Bethlehem

27 May 2011
Relaxing day in Bethlehem. Walked to Manger Square, stopping first at the Bethlehem Heritage Museum, which was not quite worth the few shekels I paid. I walked further down the street, stopping for a tea with a man who gave me several contacts in Hebron and gave me his perspective on everything from the international presence in the West Bank, to the existence of God. He was a kind man, so I asked him how I could go about meeting other women in the West Bank, since it is men who run the shops and are on the streets. Kindly he brought me to meet his sister who made us coffee.
Friday at noon in Manger Sq. means that men come out from every direction to join together in prayer. It was beautiful to watch and the crowd stretched between the Mosque of Omar to the street in front of the Church of the Nativity.
Before I had a gigantic tomato salad for lunch I walked a few blocks to the Milk Grotto.
The Milk Grotto is an alleged site where Mary stopped to feed Jesus, and while she was feeding him a drop of milk fell from her breast, hit the stone below and turned it white. Now, the Milk Grotto is believed to be a place of miracles for women trying to conceive and bringing on their milk. I walked through the empty caves and past icons, into a sanctuary where one nun kneeled before the altar, forehead to the ground. It took me a minute to distinguish her as a person and not some furniture or a rock; her back curved gracefully round and her dark robes were the perfect camouflage. I said a prayer and left her alone with the Mother of Jesus.

This evening I enjoyed a concert by the Momken Band at the Dar Annadwa International Center in Bethlehem. They sang of anguish, hope, love, a homeland and a dream they aspire to fulfill. After the show I had to excuse myself early as a well dressed older man from Hebron called me Joyce because he said I reminded him of Joyce Myer. He sincerely asked if I had accepted Jesus into my heart. I told him I am a follower of Jesus but he didn’t understand and told me the wise follow Jesus. He was converted by a dream in which Jesus came to him and kissed him on the cheek. He knew then, that Jesus was happiness.
28 May 2011
Today I was invited to join Kamel’s family for lunch. Their home had a recent addition of a beautiful balcony that overlooks Bethlehem. His aunt prepared an elaborate, traditional Palestinians meal that is labor intensive, so as women have begun to work outside the home, it is not as commonly served. The meal consisted of whole zucchinis and eggplant stuffed with rice and meat, grape leaves stuffed and twice cooked. Kamal generously piled the food on my plate and on top of it all plopped a pork chop with potatoes, garlic and onion. On the side was a plate of salad; cucumber in a rich yogurt. I ate and ate (keeping out of my mind my recent days of being a vegan) and looked up to realize everyone was done and I still had a ton of food on my plate. His father asked if I enjoyed it. I said, “yes, I am stuffed.” He looked at the remaining food and said, “you have to finish that”. So I ate. Everyone waited on me as I shoved those last few zucchinis and grape leaves down. After dinner, Kamal told me his father was kidding about having to finish- but I am not sure. Everyone else finished his or her plates and I didn’t want to be rude.
We took a drive after lunch to their land, stopping several times on the way to say hello to folks Kamal knows, and even people I knew from my visit last year. Traveling along the road into the neighborhood of Beit Jala we pass a police station which marks the change in zones, from a Palestinian controlled area to an Israeli controlled area of the West Bank.

“Our land, but their control” Kamal said, “This is still my village, but they are in control. They decide who can build. If they wanted any day, they could close this road and that would be it. We would no longer be able to reach our land.” This explanation made strategic sense on the Israeli’s part; that neighborhood of Bethlehem leads up to the recent construction in the Har Gilo settlement.
Kamal parked the car half way up a hill and we continued to climb on foot to the place where his family had many fruit trees, grape vines, and chick peas growing. Their land is 30% less than it used to be.

“I was in the States and my father called me crying, saying we are loosing all our land. We brought the issue to Israeli court and proved that we live off of that land, so they let us keep 70%. My father called to tell me the victory- that is when I cried,” Kamal shared, “Taking 30% is not their right. It is our land. Now my children will never be able to build on this land because it will be too close to the wall. The wall that is built on our property.” We walked up the hill to, and then past the wall. The wall in this spot, as with many sections around Bethlehem is not completed. On our way down we stopped to eat chick peas fresh off the plants.
Kamal’s story is common. His family is lucky because they knew to go to court and defend their land. Everyone is not so lucky even if they go to court. On our way back we went by some land I had visited last year.

The land housed a tent that was a gathering place for activists and an olive grove passed down through many generations. The land we were served coffee on by the father and son who lived there, no long exists; the hill is leveled in preparation for the construction of the wall. I remember watching Utube videos several months back of these men protesting the bulldozers on their land- but the video didn't show this end result.
Walking around Bethlehem that afternoon, my eyes were opened. I realized how much more I am seeing and feeling not being part of a group. I cover my body and avoid eye contact with men (gotten very good at ignoring people who are calling for my attention) when last year, with tour guides and a bus to retreat to, these details did not matter as much. I honestly did not notice so many women in hijab last year. The first day I was in Bethlehem I wore a skirt that came right below my knees and received so many comments about the scar on my leg that I knew it wasn’t good to be showing that much skin. Of course I haven’t shown any tattoos.
29 May 2011
Sitting in the Lutheran Church in Bethlehem, on Sunday morning I realize there are glimmers of hope and productive conversation going on. There are people working for peace. There are just less people than I thought. It is a beautiful world, blessed by the connections of the church that brings together a woman like me and the messy, sticky, colorful mess of this holy land. The culture of fear is challenged by Jesus and in the Christian faith; “be not afraid, I am with you” but I am scared and think I should be.
The Church of the Nativity; site of God’s physical entry into this world, where everything began to change, powers were challenged and the false began to be brought down. Church of the Nativity, a site of shelter and stronghold during the second intifada. A destination for Christians from all over the world to touch the place of their savior’s birth.
Today I visited Rachel’s Tomb. A site forbidden to Muslims despite its sacred place in their tradition. Rachel’s tomb is part of Bethlehem, but after 67 it was declared part of Israel’s ‘security envelope’ so the security wall snakes around the site which is a Muslim cemetery. First leg of the journey I had to take a cab to the check point to exist the West Bank, then walk over to another check point. There I was told I am not allowed in on foot- but I must be inside a car. So I wait and the next car that passes, I flag down. Three Jewish women welcome me in. They ask how I got there and I told them I walked and they all laughed.
“What are you doing in Israel?”
“Visiting holy sites.”
That was their last question to me, and they just laughed and let me off at the tomb while they went to park. I walked in following the flow of other women (separate from the men) because I could not read any of the signs that were only in Hebrew. I got the feeling they did not prioritize welcoming anyone but Jews. A woman stopped me and began speaking Hebrew. I nodded and she continued. (why did I nod?) I said I don’t understand you and she looked at me for a minute and said in plain English “Aren’t you Jewish?” The word no was hardly out of my mouth before I proceeded on past the crowds of women sitting in plastic chairs along a moveable wall that divides the men from women. I got to the end of the hall and couldn’t figure out if I had arrived or not.

An archway was crudely blocked off with sheet rock and raw lumber and over the top of which peaked a black tent with Hebrew writing. This is the site worth building miles of winding security walls? Women were crying, faces buried in their prayer books. Wailing rose from the crowd as one mother told her daughters a story in Hebrew that left them crying with her.
Why was it that they mourned for Rachel? Because she was pure and died bringing in the nation of God? For her incomplete journey? I left sooner than I thought I would. It was not my place, although it used to be a Christian place of worship, then Muslim- but now, it did not feel like my holy site.
I left the cave to find a restroom, but first waited for a woman or man to walk out so I could figure out which doorway was which. No such luck. Every sign was in Hebrew and I just didn’t remember enough from my one semester of Hebrew to find the bathroom! I figured I would leave, and find a friendlier restroom at the check point into the West Bank. But I could not leave until I found a ride. I went to the parking lot and asked people as they went by, but many (young people my age) spoke no English. One couple kept asking me questions and put me on the phone to talk to someone- but still I couldn’t understand what they wanted. Then I got it. Security and a crowd began to move toward us. They wanted to know why this young woman was alone, coming from the West Bank to a Jewish holy site. I saw a younger man alone going to his car. I ran from the others to the man and asked for a ride and he said yes (sigh of relief). He drove me to the gate and I said let me out here (at the check point to Bethlehem) and he shrugged and did so. I felt relieved to go back through the check point to the West Bank where a friendly taxis driver (2 time Arab world heavy weight Champion) made pleasant conversation about all the internationals in Bethlehem and how Americans have recently been warmly received here because of their support of the Palestinians. Rachel’s tomb is enough in it’s own revealing history to speak for this land, the plan of isolation and detachment from identity that Palestinians have suffered.
Once I returned to Manger Sq. I headed toward the Peace Center where I had seen a book on the history of Rachel’s tomb. The police officer there stopped me, and we ended up talking about theology and his work in Bethlehem. When I told him that I was headed to Hebron to volunteer he scrunched up his face and said that even he doesn’t go to Hebron. “There are no Christians there, you know?” It isn’t that they are Muslims in Hebron, but that they are supporters of Hamas. “You wouldn’t know it walking down the street” he told me, “But inside, many of them believe and follow Hamas.” This is a reality that I will soon come to understand.

30 May 2011
This morning I spent many hours talking with Michael and Sumnar in their gift shop. Michael explained to me how Christians and Muslims have been pitted against one another, and some Christians would go around (in the Bethlehem area) and say something like what I heard from a man at Church, “I don’t like those Muslims”. Michael assured me that he goes down to Hebron, and knows it will be hard because of the extremists on both sides, but it will be okay because people appreciate the CPT and international presence there.

Today I mastered the Palestinian art of sitting outside a shop and drinking coffee for hours on end watching people go by, sharing stories with some and just watching the day pass. I am thankful for Michael, John and Sumnar who welcome so many internationals hanging around their shop. They are very kind people.
One woman came up (the German man next to me spoke Arabic so he translated) she said her son was murdered by the Israelis and began to cry. John came back from ‘fishing’ or ‘hunting’ tourists and welcomed her to be on her way. He seemed so callous toward her. I asked why.
“I have my own sorrows, I cannot handle hers too. My nephew was shot dead for throwing one fucking stone. 13 years old and shot dead. I am not a machine, I can’t handle all her sorrow and my own." It was quiet for a few minutes and we all stared at the feet of those passing each carrying their own sorrow with their groceries and water.