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.