While Shabbat shuts down the Jewish part of the Old City, to Jerusalem's Muslim population, it’s simply Saturday. Still excited about seeing the Holy Land, I decided to return to East Jerusalem and catch an Arab bus to Bethlehem. After seeking the help of some kindly locals, I located bus 21. As I was about to board, a heard familiar American accent ask, "Is this the bus to Bethlehem?" I said, “Yep”. And so began my acquaintanceship with Julio Cesar, an Angelino tourist. As the crow flies, Bethlehem is only 10 miles from Jerusalem, but due to military checkpoints, and the recently constructed concrete wall separating Israeli-held and Palestinian populated territory, the ride now takes around 45 minutes.
When the bus dropped us off at Beit Jala, Julio and I were approached by scores of taxi drivers, hoping to score some shekels by taking us on a tour of the West Bank. Since the quoted rates were far less than Israeli fares, and both Julio and I could split the cost, we decided to hire Mahmoud for the morning to show us around. Our first few stops were at sections of the partition wall itself (which Mahmoud referred to as the “Apartheid Wall” to see the impressive (and often incendiary) graffiti tagged on the enormous barrier. A lot of the painting is by Banksy, arguably the most famous graffiti artist on Earth, and is stunning, in both aesthetic and conveyed message.
After that, we visited Herodion, an ancient fortress built atop an artificial mountain by Herod the Great. This would be one of many sites I would visit on my trip that served to prove the megalomania and paranoia of the Roman puppet King of Judea. Besides the amazing ruins, the site afforded magnificent views of the surrounding countryside, including the Dead Sea. It was also in this area where the biblical prophet Amos lived. Although Mahmoud was pushing hard to extend to trip to more distant destinations, I wanted to return to Jerusalem before 5pm, and Julio was primarily concerned with seeing Manger Square.
I have to say, Bethlehem itself is not deserving of much fanfare. The center of town (Manger Square) is essentially just a parking lot, surrounded my souvenir shops, and the Church of the Nativity. The Byzantine flourishes that remain in the church are a sight to see, and the entrance, a tiny portal known as the “Door of Humility” is a funny little testament to its troubled history throughout the ages; the door was made smaller and smaller over the years in order to inhibit the ease of entry for attackers. Once inside, however, the church opens up into a grand structure, then two staircases lead down into a claustrophobic grotto where a 14-point star marks the traditional spot where Christ was born. Again, like so many other Holy sites, the likelihood that the star marks the actual nativity nave is up for debate, but seeing the reaction of pilgrims to the place is moving. Directly behind the grotto is a little niche called the Altar of the Adoration of the Magi. An interesting story about the centuries-old mosaic showing three kings bearing gifts is that when the Persians invaded in 614 AD, they spared the church after seeing one of the Magi depicted wearing similar clothes to their own.
Leaving the crowds at the Nativity Church behind, we walked about a block behind the building to the Milk Grotto Chapel. This is a place of Christian mystery and superstition. The church is built over a white rock that is said to have originally been red. As the legend goes, Mary, Joseph, and the infant Child of God stopped at this spot on their flight to Egypt to escape the persecution of Herod. As Mary fed the baby Jesus from her bosom, some of the milk spilled on the rock and turned it white. Now, women come from all over the world to ingest a grain of the chalky rock (usually in tea or water) with the hope that it will cure infertility. Julio and I spoke with a Franciscan priest at the site. He said, “I know this sounds like a joke, but I have 2,000 letters upstairs of times when it has worked!” But, then he went on to say, “You know, it’s not the rock that cured these women…the rock is not magic…it was their faith. It is all about faith. It’s hard to have such faith, but if you really believe, God can do anything.”
Content with our sightseeing, Julio and I went searching for a place to have lunch. Both of us wanted to try some traditional Palestinian fare. Sitting at an outdoor café with a frosty mug of Taybeh, I tried Mansaf, a dish made from stewed lamb cooked in jameed (dried yogurt) plopped over a bed of pine nut-saturated rice sitting on top of layers of pita like sajj bread. It is served with a buttery chicken-soup stock that is poured over the plate at your discretion. It was a very, very good meal.
As we ate, two young Palestinian men with a rudimentary knowledge of English inquisitively chatted with us. The look on their faces was not pleasant when we told them that we were from the USA. Oddly, they could not seem to grasp the concept that both Julio and I could both be Americans, because to Palestinians, ethnicity has just as much to do with nationality. I explained to them that Julio is just as American as I am, and Americans can look very different from one another. Julio spoke with them intelligently and diplomatically when they began asking questions about American military support for Israel, and our attitudes towards Palestinians. I proud of Julio (and proud of my country) as he told them over and over that most Americans are good people, and only want peace for everybody, especially for themselves and their families.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve been astounded by the rhetoric and hype I’ve heard in conversations with both Israelis and Palestinians, even though I expected it before I arrived. For example, Israelis refer to the folks in the West Bank and Gaza as “Arabs” and not “Palestinians”, because calling them the latter implies that they belong in Palestine. Calling them the former implies that they could live anywhere in the Arab world. The conflict in 1948 is called the “War of Independence” by Israelis, and “The War of Occupation” by Arabs. Mahmoud pointed out “Refugee Camps”, which for the most part are really just neighborhoods for the displaced; most of the refugees live in permanent houses, some of them quite fancy…it’s nothing like the ramshackle slums I’ve seen in India or Ethiopia. The fact of the matter is that I can sympathize with both sides in many ways, but I also feel like an indoctrination of exaggeration has occurred in many cases.
I made it back to Jerusalem in time to catch a French mass at Ecce Homo performed by Father Ed. Although I feel like I only understood about a quarter of what was said, it was certainly an experience I won’t forget. With some time left in my day, I again left the Old City via Damascus Gate and went to a place known as the Garden Tomb. This is a place considered an as an alternative site for the crucifixion and tomb of Christ. In 1883, British General Charles Gordon identified a hill resembling a skull outside of the Old City and began excavations, wondering if this was the spot of the real Golgotha (Golgotha means “skull” by the way). Soon, the archaeological digs yielded the remains of tombs that scientists have since disregarded as pre-Christian, but bear striking similarities to those mentioned in the Gospels. A very quiet, green spot in an otherwise noisy and urban area, the Garden Tomb was if nothing and interesting place to relax. The actual crucifixion location for believers in the Garden Tomb actually sits just outside of the property in the middle of an Arab bus depot. Of course, cynics claim that the only reason the Garden Tomb is promoted is because it is the only Passion site that Protestants have any stake in. But part of me thought, wouldn’t it be fitting of the Awesome Irony of God that his Son was not put to death where an ornate Church now stands, but rather where Muslims catch public transportation? Of course, if I’ve learned anything about Israel as a whole so far, it’s that it leaves more questions than it does answers.
