From Sunday, 8/9
Our tour guide, Osama, is a graduate student in History and Religious Studies, a Christian and a native of Bethlehem. He is also a charming, friendly, outgoing and ridiculously positive human being. Having never met him before, I managed somehow to pick him out among the crowds of tourists and tour guides on the Mount of Olives, walked right up to him and asked, "Are you meeting three Americans here? Are you Osama?"
I must admit, that day was a blur to me, a cavalcade of sites of tremendous historical and religious significance, a collage of sights and smells and sounds that I was seeing and smelling and hearing and feeling for the first time. What comes back to me are random impressions: the gnarled and stately olive trees of the Garden of Gethsemane, the steep path down into the Kidron Valley and up through the Lion's Gate and into the Old City of Jerusalem, the labyrinth of cobbled streets, the stations of the cross, Russian Orthodox priests with long robes and beards, Arab women in modest dress, the stations of the cross, a stall with mountains of colorful aromatic spices in the Arab Souq (market), the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Golgotha, the Western Wall, crusader arches, Roman pillars, the smell of roasting lamb, orange juice vendors, ka 'ek vendors, felafel stands, cigarette smoke, dust, noise, cats, steps, shops, alleys, churches. Osama is determined that we will see the sites of Jerusalem (a task for a week, not a day) with time left over to visit his home town. So we eventually climb up the streets and out through the New Gate, and into his little mazda and head for Bethlehem.
It's not far. Nothing is far apart in this tiny country. That doesn't mean that it doesn't take a while to get there, however, following the circuitous route dictated by the Israeli Wall.
Entering the town of Jesus' birth, we find Palestinian soldiers, each in crisp camouflage with ammo belt and black beret, each with an automatic weapon at the ready, stationed every 50' along both sides of the main street. "Oh," says Obama, "I had hoped the PLO convention might be over by now, but apparently it's still going on. It's the first one in fifteen years, and it's happening right next to the Church of the Nativity." With that we approach a roadblock, shiny new black hummers parked across the road, manned by a couple dozen Palestinian soldiers, and Osama makes a sudden u-turn and through a narrow opening into what turns out to be a parking garage with an incredible view across the Shepherd's Vale to a beautiful new hilltop city, glowing in the afternoon sun. "What city is that?" we ask, thinking that we've been grossly misinformed on the state of the West Bank economy. "That's not a Palestinian city," he answers, "but a Jewish settlement built on land confiscated from Bethlehem."
Friday, September 4, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
the talent of herding goats
Ever since returning from the middle east, friends and colleagues ply me with questions. "What was it like in Bethlehem?" "Did you ever feel uncomfortable or afraid?" "What was your most memorable moment?" By far their favorite story is the tale I am about to relate, about goats in an unexpected place, and the refined skill of herding them.
On our second night in Ramallah, after a day of touring Jerusalem and Bethlehem, we retreated to the comfort of the rooftop bar of our hotel, there to take in the view of the city, sip some local beer, eat pistachio nuts, and relax. So, Marc (my friend and fellow presenter), his son Alex (student at Drexel) and I perched upon tall chairs, looking out from the 9th floor of a hilltop hotel downhill and downtown, and across to the next hill with both a minaret and a church steeple, backlit by the coral pink of evening sky. A cool breeze was blowing and we were enjoying the exotic scene in all its beauty and bustle.
For Ramallah does bustle. It's home to most of the US and UN NGO's that serve the Palestinian population. Its economy is growing and everywhere you go there is new construction, hotels, office buildings and apartments. There is a continuous din of honking horns. We joked with our guide that there seemed to be a language of horn honks: from the inquisitive touch of the horn of a taxi passing a trio of Americans walking down the street which asks, "Do you need a ride?" to the slightly longer beep that tells pedestrians on a narrow lane that, "You'll want to move over, there's a car coming," to the more agressive sustained one in the roundabout that says, "LOOK OUT, I'M COMING THROUGH FIRST!" to that long and loud burst that communicates in any language, "You @#$%^& son of a @#$%^." Osama tells us he averages 50 honks per day.
But I digress, to paint a picture of Ramallah, not as a sleepy backwater, but as a vibrant, fast-paced modern city. So, it was with a note of disbelief that Marc directed my attention down to the bottom of the hill and proclaimed, "I think I see a goat. No, two goats -- three -- four -- a whole herd!" We counted. Sure enough, coming up the steep street from the city center to our neighborhood was a herd of 30 goats, some brown, some white, some a mottled brown and white. And there at the rear, wearing a long woven robe from beard to sandals, and carrying a great wooden staff, was the goat herd.
Now as I said, Ramallah is a busy city. People drive very fast and aggressively there, and none more than the cabbies in their green and white Volkswagen Passats. But car after car would careen around the corner at the top of the hill, brake and make its way through the herd of the goats as if this were a daily occurrence, which apparently it was. So, from our rooftop perch we watched in wonder as this herd of goats made its way up and through the city, with the goatherd bringing up the rear.
Suddenly the goatherd raised his staff, and threw it high in the air so that it landed directly in front of the lead goat. Without a word being spoken the lead goat turned 90 degrees left, following a tiny path between houses all but invisible to us, and the rest of the herd followed. When he reached the spot the goatherd serenely gathered up his staff and trudged up the path as well, disappearing between the houses further up the hill, confident in his remarkable and well-practiced skill.
On our second night in Ramallah, after a day of touring Jerusalem and Bethlehem, we retreated to the comfort of the rooftop bar of our hotel, there to take in the view of the city, sip some local beer, eat pistachio nuts, and relax. So, Marc (my friend and fellow presenter), his son Alex (student at Drexel) and I perched upon tall chairs, looking out from the 9th floor of a hilltop hotel downhill and downtown, and across to the next hill with both a minaret and a church steeple, backlit by the coral pink of evening sky. A cool breeze was blowing and we were enjoying the exotic scene in all its beauty and bustle.
For Ramallah does bustle. It's home to most of the US and UN NGO's that serve the Palestinian population. Its economy is growing and everywhere you go there is new construction, hotels, office buildings and apartments. There is a continuous din of honking horns. We joked with our guide that there seemed to be a language of horn honks: from the inquisitive touch of the horn of a taxi passing a trio of Americans walking down the street which asks, "Do you need a ride?" to the slightly longer beep that tells pedestrians on a narrow lane that, "You'll want to move over, there's a car coming," to the more agressive sustained one in the roundabout that says, "LOOK OUT, I'M COMING THROUGH FIRST!" to that long and loud burst that communicates in any language, "You @#$%^& son of a @#$%^." Osama tells us he averages 50 honks per day.
But I digress, to paint a picture of Ramallah, not as a sleepy backwater, but as a vibrant, fast-paced modern city. So, it was with a note of disbelief that Marc directed my attention down to the bottom of the hill and proclaimed, "I think I see a goat. No, two goats -- three -- four -- a whole herd!" We counted. Sure enough, coming up the steep street from the city center to our neighborhood was a herd of 30 goats, some brown, some white, some a mottled brown and white. And there at the rear, wearing a long woven robe from beard to sandals, and carrying a great wooden staff, was the goat herd.
Now as I said, Ramallah is a busy city. People drive very fast and aggressively there, and none more than the cabbies in their green and white Volkswagen Passats. But car after car would careen around the corner at the top of the hill, brake and make its way through the herd of the goats as if this were a daily occurrence, which apparently it was. So, from our rooftop perch we watched in wonder as this herd of goats made its way up and through the city, with the goatherd bringing up the rear.
Suddenly the goatherd raised his staff, and threw it high in the air so that it landed directly in front of the lead goat. Without a word being spoken the lead goat turned 90 degrees left, following a tiny path between houses all but invisible to us, and the rest of the herd followed. When he reached the spot the goatherd serenely gathered up his staff and trudged up the path as well, disappearing between the houses further up the hill, confident in his remarkable and well-practiced skill.
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