovered he had been double-booked and our group received the welcome gift of some free time instead.  Many of us have acquired greater or lesser cases of a head cold, and I overheard Dr. T explaining to one of our group that we should have expected to have lessened resistance to Israeli viruses.  Between the cold medicines, the strained systems and the stress of this prolonged trip, it was probably just a matter of time before we started coming down with various ailments.  Still, we all dutifully trooped into the hotel’s meeting room for our last event of the day, a conversation with psychologist Chana Manne.

Ms. Manne is an Israeli born and bred, and draws a dramatic picture for us of the strains of living in a place where bomb shelters are part of almost every home and residents plan for the next missile attack even during times of peace.  She works at the local hospital, dealing with everything from post-attack counseling to long-term PTSD.  She talks about how to help children overcome the stress of having their homes destroyed, and adults who seemed fine until one event uncovered previous traumas and became the straw which broke the camel’s back.  She also commented on working with medical personnel who themselves become traumatized, and the need to “normalize” the experiences as much as possible.  I had the impression that a future chaplain could learn much from her, and I would love to stay in touch.

Tonight is our last night (already) in Tiberius, where we have developed a comfortable routine of drinks and dueling computers in the hotel lounge (the only place with dependable internet access).  Aram did a card trick last night with incredible showmanship, and tonight a few bottles of wine have made their appearance.  It seems like a good time for me to end for the night.

Wednesday, January 26th

Tsippori

Nazareth

Visit Basilica of the Annunciation

Attend prayer at the White Mosque

The Druze, Sheikh Jamil Khatib in Bet Jann (Druze)

Meeting with Ethiopian Israelis at community center

Today dawned with grey skies and drizzle – which is a blessing in this land of minimal rain.  We were happy on behalf of our hosts, but maybe just a little grumpy about walking around all day in the rain.  Our bus brought us first to Tsippori, which had been the capital of the region in Biblical times and is the subject of an ongoing archeological dig.  We dashed between the raindrops into the remains of the synagogue, which has been capped by a modern building for protection and for the comfort of visitors.  Tsippori was a huge town, famously mentioned in a number of contemporary works and home to a bustling population of Romans and others in addition to the small Jewish population.  The synagogue might have seemed a bit snug, but the artistry of the mosaic floor was top quality and beautifully preserved.

Tsippori is also home to an ancient theatre with cut-stone seats as well as a maze of shops and homes.  We discussed several Hebrew texts regarding the difficult role Jews would have had to play in the time of the Roman Empire while living in such a town.  The experience was enriched by watching a few scenes from Monty Python’s Life of Brian on the bus, for perspective.

Next, we visited Nazareth – a place completely ignored by writers and historians in Biblical times, except in the Bible itself.  It is now home to the White Mosque, the Church of the Annunciation, a bustling Arab market, and dozens of “SoGood” gas stations.  The church is a beautifully simple structure overall, featuring dozens of mosaics from around the world on its exterior walls and a reverently maintained grotto within the sanctuary itself.  On a Wednesday morning it is mainly occupied by tourists, but the materials are in place for a solemn worship service and signs indicate that the Pope has been by to visit in the recent past.

The White Mosque is unique in its welcome of strangers and other observers. Women must cover their heads (a baseball cap will do), and cell phones must be silenced, but otherwise visitors are welcome to sit along the benches just inside the door and observe the service.  Since we are behind the half-wall which marks the prayer space, we were not even asked to remove our shoes.  The men began streaming in even before the muezzin’s call, and continued for several minutes after the service had begun. (Unfortunately, the women worship separately and I was told it was “not possible” to observe or join them.)  The Imam moved to the center of the prayer space, joined the worshipers in the normal bows and litany of prayers, and then opened up what I presume to be the Quran and began to sing a passage.  The music was beautiful, peaceful, and enveloped me with a sense of prayer even though I didn’t understand the words.  It strongly recalled for me the way a Jewish cantor will sing passages of the Tanak, and led me to contemplate the many common roots of the various Abrahamic faiths.

We had been scheduled next to drive into the highest of the Golan heights to view a historic site of Jewish mysticism; but although the weather had cleared enough for us to scamper through Tsippori and later skip through the market to the church and mosque, thick mist still limited our visibility.  Our guide pulled a brilliant alternative out of his hat and directed our bus driver to Dalia’s Vegetarian Restaurant, a little eatery in the community of Amirim, perched on the side of the mountain.  The restaurant is reached by crawling up narrow switch-back roads and driving along slim highways bracketed by a rock wall on one side and a long drop on the other, and our bus driver really showed his skill in fitting our big comfortable bus down paths it was never designed to travel.  Once we arrived, I cannot begin to describe how wonderful, plentiful, and in what amazing variety that food was presented to us.  We simply sat in two long tables in Dalia’s back room, with huge windows on one side which would have shown a magnificent view (if there had been one) and a stream of food appearing from the kitchen doors on the other side.

Having thoroughly gorged ourselves (and participated in a discussion on Biblical teachings about eating as a spiritual act), we wove a bit further into the mountains to the home of a Druze sheik.  This gentleman was kind enough to invite us into his home, where his wife and daughters provided us with coffee, tea, cookies, and pastry while he gave a detailed explanation of the faith and practices of the Druze people.  Never heard of the Druze?  I had not either, and apparently there are only about 1.5 million in the world (mostly in the middle east).  Still, our host was gracious in helping us understand the political dilemma of the Druze who live in the areas captured by Israel from the Syrians, which we had visited the day before.  Those members of the Druze people consider themselves to be Syrians, and are careful not to assimilate Israeli culture because they expect their lands to be back in Syrian control at some future point.

Our last event for today was a chance to speak with some Ethiopian Jewish women who had immigrated to Israel with their families in the 1980’s.  These women told horror stories of walking for weeks through the desert from Ethiopia to Sudan, then trying to hold on in refugee camps where theft, kidnapping and assault was the norm before finally being air lifted to Israel.  It was a very moving story, and I can only imagine the strength required from what were then just young girls in order to survive the journey.

Perhaps “common ground” is the theme for today.  We have the Tsippori Jews, who found ways to live peacefully with their Roman overlords at a time when Jews in other cities revolted.  The congregation of the White Mosque is reaching out to strangers, especially foreigners, in an attempt to remove the mystery from their faith and emphasize the common threads of faith.  The church of the annunciation is covered with mosaics from Thailand, Croatia, and around the word, all in the same theme of Mary’s acceptance of God’s will.  The Druze, while open and hospitable, make no bones about their strong resistance to any assimilation or other social weakening of their ancient beliefs.  Our new Ethiopian friends faced perhaps the greatest challenge of all, adapting to the incredible physical, emotional and social strains while retaining a fierce determination to survive.

Earlier tonight, I was complaining to some of my fellow travelers about how uncomfortable I found it not to be able to read the street signs (which are, of course, in Hebrew script).  In retrospect, I feel a bit silly.

Tuesday, January 25th

Tour Kibbutz Ein Dor

Christian sites on the Sea of Galilee: Capernaum, Mt. of Beatitudes

Travel north to Dan Nature Reserve

Visit Golan Heights

Visit Bashan winery in Avnei Eitan with winemaker Uri Rapp

The Israeli-Syrian Conflict over the Golan Heights: Myth and Realities, Dr. Yigal Kipnis

A night in the guest house at Ein Dor kabbutz is a lot like a night at church camp.  We had bunks and blankets which would have accommodated six to a room instead of just our groups of three, and big echo-y bathrooms with a row of shower stalls at one end.  The morning was beautiful, and we strolled past the greenery as we headed for breakfast and a guided tour of the place.  

Parts of the kabbutz are showing their years, with worn-looking trailer homes and empty buildings which had once provided basic housing.  The community was established decades ago and has undergone a lot of change; like many farms, its residents have left an assortment of equipment and structures in place in case of future need.  But while it may not fit the description of elegant living, the bountiful hospitality, quiet pace and bountiful greenery do a lot to recommend it.  The residents also enjoy an on-site nursery, child care, medical and dental facility, and nursing home.  As our host Ari put it, “They take care of you from cradle to grave.”  The community also has a herd of dairy cows, raises poultry for meat, hosts an educational program which puts Jewish and Arab children in a common learning environment, makes a line of cheeses, and operates a factory which produces cables and wiring products.  There are trees and flowers everywhere, and our guide proudly told us that there had not been "one tree, one blade of grass" back when the kibbutz was established.

Our bus pulled away from Ein Dor and headed towards the Sea of Galilee.  We’d glimpsed it in the near distance when we had been chatting the day before with Jehudit, but now we drove right up.  A monastery on the shore has opened their chapel to the pilgrims and tourists who come to gawk at its famous mosaic floor, depicting the miracle of the loaves and fishes.  A few steps up the road, a path leads through gardens and a series of outdoor worship spaces to another lovely lake-front chapel.  A few paces beyond is the shore itself, with reeds working their way between green rocks and an active population of birds on the watch for fishing opportunities.  The shore is littered with basalt rock (making me scan the hills for a volcano), and I managed a little walking on water myself by hopping from rock to rock in the shallows.  Two dozen or more other visitors shared the beach with us, compulsively dipping their hands in the water or mentally picturing Biblical events as they scanned the surface of the lake.  One group stood on shore and sang Spanish lyrics to a familiar hymn.

Just a few minutes’ ride up the hill stood the church celebrating the Sermon on the Mount.  A beautiful covered porch surrounds the chapel, inviting the visitor to stroll around and contemplate the view of the lake.  The nuns strongly discourage noise in the immediate area of the church, but we sat on the steps and reflected together on the two sites (shore and hillside) before being shushed back to the bus.

Our next stop was the Tel Dan nature preserve, almost on the Lebanon border.  The three springs which feed the Jordan River have their sources in this area, and the wide proto-Jordan stream rushes noisily by in a distinctly un-Israeli fashion.  The same crew of CTS students which hiked up Masada in the Judean desert last week strolled today along muddy paths between thick stands of bamboo and what appeared to be eucalyptus trees.  Our destination at the back of the park was an archeological site, which seemed to be the temple built by King Jeroboam.  In the same section of the park was the fortified position used more recently by the Israeli Army during their various border actions, before they moved on to the broad hillside a kilometer or so to the north.

Finally, we zig-zagged up to the Golan Heights, which Israel acquired almost as an afterthought on about day four of the Six Day War.  A former Syrian position has become a tourist destination, offering the twisted remains of several bunkers and an incredible view of the valley below.  Surrounding the exhibit and for several miles after were signs warning that the fields were mined.  Our guide said that Israel doesn’t have the resources to devote to finding and removing all the land mines; he says that every once in a while a stray cow will be killed in those fields, or a child will lose a limb.  It is hard to accept that I was standing just a few feet away from such hidden, deadly force.  A stray cat with an abbreviated tail and a nasty-looking fresh wound on his side joined our group for a bit, a living example of the dangers of life in the Golan.

Our last event for the day was a lecture by a local expert on the political situation in the Golan Heights.  We may not have quite done his presentation justice, as the exertions of the trip begin to stack up.   Still, it does appear from his information that someone has been playing fast and loose with borders and inciting incidents in order to justify a response.

And now we are tucked into our hotel in Tiberias, where we will stay for a few days.  The internet service is spotty at best, and they appear to have a strange aversion to electrical outlets; but the sheets are clean, and it is a relief to know we will have a stable sleep arrangement for the next few days.  Our group is starting to get a little punchy on this extended, intense trip, and small creature comforts are becoming important.

I think that today in the Galilee, I saw more tourists than at any time since leaving Jerusalem.  There are devout groups who want to sing hymns and walk in the footsteps of their savior, and more secular visitors who vie with each other (and me!) for the best places to take a photograph.  It makes me somewhat pensive to consider where I fall in that spectrum.  Ari, our lovely guide from the kibbutz and a self-described athiest, told us that he “doesn’t know where God falls in the equation, so [he] figured [he’ll] just skip it.”  Personally, I do think these impressive churches and monuments are more a testament to human faith than divine power.  I believe our Creator is always with us, and I have no particular need to seek the presence of the Divine in one spot or another.   And yet, it is incredibly helpful to my education both to put the Biblical stories in context and to witness the wide variety of responses to these places.  By the same token, walking the perimeter of the minefields and hearing about the frustration of the local residents doesn’t add much new information so much as provide the emotional context with which to better empathize.

In other words, I don’t need these experiences to think better or be a better Christian, but am finding them enormously helpful in my quest to “feel” better.

Monday, January 24th

Introduction to West Bank settlements at Kefar Ezion (A.V. show)

 Meet Bob Lang, settler spokesperson in Efrat

Return to and depart Jerusalem for the north via Jordan Valley / West Bank

Bet Alpha ancient synagogue

Kinneret Courtyard: Cradle of the Kibbutzim

Meeting with Rabbi Mikva’s family and other members of Kibbutz Ein Dor

Today was another day of history, albeit mostly that of a different era.  We began with a visit to Kefar Ezion, a settlement created after multiple failed attempts by a group of Jews who legally purchased their rocky hilltop well before the establishment of Israel as a state.  They were driven out, returned with greater numbers, had a few good years, and then defended their homes almost to the last person when Jordanian military and Palestinian irregulars laid siege.  The evacuated children of that second attempt kept the memories alive, and returned a third time after the 1967 war to establish a (so far successful) community.  A memorial museum has been created on the site of that doomed second attempt, with a movie highlighting the bravery of the settlers and the tragedy surrounding them.  The actual bunker where the women and wounded took shelter (before grenades and bombs killed them) is preserved in all its chipped-concrete-and-twisted-rebar glory, with dramatic lighting and marble tablets engraved with their names.  There is also a collection of artwork, ranging from impressionist paintings to a functional-looking menorah crafted out of ammunition shells.

I have to say that the Hollywood styling of the film probably made me less sympathetic to those early settlers.  I understand that they legally paid for their land, rather than squatting as did some later settlers.  Their ownership was never in dispute, but only the propriety of setting up a Jewish settlement in Palestinian lands.  I confess some reservation about the wisdom of repeatedly inserting oneself and one’s family into a situation where it has been made violently clear that you are not welcome.  Perhaps it has to do with the wounded psyche of a people repeatedly subjected to pogroms and evictions, and who thus perhaps had a need to stand their ground – “Here we make our stand.” In any case, where I personally might have put greater value on my safety and that of my family, they sacrificed all to maintain their settlement.

Despite the disaster, the next generation of settlers has successfully built a very modern suburban settlement on the adjoining Judean hills, complete with grocery stores and medical centers.  We visited the home of their spokesman, a quick-talking former New Yorker who gave us the nickel tour of the Efrat settlement, a history lesson on the ever-moving boundaries in the Israel/Palestine area, and let us use the bathroom in his bomb shelter.  He showed us where the security barrier was to be built (as soon as the government found the funds to continue the project) and talked about what good neighbors his small town where with the Arab municipality just up the slope.  He also told us about the two suicide bombers who had blown themselves up in his neighborhood, one of whom had been employed in the town.  It is not as clear to me how the land for that town was acquired, since our host had a gift for verbal dexterity.  He made a point of mentioning that his town and their Arab neighbors shared some utilities, and that the cultivated fields which in some places came right up to the buildings were not being claimed as part of the community.  He also stated clearly that he was in favor of a single state encompassing Israel and Palestine, and that his extended community had ensured the placement of several caravans (or manufactured homes, to us Americans) on an adjacent hillside to sidestep a ban on further settlement construction.  He regards the settlement as a suburb of Jerusalem, and stressed repeatedly the high demand for additional housing.  He also seems to believe that the Israeli/Palestinian relationship is deteriorating, and that the settlers and their Arab counterparts used to work together much more effectively before they had “peace.”

As we drove away from Efrat, I had the nagging suspicion that I had been “managed.”  We drove by one of the synagogues, but never got the chance to ask why the windows were covered with plywood.  We heard about how many people want to move to the settlement and how high the cost of real estate had been driven by the building freeze – and yet, I saw several of what looked suspiciously like “for sale” signs.  Our host offered several anecdotes to suggest violent Palestinian response to Israeli overtures, and clearly referenced the positive relationship Israel had enjoyed with the US “up until 2 years ago,” which seemed to follow the party line a bit too closely.  I wish we could have spoken to someone on the Arab side of things.

We drove north, back up through Jerusalem and along the Jordan river towards the Galilee.  Green hills and abundant vegetation were a welcome site, and (after a quick stop along the highway for falafel and a chance to ogle a camel) we pulled into Kinneret.  The compound sits almost on the shores of the Sea of Galilee and dates back to the beginning of the kibbutzim (or collective farm) movement. We were greeted by a lovely elderly lady who was a child of this era.  Jehudit was a business-like octogenarian who told us stories of how proud her father had been to work with his hands, and how she had been taught as a child never to cry or be weak.  She spoke disdainfully of “salon communists” who came to the kibbutz but weren’t ready to work hard; her parents and their contemporaries were trying to create a new kind of Jew, she said, who would dedicate themselves to work and the community.  She didn’t like to have her photograph taken because she didn’t like standing out from others in her community.  She was, however, very proud of her hands and the knobs and scars which proved their lifetime of hard work.

Our bus climbed into the hills as the sun set, depositing us at Kibbutz Ein Dor in time for a late dinner in their community dining room.  Several of the older members of this kibbutz are originally from the US, and we were regaled with stories and warm hospitality.  Michael opened his heart to us about the impact of his experience during and after the US/Viet Nam conflict, the Dodgers, and parenting children who were being raised at a collective “children’s house” elsewhere on the kibbutz.  Aryet was simultaneously charming and inspirational as he told stories of his time on Normandy beach, his days with the underground Jewish army smuggling Holocaust survivors by boat into then-Palestine, and his significant contributions to the science of growing cotton.

As I walked back from the dining hall to the kibbutz’ bunk houses tonight, I could see Orion shining in the sky.  The friendly giant who had watched through my bedroom window since childhood gazed down at me, and the roses and daffodils blooming along the path smelled like home.  There are orchards in this region which grow a dozen kinds of fruit, and an assortment of friendly mutts happily escort us around the grounds.  I can understand how, especially after the Shoah, this place must have felt like heaven. 

Sunday, January 23rd

The emergence of the “New City” in Mishkenot Sha’ananim
Christian worship with Arab-Christian Community at Catholic St. Savior’s church
Meet with Jerusalem “Open House” director Yonatan Gher and learn about Jewish-Arab cooperation on GLBTQ issues
Israelis and Palestinians in Jerusalem – Rabbis for Human Rights
Including site visits (Silwan, Sheikh Jarrah)
Israel Religious Action Center, Rachel Canar
Dinner in Ethiopian restaurant

I think my head is exploding.

We started the day in a fairly mellow way, walking through the first settlements outside the City walls, which were begun not long after Mark Twain diss'ed the Holy Land in Innocents Abroad.  The area has gone through several cycles of greater and lesser popularity, since its lovely view of the city also meant that  between 1948 and 1967 it was an easy reach for snipers on the other side of the No Man's Land.  It features a very Dutch-looking windmill and small apartments which were amazingly private and luxurious for their time.

We moved on to St. Savior's Church in the Old City, and I chatted in the alley a bit with a pair of heavily armed Israeli soldiers while we waited for the Italian service to end.  Services in various languages go on all day long, and we were scheduled to attend the service in Arabic.  The homily was enthusiastic (if unintelligible to me), and the music in this magnificent church was provided by a praise band of sorts instead of the organ which dominated one wall.  All in all, it was interesting but not particularly enlightening.

From there we headed to a section of Jerusalem I had not yet seen; a modern section with an outdoor shopping center and other conveniences.  The McDonalds would have been almost unrecognizable from the menu, but featured the familiar golden arches (and a clean bathroom).  My lunch came from a great, cheap falafel joint which stuffed each pita with a choice of veggies and sauces after the fashion of a Subway, and a bakery up the block provided me with some kind of chocolate tiramasu-like concoction which was "slide down the wall" fabulous.  We also looked at a few shops during the remainder of our lunch break (including the "Kipah Man" shown here), but I am finally beginning to learn some restraint.

And then the fun began.  We met with the director of the Jerusalem "Open House," which supports the queer community in Jerusalem.  The restrictive nature of orthodox and ultra-orthodox Jewish lifestyles mean that some gay residents are limited in their ability to seek counseling, HIV testing, and the many other services offered.  I found it particularly distressing to hear that while orthodox men are sometimes able to attend meetings held off-site in discrete locations, the orthodox women "probably have 10 kids at home and can't get away."  The Jerusalem center hasn't had significant trouble with hate crimes and has been able to compromise with the local orthodox population regarding Pride parades and such, but apparently their Tel Aviv counterpart was attacked by a gunman last year who killed two and wounded many.  I remain convinced that openly gay people and the volunteers of the organizations which serve them may be some of the bravest people around, facing down prejudice and potential violence on a regular basis in search of an honest life.

Next, a representative from Rabbis for Human Rights took us on a little bus tour of some areas of East Jerusalem which have become a major front in the "settlers vs. Palestinians" conflict.  It's an incredibly complicated situation, where building permits, unrecorded deeds, dueling appeals to public opinion, money, corruption, racism and bullying swirl in a whirlwind which appears almost impossible to sort out.  We were out of the bus and looking at a site where regular protests are staged by Palestinians on the sidewalk opposite a house which is now occupied by Israelis (who have accessorized the rooftop with a huge menorah, flags and a zionist slogan).  A Palestinian activist spotted our group and walked up, politely insisting that her people's story should be told by one of their own.  While she and our tour leader jointly offered their perceptions, two young orthodox men walked up to our group and pointedly started taking photos of us in an intimidating way before walking away, singing the Israel national anthem.  We were told that cameras were regularly used by the settlers as an intimidation tactic, and it certainly made some of our group nervous.  We were then led into the courtyard of a house which was the crux of a current legal battle, with settlers occupying the front structure while Palestinians remained in the house at the back of the property.  A graffiti war was well under way, with slogans and symbols representing each point of view scattered across the walls and front of the house.  A big burly orthodox man came out of the front structure and stared at us angrily with his arms crossed, while the Palestinian continued her story and urged us to photograph the situation.  It seems our group had become a weapon in the continuing struggle, and our leaders decided it was time we disengaged from the situation and got back on the bus.  We drove back to the Rabbis for Human Rights office and had a discussion about not only the afternoon's encounter but about the other activities of the organization such as planting olive trees to replace those destroyed by the settlers and accompanying the Palestinians in situations where they might be attacked (so as to bear witness and draw attention).

We were starting to look a bit glazed over by the time we left, but still had one more lecture before dinner.  Susan had the excellent sense to feed us orange juice and bananas while we listened to a presentation from The Israel Religious Action Center, which champions the rights of the under-privileged and under-represented in the Israeli legal system.  Their work runs the gamut from ensuring private schools adhere to public standards, to assisting new immigrants, to developing a legal way for those who are not associated with a religious organization to marry.  The presenter was energetic, informative and humorous - just what we needed to end the day on a positive note.

For dinner, we were scheduled to visit an Ethiopian restaurant in the city.  There aren't many of these, and I know several people in our group were really looking forward to experiencing the authentic Ethiopian food.  It was a tiny little restaurant with irregular floors and low ceilings which quickly became overwhelmed by 22 diners who didn't know what they were ordering and didn't share a common language with the waitstaff.  The food came slowly and was highly spiced; in an act of desperation, I raided the cooler by the bar and fetched the badly needed beers myself.  Most meals consisted of a large mushroom-like grey foamy pancake with a faintly vinegary flavor and a small bowl of something to dredge it in.  Mine was an extremely spicy reddish lentil paste; Tiauna got some sort of potato and corn mixture which turned out to be pretty good; Tim had a beef concoction which he thoroughly enjoyed; and Susan somehow ended up with a pancake filled with torn up bits of pancake, tossed with meat and spices.  Not every diner was delighted with their meal, but the beer and laughter flowed freely and it was a pleasant end to the day.

Given the variety of intense experiences we absorbed today, Susan has urged us to take a break before attempting to individually process our thoughts.  Also, getting a full night's sleep might be wise.

I'm good with that.

Saturday, January 22nd (A Day of Rest)

Maybe it goes against the principles of Shabbat to have a to do list for one's day of rest.  There were a few suggestions but no requirements for today, so I had planned to download my more recent photos, get some postcards in the mail, catch up on sleep, go shopping with my roommate, visit the museum, attend an interfaith luncheon at Hebrew Union College, have dinner with a representative from The Schools & Educational Programs of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land (which is their real official name), and so on.  The sleeping in went pretty well, and would have been highly restorative if I had not counter-balanced it by staying up until roughly 2:30 a.m. the night before to work on photos and chat with my Sweetie online.

Still, I managed a very pleasant day of wandering through the Old City and the Bazaar with a few of my fellow travelers at a much more relaxed pace than has generally been possible.  Lunch with the rabbinical students was absolutely great, and we had lots of wonderful conversations about becoming clergy, our anticipated future roles, and our coursework - not to mention all those little things we wouldn't normally have a way to ask, like "what's the difference between a kipeh and a yarmelke, and how come they have so many different shapes and colors?" (me) or "have you ever been to a synagogue before, and what did you think of the service last night?" (them).  They invited us back for a casual "end of sabbath" service later in the afternoon, which was held in the student lounge.  About 20 students, including two with guitars, sang lively music recognizing the end of the sabbath and praising Adonai for the blessings bestowed.  It had a kind of "summer camp" quality, and the students clearly loved having an opportunity to celebrate their faith and to share it with us.  I was very impressed with their enthusiasm and ambition.

The day's activities ended with a discussion over dinner of the educational programs with the lady from ELCJHL and a half-dozen of my fellow students.  She is an unpaid volunteer, partly because funding for OCWM ("Our Church's Wider Mission") offerings through the UCC have dropped to the point where the church can't afford to maintain on-site relationships in many of the places where they used to serve.  She also had a lot to say both about the impact of the Wall on the children served by her organization, and convincingly recommended this book (which I would like to read, but will probably have to wait until the 50 or so other books I need for the coming semester have been purchased and digested).

After some of the physical, mental and emotional work-outs we have experienced in the last week, it was really good to take it slow and to feel comfortable throwing my to do list out the window.  Still, gotta get those postcards in the mail (and sleep a full night, eventually).

Friday, January 21st

Breakfast with host families
Gather to return to Jerusalem
Yad Vashem: Holocaust Memorial and Museum 3
Mt. Herzl – The Holy of Holies of Israel’s Civil Religion
Qabbalat Shabbat with with Kol Haneshama and other local Congregations
Home hospitality for Shabbat dinner

I'm not quite sure how to process this roller-coaster of a day.  I woke many hours ago to the hospitality of our Palestinian host family, who presented my roommate and I with a wonderful breakfast of small breads, hummus, fruit, eggs, and other assorted delicacies before driving us back to the meeting point.  (Najla says she'll e-mail me the recipe for those little spice-filled pita bites, as well as Thursday night's stuffed cabbage leaves with lemon.)  We got back on the bus and headed for the checkpoint, where we were actually checked on our way through.  Going into Palestine, we had passed by without much more than a wave; this time, machine gun-wielding Israeli soldiers boarded the bus and walked down the aisle, making eye contact with each of us.  I was surprised by how disturbing this was; possibly because unlike the many other soldiers and machine guns we have seen, these were in "our" personal space and were blessing us with their direct attention.  They stepped off the bus and we drove through the opening in the great grey behemoth of wall.  As we passed, I noticed the long line of pedestrians to our left, waiting for a similar exit.

We drove over to the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem and took a slow walk through the trees planted in honor of the righteous among the nations.  It is a beautifully designed museum campus with highly evocative artwork surrounded by a wealth of trees and bushes, giving it a European forest look which belies its Middle East reality.  I spotted Corrie Ten Boom's tree, and our guide pointed out the general direction of the tree planted in honor of Oskar Schindler before we stepped into the museum proper.  There is an installation of a railroad box car - the kind used to transport Jews to the death camps - suspended over the walkway leading up to the buildings, and I was startled by the almost claustrophobic emotional weight which descended on me as I stepped under it.

Once in the museum, we walked by exhibits of piled up shoes, mementos and documents singed by fire, videos and photographs of victims, and scale models of the crematoriums with little tiny figures shown piled up against the walls.  Large images of the skeletal dead and dying were displayed in some areas, maps and ghetto artifacts in others.  At the end, an art installation paired "before" photos of dozens of victims mounted in a cone-shaped ceiling above our heads with a reflecting well and surrounded it with binders containing every known name of a holocaust victim.  (About 1 in 3 remain unknown; when an entire village was wiped out, sometimes no record was left to provide the names.  In the worst cases, they don't even know exactly how many Jews from a particular location were killed.)

Down a tree-lined path, we stepped into the children's memorial.  Nazis especially targeted the children in an attempt to destroy future generations of Jews, and there are thousands of heart-rending and gristly stories which bear witness to this.  The memorial, however, was designed in brilliant simplicity; one simply walked down a dark path clutching a rail for guidance and stepped into a room where small lights and mirrors created the illusion of a universe of stars.  (Thinking back, it reminds me of the lights which are lit in a synagogue to mark the anniversary of a death.)  These lights shone out of the dark, appearing near and far in the different reflections while a series of recorded voices read the name and age of one doomed child after another.  Many of us stepped back out into the sunshine with tear-streaked faces.

We walked up to the cemetery on Mount Herzl and tried to make sense of all this while we ate our picnic lunch.  The Palestinian situation - the horrors of the Shoah (or Holocaust), with one image and exhibit after another reigning down on me like a beating - the peace of the cemetery and the emotional turmoil of my fellow travelers - I found it all too much to process.  We think of the Shoah and promise ourselves "never again," but then sit by during a Rwanda, or give speeches about non-interference as lives are systematically destroyed.   Are we our brother's keeper?  Is it arrogant to step in, or irresponsible not to do so?  Can there ever be an answer?

I stood up in the sunshine, assumed a mountain pose for a few breaths in each direction, and did my best to rediscover peace and let the turmoil disperse until it could be examined properly.  I needed to find some inner peace and space, to let go a bit with my heart so that I could use my head.  Still, I doubt there are any real answers to these questions.  Like some of the Palestinians which I met on Thursday, I am fencing with despair.

To close out the evening, we cleaned ourselves up at the hotel and then headed out to Friday night services with a local congregation.  The liturgy was in Hebrew but printed translations allowed us to join in the celebration of the sabbath, who arrives as a queen of peace.  Afterwards, my companion and I walked a few blocks deeper into the city (striking out intrepidly on our own, with the help of a map and some written directions) before arriving at the apartment of our dinner hosts. Ilan and Yael had prepared a vegetarian feast for us, and we ended up talking well into the night about religion, politics, ambitions, concerns . . . and a shared love of the television show Glee.  They haven't seen much of season two here yet, but have been reading about it online.  (We all really like the Brittany Spears episode.)

Looking back now, I am perhaps desensitized to some degree to the horrors of the holocaust.  Corrie Ten Boom's The Hiding Place had a deep impact on me as a young adult, and I've watched everything on the subject from Au Revoir, Les Enfants to Europa! Europa! to Sophie's Choice and Playing for Time.  I've read books and articles with morbid fascination, visited other exhibits, and generally learned as much as a gentile woman born decades after the fact can probably absorb without a specific plan or curriculum.  I get it, as best I can.  The scar left on the collective Jewish psyche is unimaginable, and clearly continues to the present generation.  On the other hand, does that deep wound justify their heavy-handed approach to their own neighbors?  Moreover, who am I to judge?

I just don't know.

Thursday, January 20th

Visit Bethlehem, including:
Church of Nativity
Visit Refugee camp
Separation barrier
Meetings with Palestinians
Dinner with host families

Somehow I didn't realize that (a) Bethlehem is basically a suburb of Jerusalem, just a short ride (and a checkpoint) away, and (b) that it is in Palestine, although under varying degrees of Israeli control.  We were on the bus this morning, overnight bags in hand, and I had barely settled into my seat before we were at the wall and saying goodbye to our Israeli guide at the border.  A very nice Dutch gentleman met us on the other side and shared his adopted world with us throughout the day.  We started in the shadow of the huge swath of intimidating cement which is the wall, walking along it as we approached a "story house" which provides support and an emotional haven for local Palestinian women.  The area looks like the aftermath of a nasty gang war, with graffiti everywhere and desolate streets.  The women, on the other hand, looked and dressed exactly like someone you might be introduced to when taking your grandmother to church.  Western dress, conservative make-up, generally about middle-aged and mostly clutching purses nervously.  Their stories were quite difficult to hear; the wall separating farmers from their orchards and workers from their jobs (without compensation or apology), unable to see family members on the other side of the wall except on holidays or for medical reasons.  Children in the refugee camp went to school as normal one day, and came home to find a grey concrete tidal wave had erased the field which had given them space to play in the sun.  The ladies talked about how Christian and Muslim families lived and worked together comfortably, but felt as if they were being pitted against each other.  We heard stories about miscarriages after tear gas attacks, desperately trying to get the necessary governmental permissions to preserve educational or career opportunities, and sagging hopes.  One woman plaintively asked, "Why are they afraid of us?  We are nothing."

Afterwards, we walked further along the wall and strolled through the refugee camp.  The pope had visited a few years ago, leaving behind a good road to walk; but children played on concrete while women watched us nervously and men leaned against buildings or passed us by.  They survive on income sent from family members abroad, living in a world of battered and graffitied buildings, barbed wire and trash.  "Refugee Camp" sounds like something which would involve tents and mud, raw and frantic.  Instead, I saw a world with hardly a green or living plant in sight, where the adults seemed resigned to endure and the children acted as if everyone grew up this way.

Walking back towards the bus, still paralleling the "security barrier," I was fascinated by the graffiti.  It ranged from scatological social commentary to beautiful bits of folk art.  Much of it compares the situation to apartheid and begs for peace or justice.  Names are posted of those who have died in relation to the struggle.  Several sections of the wall had been stenciled across the bottom, "Made in USA."  One stray line simply said, "I want my ball back."

We wove our way through the souvenir shops, street merchants, a couple of fancy hotels and churches or religious houses from what seemed like every variant of Christianity before arriving at the Church of the Nativity.  It is architecturally fascinating, having grown through the years with a succession of operators, and now contains sections for several different faith traditions.  I spent most of my limited time in the orthodox section admiring icons and columns decorated with painted saints and a section of floor which displayed original mosaic work, before popping through to the Catholic section for more beautiful sacred artwork.  For a few bucks, I purchased a little packet from a monk which contained baptismal water from the Jordan River, anointing oil from somewhere in the church, and a little olive wood cross.  I saw lots of more or less respectful gawkers, but (excluding the clergy on site) none of the visitors seemed  particularly moved or awe-struck.  Certainly nothing like the people sobbing on the stone where Jesus was said to have been anointed for burial in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher clutching at the stones of the Wailing Wall.  My impression of it all was more like the calm eye at the center of the storm which is Bethlehem's main industry.

We gobbled a fast lunch and made a short visit to the souvenir shop which had kindly offered parking for our bus, and then were off to hear more stories.  Stories from a youth organization which teaches Christian, Muslim and Jewish youth to live and work together, and from a peace worker whose grandfather was shot in Jerusalem in 1948 while tying a white flag to the outside of the home where his wife and seven small children lived.  Our Palestinian host families graciously took us in for the evening, showering us with home-cooked meals, bounteous hospitality, and more stories.

I find myself overwhelmed, appalled and angry.  This day will take some time to process.

Wednesday, January 19th

Masada
Dead Sea
Ein Gedi Oasis
Qumran – Dead Sea Scrolls’ site


I climbed the Snake Path at Masada today.  1300 vertical feet - or as my roommate helpfully put it, "a quarter mile straight up."  Of course, the actual path is constructed with a score of switch-backs and with stone-cut stairs, making it much longer.  There's a perfectly serviceable cable car ride as an alternative, but some combination of pride and misplaced enthusiasm made me decide to hoof it instead.  (I can't imagine what I was thinking.)  In a pathetic attempt to justify a short rest break, I mentioned to one of my fellow hikers on the way up that the whole point was to make the fortress as unaccessible as possible.  "Okay, we get the point," she answered.  "You think they could send a rescue basket down for us now or something?"

Most of what I knew before today about Masada came from tangental references and from the miniseries, which our guide helpfully pointed out was telecast over 30 years ago.  I hadn't realized that the fort was originally constructed by Herod, the Judean king famous for his building zeal and equally famous for his bloodthirsty insanity.  The Sicarii simply made efficient use of the structure in their attempts to resist the Romans in 73 C.E.  And the structure really is brilliantly designed and remarkably well preserved, from the ingenious cisterns which provided water reserves to the richly decorated tile floors and plaster walls.


We wandered around the site for a bit, learning more about history and absorbing the general impressiveness of it all.  Then we took the cable car down (I can be taught, although this was more about time constraints) and headed over to the public beach on the shores of the Dead Sea.  The water was wonderfully pleasant, almost viscous - and tasted absolutely foul when a splashed droplet landed on my lip.  We'd been warned about its effect on cuts and just generally advised to keep it away from eyes, mouth, and any other sensitive areas.  I'm fairly buoyant anyway, but in that water it was almost impossible to tread water or do anything else except float - the water just kept pushing me out.  Think of what would happen if you tried to float a doll vertically in a tub, and you've got the basic idea.  Still, I could have stayed there much longer . . . maybe set up a cabana and order some mojitos.  Then again, I might have been still recovering from the earlier climb.

Instead of continuing to collect salt on our skins until we glittered like the shore, our guide loaded us back on the bus and headed across the road to the Ein Gedi Nature Reserve, where there was more hiking available for the intrepid and beautiful waterfalls and fresh water for the rest of us to play in.  You may have read about this place in a little book we like to call 1st Samuel 24:
When Saul returned from following the Philistines, he was told, ‘David is in the wilderness of En-gedi.’ Then Saul took three thousand chosen men out of all Israel, and went to look for David and his men in the direction of the Rocks of the Wild Goats. He came to the sheepfolds beside the road, where there was a cave; and Saul went in to relieve himself. Now David and his men were sitting in the innermost parts of the cave. The men of David said to him, ‘Here is the day of which the Lord said to you, “I will give your enemy into your hand, and you shall do to him as it seems good to you.” ’ Then David went and stealthily cut off a corner of Saul’s cloak. Afterwards David was stricken to the heart because he had cut off a corner of Saul’s cloak. 


To round out the day, we stopped at Qumran, the site of the caves which had hidden the Dead Sea Scrolls until their discovery in the last century.  I'm told there is an actual exhibit of the scrolls in one of the Jerusalem museums, and am planning to go see them over the weekend.


Tomorrow we will take a sharp left turn, moving away from the static and towards living history.  We will be traveling to Bethlehem, which is in modern-day Palestine.  We will see the separation barrier (or security wall) and talk with residents of a refugee camp.  Our group will be split up and fostered overnight by one of several host families, abandoning our comfy hotel for the night.  We've been warned that there is much to hear and much to learn, and that it will be an emotional experience for all involved.  We are not to try to solve problems or offer solutions - we are there to listen, not to fly in with our capes waving behind us and play "fix it."  I'm sure it will be a deeply moving experience.


NOTE:  Our host families may not be able to offer internet access, so posting of Thursday's blog report may be delayed.  Thanks for your patience.

Tuesday, January 18th

Ophel – Southern Wall excavations – 2nd Temple period site
Western Wall
Lunch in Muslim quarter
Haram a-Sherif / Temple Mount
Jewish Quarter
Via Dolorosa & Church of the Holy Sepulcher
Dinner and Souk wandering in Old City

Meet at Jaffa gate for Sound and Light Show at David’s Citadel

They warned us that Hezekiah’s Tunnel was potentially bone chilling.  The weather has been quite cool by Israeli standards – 12 degrees Celsius today – and our guide (and several tour participants) weren’t quite enthusiastic about wading through the dark in a tunnel which ranged from about one and a half meters tall to perhaps 5, but was barely wide enough for me to pass through and featured running water anywhere from knee-deep to mid-thigh.  Add to this the fact that the hotel's hot water heater had malfunctioned, meaning that cold showers had been the only option for morning ablutions.  Still, more than half the group decided to go for it.  We started outside the original wall and followed the zig-zagging tunnel under the City of David before coming out adjacent to the site of the Pool of Shiloam (which John describes as the site of Jesus' healing of the blind man).  The water wasn't particularly cold, which perhaps makes sense since it would be close to the constant temperature of a subterranean source, and there was something almost trance-like about feeling one's way through the dark with only the light of another person's flashlight to show the way.  The walls of the tunnel were quite dark between the light and me, giving an optical illusion of a wide room opening on either side of me in the middle distance.  Poor Adam cracked his head and dinged his camera lens during the transit, but being a short and somewhat padded person came in handy for me once again.  After, we continued exploring the ruins uncovered thus far and discussing some of the political implications of having Jews digging under the Muslim residential areas in search of archeological finds which might substantiate a Jewish claim to the land.  One resident near the City of David had hung a protest sign which stated that excavations and settlements were "two sides of the same coin."

Lunch in the Muslim Quarter was falafel, hummus with tahini, tomato salad, naan, and some wonderful tea with mint.  All the classics in a location which couldn't be more authentic, and I was in heaven.  Back in the Old City, we covered everything from the Western Wall to the Temple Mount, with an unending supply of fabulous architecture and meaningful historical and Biblical sites.  Artfully carved columns and blocks from the second temple period lay scattered around, and it was easy to imagine how the temple courtyard would have looked with its vendors and crowds of worshipers.  The biggest problem I had was staying with the group, what with so many different treasures to explore and photograph.  My goal became simply to not be the last person in the group was we progressed (a goal I did not always succeed in).  Once we started down the Via Dolorosa, it only got worse.

Between 6:00 and the beginning of the Sound & Light Show at David's Citadel at 7:00, we were set free to find our own dinner and explore the souk (or market) near the Jaffa Gate.  The souk is filled with vendors who "just want to show you something," or give you their card, or have a number of other friendly invitations designed to get you in the door and talking.  I'm more of a bargain hunter than a dedicated dickerer, and had trouble getting used to issuing a firm but friendly no.  I turned down a few things, made a few purchases, and then passed by a shop near the Swedish Hostel run by a guy named Hassan.  He hooked me with scarves which were going for 10 shekels, and then kept me going when he conveniently didn't have change (which inspired me to pick out a pair of silver bracelets to make up the difference).  Then he offered me a cup of tea, which was lovely but presented some questions of etiquette.  Did I need to finish the tea, thereby committing myself to a longer visit?  I decided I did, and had an interesting conversation with my host about American politics and the jewelry and ornamental garb of the Bedouin peoples.  Another scarf found its way into my possession, as did a pendant made from an antique Turkish coin.  Hassan said I looked a bit tired (Hello, it's called jet lag) and said he was a masseuse, and suddenly I was the recipient of a lovely head and neck massage.

I kind of wonder if my new buddy was trying to see how far he could get with me, and I had to firmly refuse additional favors (which is difficult for a Midwesterner to do).  Still, he kissed both my hands and insistently invited me to come back tomorrow.  (I really do NOT think that is a good idea, both for the sake of my wallet and to avoid any additional familiarities.) I dashed back up to the Citadel, our meeting place, and walked into the sound and light show in time for the depiction of the crusaders' arrival.  A short bus ride back to the hotel, and we all sank gratefully into the cushions and shared a few bottles of sweet Israeli red wine received as a gift from the hotel.  Almost as welcome was the news that their hot water heater was fixed and hot showers were available for all.

Mulling the day over, I am struck by the incessant parade of contrasts.  The victories and defeats of Jewish history are displayed reverently and dramatically, while the evolving status of other peoples can be read in the debris- and shanty-covered hillsides.  The plaza in front of the Wailing Wall was filled at one point with a clearly international crowd of the faithful, and at another with a huge crowd of young men and women in uniform who were being sworn in for their obligatory service in the Israeli Army.  I saw more machine guns and other openly displayed weapons today than in all my life previous.  Israeli flags and residences are located in the Muslim quarter in an "in your face" style, as is the graffiti shown here.  I am constantly greeted by vendors and other hospitality workers with friendly questions about my family and home, but get the distinct impression from others who live here that tourists are (at best) a fiscally necessary annoyance.  I find myself enthralled and a bit disheartened, all at once.

I stated earlier that my group is here not just to see the history of this incredibly historical place, but to gain some understanding of the peoples who claim it and the sources of their conflict.  After only two days, I am perhaps becoming a bit seduced by the history.  Today I walked across the same stones that Jesus almost surely trod, and gazed up at the remains of the palace balcony from which David might have spotted Bathsheba!  And yet, history is written by the winners; I need to remain cognizant of the stories which have not been recorded, and listen to the words unsaid.

Monday, January 17th

11:15  Arrive Ben Gurion Airport, Israel, ascend to Jerusalem
c. 13:30  Introductory overview of Jerusalem from Haas/Sherover Promenade, including bag lunch and walk along the promenade with introductory texts
15:30  Panoramic view of the Old City from the Mount of Olives; Garden of Gethsemane
18:30  Welcome - Rabbi Ron Kronish
19:30  Dinner & Free Evening


We made it here.  We had a little bit of trouble in Chicago because American Airlines only checked my bags (and those of one other student) through to JFK, meaning we had to leave security, go retrieve our bags, and then bring them back through security at the El Al desk before boarding our 747.  With that running around, there was just barely enough layover time left to grab a pizza (to be consumed on the flight).


One we'd taken off, my seat-mates and I had a relaxing glass of red wine (free from the service cart) before I took my sleeping pill and floated off.  I am struck once again by how relaxing I find air travel.  Not the "crammed in a box" and "lack of control over my environment" part, but that incredibly freeing sensation of springing into the air and leaving the world behind for a playful jaunt through the clouds.  I could stay up there forever, if I had the leg room and a more regular supply of water.


I slept fairly well on the flight.  Rabbi M threatened to make me the official note-taker for the day, since apparently no one else got as much sleep.  Yawning but quite functional, I made it through passport check, baggage retrieval and the process of securing local currency.  I told the customs guy that it was the first stamp in my passport; he congratulated me.  


Once loaded in the bus, we headed south from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.  We approached from the West, which was seldom done in the old days but has become more popular as pilgrims and other visitors began arriving by sea in the last 150 years or so.  (I am conditioned to assume that wherever the largest body of water may be found is, by definition, East.  I keep having to remind and reorient myself.)  Our bus climbed past citrus groves and kibbutzim, and finally stopped on a large ridge on the western edge of the city.   We were invited to step out onto a stone terrace overlooking the ridges and ravines, construction and shanties and fabulous buildings dedicated to a number of religious traditions.  While we munched on pastry, sandwiches and fruit, our guide Jared read the biblical story of Abraham's journey to sacrifice Isaac and then pointed out that the lands described fit perfectly with the low mountains in front of us.

Thanks to Cathy for this shot of me with a friendly Jerusalem cat.

We were originally scheduled to continue to the City of David today, but a late flight and a dental emergency from one of the students put us behind a bit.  Rabbi M decided to take us to the Mount of Olives and Gethsemane instead, holding off the City of David and Hezekiah's tunnel until tomorrow.  The vista of the city, with the Dome of the Rock shining in the setting sun, was unbelievable.  We reached the chapel within the garden of Gethsemane as the light was dimming, but I did my best (with heavy reliance on my Image Stabilization software) to capture the beauty of the place.  Inside the fabulously decorated chapel is a stretch of bare limestone which is celebrated as the place where Christ prayed on the night of his betrayal.  Outside is a grove of ancient olive trees, carefully supported and tended.  Coating the mountain are the graves of Muslims, Christians and Jews.  Down the slope a bit is the beautifully simple Church of the Tear, a bit over from the gold domes of the Greek Orthodox Church of St. Mary Magdelene, and at the base of the slope is yet another lovely little chapel carved directly into the stone.  (Our guide told me this last church had something to do with the birth of the Virgin Mary, but the bus was arriving and he was busy.  He did say that to see all the wonderful little historical nooks in this city, I'd have to move here!)


We finally arrived at the Hotel Eden around 6:00 local time.  Those who hadn't slept during the flight were getting quite ragged, and even I was pretty pleased to wash my face and put on fresh clothes.  We had a few minutes to get settled before Rabbi Kronish's presentation on the peace process and his organization's work.  Then we were served a middle eastern feast by the staff of this little hotel that just couldn't be beat, capped off by my very favorite kind of baclava - lots of pistachios!


So what do I think, after this first crazy day in Israel?  It's hard to say.  I'm fascinated by all the different cultures represented here, although my recent readings may color my perceptions of how some are treated.  I notice that the people - especially the orthodox Jewish men - seem kind of pushy and rude when it comes to retrieving baggage or moving out of the aisles to let someone pass.  There is a sense of women not quite receiving the respect of an equal from the men, which catches me off guard.  And while walking down the Mount of Olives I noticed two young adolescent boys sniggering at my friend and fellow seminarian, who is trans-female; it made me wish I knew enough of the local language to bawl them out and remind them of their manners.


Our guide said something early in the day today about the land being filled with true history, some of which actually happened.  Although this is certainly one of the most holy, historic places on the Earth, I find myself mostly aware of the beauty of the landscape and the architecture, the marks of the faithful rather than the founding features of the faith.  I don't need to kneel where Jesus knelt in order to feel a connection to the divine, but I am fascinated by the steps taken over the generations (back to Constantine's mother and before) to identify these holy sites and preserve them.

Psalm 122

Song of Praise and Prayer for Jerusalem

A Song of Ascents. Of David.
I was glad when they said to me,
   ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord!’ 
Our feet are standing
   within your gates, O Jerusalem. 

Jerusalem—built as a city
   that is bound firmly together. 
To it the tribes go up,
   the tribes of the Lord,
as was decreed for Israel,
   to give thanks to the name of the Lord. 
For there the thrones for judgement were set up,
   the thrones of the house of David. 

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem:
   ‘May they prosper who love you. 
Peace be within your walls,
   and security within your towers.’ 
For the sake of my relatives and friends
   I will say, ‘Peace be within you.’ 
For the sake of the house of the Lord our God,
   I will seek your good.