From Occupied Bethlehem to the Israeli Bedouin Town

Well, it's time to return home. After checking emails for the last time and dropping off' "extra baggage" with friend Jack at his wood shop, across from the Church of Nativity, I returned again to the hotel that had become my home for two weeks, paid the bill and left a token of my appreciation to the staff who had been true hosts for me each day. Few guests are long term at the Grand. Most breeze in late at night have traveling from the Galilee, rise at 5:00 AM scurry for breakfast and are out the door to the next "dead stones" exhibit, never having had more than a word, certainly not personal, to any of the staff. I know because I've watched them and have also been guilty of the same. It is too bad, because those who work for us there have great stories to be heard. I know that because i was privileged to have heard some.

I left the hotel as I had found it, full of old friends who provided great support and service while I was there. My mother was right, long years ago. It doesn't take much to be kind, and the rewards are great. With a warm feeling inside, I headed down to my favorite schwarma place for a last great sandwich. I then began the next leg of my journey home which would again reinforce the constraints of the occupation which Palestinians face every day of their lives.

I caught the service to checkpoint 300 at Bethlehem gate. I quickly moved through the first set of cattle ramps, but the movement slowed as we got through the second set of turnstiles, and finally to a standstill before the x-ray machine. Before I got into full view of the bottle neck of very narrow, criss crossing railed paths, I could hear the voice of the guard barking in Arabic at folks who were struggling to prepare for the machine's hungry body. It was hot and the air still, and there were a number of tourists in front and behind me, all for the moment - equals, experiencing the same indignity. (not unlike the feeling one has at our own airports, except volatile) I wonder if the Israelis feel protected, let alone secure with such a system? What is the real reason for the indignity? How can the Palestinians stand such loss of human dignity and the guaranteed freedom of movement within their own territory? How can we in the free world permit such a denial?

The heat from the hot metal roof above us, and the claustrophobic feeling one has in such cramped conditions is frightening. It causes more anxiety. The climate was not only warm but furious in nature. There were many defiant men with grimaces on their faces and women and men with small children there too, with desperation in their eyes. Some men squeezed through the small openings between the railings to get ahead in line. Some fathers passed their children, then their strollers and finally themselves, trailed by their wives with still other small babes besides them. Most of the travelers aided such desperate actions. Many Americans around me, grumbled and complained, or insisted on some degree of civility, not acknowledging I thought, what the Palestinians who traveled to work, to visit family, or attend their fields must endure day in and day out. I took a picture quickly with my camera, and left my tape recorder on for about 15 minutes to catch, perhaps the emotions that were flowing around me. At last after about 45 minutes of trudging, step by step in the direction of the voice coming from a walled- in cubicle, with double thick bullet proof glass, most likely paid for by my taxes, did I begin to breathe more fully. Only when we got to the machine, and to the next exit for final review of permission slips, passports and ID cards, and oh yes, finger print identification instruments, did the pressure ease on the tourists who were whisked through the turn styles in what seemed as an unfair advantage. After all, how were the others any different than us, at the core? The air on the outside was a relief to the constrained conditions we had all experienced. And then, a scramble with the back pack to the next bus which would drop me somewhere near where I could catch Israeli transit to the main terminal in West Jerusalem. The driver let me off, and by request, told me where I should stand and wait for it. An hour later, and several rejections by bus drivers of different destinations, only one took time to tell me that I was a the wrong place to catch the #20. On I trudged with my pack.

I climbed on the bus and was reminded of scenes on the news programs in the States of buses like this which were blown to smithereens and their human cargo burned to a crisp. I can imagine such fear. For some, the experience of passing through the checkpoint was justified. There hadn't been a bombing like that since 2005, and while there are those who justify such precautions by indicating that since the construction the wall, there hadn't been a serious incident. Those same people would probably not know that at about the same time, the Hamas declared a voluntary moratorium on such strategies because such bombings resulted in unfavorable world wide opinion about such tactics which was not the goal. It was to draw attention to the world about the desperations of those who were feeling imprisoned.

As we drove down the streets of downtown Jewish West Jerusalem, I remarked to myself that I hadn't ever been to this part of the city. The streets were lined with all kinds of shops that you might find in any city in the US, from Starbucks to Wendy's. What a contrast to downtown Bethlehem that I had left just three hours ago. The bus driver indicated my stop, and I scurried with others, including lots of young men and women with M-16s strung around their necks, towards the turnstiles and still more security to enter the terminal which I would find was on the top floor of the building. I was refused entrance in the first of two doors and neither I or the guard could speak each other's language sufficiently in order to understand what all his gestures were about. I only knew I was not welcomed nor part of his routine. A couple of young students finally stepped forward and indicated that I had to enter by another gate further down where the proper x-ray machine was stationed. I wondered as I banged around with my pack on my back if the Israelis who went through this process felt protected or secure, or neither?

I bought my ticket and was already an hour behind from getting to my appointed place with someone waited two hours south toward the city of Sderot. My cell phone purchased in the West Bank, would not work in Israel, and my friend's phone would not reach me either. This was not a great feeling, but I had been there before, and things worked out. Yaniv, the young former member of the Israeli Defense Forces', feared Golani Brigade, said "not to worry, no problem", he would find me. But would he wait for two hours for my arrival as the day deepened, and the night darkened. I decided that he would stay there and wait for me, and that I would not be left abandoned in the middle of some lonely high way in Southern Israel. I trusted that thought even though the driver did not know of the stop which I had asked to be dropped. It turns out that I had mispronounced the name, and when a kind fellow traveling with us clarified the misinformation, we all felt a lot better. At least, I would be dropped off a the agreed upon spot. As the sun dipped below the horizon, and in the dimness of that light, I saw a lone white sedan that belonged to Yaniv. I was grateful for the driver's persistence, and the goodness of a faithful friend.

And finally, the brief but deep encounter with Yaniv, once again. Originally, I had planned to spend the night with his family, but due to the limitations of time toward the end of the trip, I decided that it would be just for a couple of hours that evening and then to Ben Gurion Airport. It turns out that Yaniv's interpretation of 12:30 AM flight was the next day at noon. Israelis would interpret 12:30 as noon, not AM or PM. He was expecting to have me around for the next day which explained to me why, after having dinner together in his community, we drove another twenty miles to his house in the Negev Desert. Fortunately, we discovered before it was too late to make it to the airport. But what unfolded in the two hours previously was priceless.

I have already written of Yaniv's tour in the Army, and his decision to put down his rife and join Combatants for Peace. Well since my last visit with him, he had lost his job as writer, and hired on as a teacher in the mostly Arab community nearby. The Arabs were predominately Bedouins. His job was to work with elementary students for an hour or so around environmental education. Yaniv, with his simple life style ( he built his own home out of discarded wood and other building materials, as well as applied an insulating, clay earthen wall to the structure). He could write the book on living simply which includes eating simply. He asked if I were a vegetarian or not and then we drove the town of Raphat for a stop at the local herb store at which he bought some kind of spice and suggested I get some olive oil soap while we were there. His conversation with the Bedouin was in Arabic, and there appeared to be a very comfortable, mutual relationship between them, almost bordering respect. We then headed down the road and he pulled into an apparently abandoned parking lot where shops were closed, and then swung around to the back where there was a small windowed store, with an Arab woman cooking barbecue over a smokey pit. Had I gotten there at 3 as planned we would have been able to visit the local market with all of its eccentricities. We, instead as the only customers surrounded by the usual crowd of boys in such places, enjoyed chicken schwarma sandwiches and a Coke. Later we drove around the corner to a bakery and Yaniv ordered from the young man, who was from Nablis, in the West Bank, originally. ( what was he doing in Israel?) The baclavah type sweet was delicious, and then we drove to his family farm, for what I thought was a brief look at his completed dwelling, a visit with his parents who were Jewish emigres from Spain in the 60's, and travel to the airport.

What transpired during our three hour conversations, was a wonderful in sight into his life as committed pastoral being, totally integrated into the community as you might get from the above description, and a truly remarkable and lovable individual whose quiet reserve, dedication to the simplicity and authentic aspects of life, and dry sense of humor are notable. While he is actively engaged in restoring peace to the land, he still is dedicated to his country's goal of a home for Jews, but not to the exclusion of others. In fact, he and I both use the phrase "the others" in our discussions about not only how to relate to one another in the present, but also consider such language in any kind of long term solution to the conflict.

Our conversations that day as always, were rich and enlightening , and he caused me to reflect on the kind of life style we live here. He insisted that I take a hot shower before we talked further which would refresh me after such a long ordeal that day. I took him up on it and felt refreshed as I always am after a visit with him and others like him on my journey.