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.