After rising early to meet the American pastors at the Bobiscot taxi stop in Bethlehem, who were joining Daher and I for a quick tour of the family farm, and home of Tent of nations, I took Daher's lead in the story. It's their story not mine. There were ample and appropriate moments for me to share some of my journey with the visitors, and to respond to their questions. As is often the case for travelers after they have had the door opened a bit beyond the typical pilgrimage, seeing the farm sets the whole story within a context of land and its people. I really enjoyed their questions, and the small role I played in sharing Fotonna's story. We prayed together in the chapel cave, and we sent them off with poetry and song. They are well on the way and will find their own stories to tell.
After the visit with the eager pastors, I spoke also to two traveling Canadians who were planning to return in a few days and volunteer on the farm for awhile. I love their spirit. They are huge part of the soul of this farm. Daher then drove me to the Village of Nahelin and could go no farther because he had no license to do so. It was a farm vehicle after all.
My goal for the last several days after seeing Husan earlier, was to return to the village and scope out the relationship which the people of the village had with the residents of Beitar Elit, a nearby, large settlement of orthodox Jews. What caught my attention the previous week as we turned off the settler road in the south end of the village, was the absence of fences and guards, but lots of signs in both Hebrew and Arabic. What I learned was that while the settlers were orthodox, and therefore, not expected to work but to study the Torah, the State subsidized settlers needed labor, building materials, inexpensive produce, and car repair- all of which could be found in the village! There were car loads of settlers with their children riding the streets, and cars with yellow Israeli license plates parked in garage repair places; settlers shopping at the market for good produce for good prices, and men with long beards searching the stands for the needed items. The bilingual signs along the road reflected a strange irony. Was this
the occupation I had heard of? Or, some distant outlier in the equation? I wanted to find out.
The taxi up from the village of Nahelin dropped me at a spot which would presumably place me close to the market area. Presumably is the operative word. After meandering in the general direction which my senses led me to believe was the location, I stumbled on to a large produce truck backing out of a driveway with a ton of fresh vegetables and fruits. They looked wonderful. Forcing me to slow down the gait a bit, I soon found clustered around me several young Husan children who were off for holiday from school that day. All seemed to want to speak some English, and to be helpful. Soon after the gathering, someone with superior English skills drove up and offered help. I told him of my need and he showed me the way, just a few blocks a way. And with that information, I was off in that direction with the trust that ARABS wouldn't tell a directioneven though they know no idea of what I was asking, nor wanting to disapointment me with some response.
Eventually, my faith carried the day, and I arrived at the corner of the thoroughfare I had passed by several days earlier. Walking along the road, I felt vulnerable and not a all secure, even though there hadn't been any official threats. There they were, settlers with cars in repair shops, settlers with cash in their hands and requests for good inexpensive produce, and settlers seeking wisdom from their elder Palestinian neighbors. It was an odd relationship. Suddenly, as I was taking a picture of three objects within view of a garage full of yellow license plates, and people from both camps with a mosque in the background, a voice yelled from the garage, "Get out! Go back to where you belong!" He was quickly restrained by fellow workers, and wondered what I would have done next, if they hadn't. I had images of me sprinting down the hill to the Settlement, rather than running uphill to the village. Somehow the settlements seemed safer at the moment. But soon things settled. I began to move back to the center of the village on my way to the next appointment. But first, nature was calling as I tried to be a faithful consumer of large quantities of water in such a dry, hot climate. There were no public WC within site. I popped into a hardware store and asked the young man if there was a restroom available. He was short with his answer, and seemed unwilling to say more. I decided that it would be good to establish a relationship given my dire need. He looked of school age, so asked if he knew Mohammad, my friend that I had met the day before and whom I would visit for dinner that afternoon. It turns out, I struck gold. He not only knew Mohammad, but had him as his teacher. He was delighted to know I knew him. Soon I was shown the local facility, and on my way, promising to tell my new friend that I would give his teacher a good review.
As I caught the taxi towards the Checkpoint on the advice of another student I met along the way, I sat next to a inviting and charming man, who was eager to speak English, and I learned that the village and the settlement had a long history of exchange. It was just made more difficult with the walls. He said, "we really have gotten along for a long time. We are both tired of the occupation. It's our leadership that is the problem." Somehow, I found his response hope-filled. We exchanged greetings and names as we reached the taxi terminal near Al Hader, and I wished him good feast.
I caught another service to Hebron in the south. The ride on the main highway was horrific, made more challenging because I was seated in the front passenger sea of the van with seven fellow travelers in the back. I think I preferred the rear, as to the acceleration to speeds of 120 kms., whipping past cement trucks into the oncoming traffic was not only the exception but the practice. Though belted in, I was seriously concerned, but bit my tongue which had gotten quite short since my arrival a few weeks prior. He let me off at the glass factory where I purchased some mates to the single wine glass I had at home. I felt great relief as I exited the taxi. I glanced at the factory entrance and it met an earlier recollection. This is the place I remembered. It was lonely there with absence of tourists. The glass products were broadly praised by connoisseurs of fine products, but tour buses rarely came that far south to Hebron. Shortly, I was on my way back towards Bethlehem, and an experience which would greatly effect me.
The Friday before I had met Mohammad, a friend of a friend, whom I had met on last year's trip at a demonstration in the village of Al Masara. He was leading the march, all dressed in a black suit, and distinguished by his size and quiet demeanor. He kept the rowdy young people at bay, but not controlled that day. Their spirit was vital. I was impressed by his
gentleness, but the aire of respect that surrounded him. At the meeting on Friday, and after hearing about the work of his village's Youth Center activities through Eben, the director there, he made me promise that I would return for a meal in his house before I left. I did so.
My friend Christy also received the invitation and had planned to meet me at the Camp. She cancelled out, and I learned later, she really wanted Mohammad and I to have some quality time. It was a nice gift. I called Mohammad when I arrived at the Camp. Aroub was a rural refugee camp, and even with 12,000 people did not have the frenzied feeling that other more urban camps did. There was more space for people to live. Mohammad answered my phone call, and asked me to meet him by the military checkpoint, and he would come get me. My patience and faithfulness was soon to be rewarded.
Mohammad was in his forties I would guess. He was not only a teacher and a non-violent activist but had received his master's degree in comparative literature last June. He was a bright fellow and dedicated to teaching. We had much to share on that count but I was not prepared for what we would share on a very personal level. He had told me earlier about his father who was gravely sick and had been sent home from the hospital with words that they couldn't do any more for him. When we got to the house of his father in the camp, and the small cubicle where Mohammad and his brothers and sisters were raised, I had a sudden shot of a reality that was not my own experience. It was a simple dwelling, and as we turned the corner, there was his father resting on a concrete slab, half prone and half sitting on the blanket beneath him. He greeted his son and myself warmly but reservedly. I was struck by how at peace he seemed to be for such a sick man in his 80's. I wanted a picture of the two of them, and he agreed but he first wanted to put his Kafiya on his head, the proud Arab that he was.
After some more stories, Mohammad invited me to his own home which he had just recently build a few houses up the hill from his family home. And there, at the front of the house, was his brother, who was also sick, and identifiable as mentally challenged. He stared at us and said not a word. Mohammad had told me that he is strongly medicated and that without the drugs, it was impossible to control his falls. The cost per month was about $80 a month and not within the salary capability of a teacher. Seeing Rahib reminded me of my own brother Bob, who also was physically disabled. Mohammad and I had another connection.
We entered his very comfortable, but simple home and his four-year old nephew, who had Mohammad's hand all the way from the check point, joined us for a wonderful meal which his mother had made for us. We talked for nearly two hours about the whole range of things from the personal to plans for the future of his country. When I left, I felt I had a long time friend in hand. It had been a good day. As I was leaving his house, a friend Mark Bravermann called from the states to wish me well. It was wonderful timing, as he also had met Mohammad last year and felt the same as I about him. I wished him good feast and we drove to town together in the next available service. It had been a good day! I was very tired but elated about not only the wonderfully hopeful things I had seen but the amazing people of the occupation who are not really occupied. They are really freer than their occupiers.
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