Hebron, Merit of our Fathers

The tour I booked to Hebron was set to leave at 9:15 from the Sheraton in central Jerusalem. I tremped into town, but unbeknownst to me, my ride would end far south of where I needed to end up. A local bus took me where I needed to go, but my plan of getting a free ride in backfired when I only saved one shekel by taking the local bus over the bus from Alon Shvut.

Anyhow, the tour bus took us first to Rachel’s tomb in Bethlehem, except you wouldn’t know it to be there. Bethlehem is an Arab city and between violent attacks and peace accords, the place was set to be closed to Jews. But, as our clearly religious-right tour guide retold, enough Jews made a fuss and braved the dangerous territory to visit that the government preserved the site for future generations of Jews. This meant that the Wall would have to be designed in such a way as to allow access from Israeli controlled territory, so a narrow finger was built that extended to the site. We drove down this corridor, surrounded on both sides by tall gray concrete walls, until we reached the building. The tomb used to be a small building in the middle of a larger lot, but after Joseph’s tomb was desecrated by Palestinian rioters, this large structure was built around it to protect and preserve it.

From here the bus drove to Hebron, but the tour guide got off the bus halfway there and said we would be met in Hebron by another tour guide. We drove along through places unknown to us, one man commenting that only in Israel would we be on a tour without a guide. After meeting our new guide, a Jewish resident of Hebron, we stopped in various places where he told us of the history and importance of the community here. Walking through a small museum in the Beit Hadassah building, which featured a moving display on the 1929 massacre, he recounted tales of Jewish valor and heroism, and of the hardships suffered by the Jews who wanted to be so close to this holy place. Without diminishing the real efforts of Jews to maintain this part of their heritage, I can’t omit that the tour was heavy on inspiration and light on facts. I like tours where the guide tells a sweeping narrative of a place from ancient times to present day, but we only heard bits and pieces.

Hebron itself was a ghost town. Very few people—Jew or Arab—walked the streets. Here and there were a hasid or Arab kids on a donkey. The kosher restaurant, which wasn’t so good, blasted Chanukah music as a form of audio assault on the city, across from the only three Arab shops open. I looked around, watched one hand-mold dozens of small cups on his clay wheel, and chatted with another shopkeeper who thanked me for even stopping to talk. Walking into the Ma’arat Hamachpelah, or the Cave of the Patriarchs, the traditional burial place of Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob and Leah, and possibly others, I was caught off guard by Jews praying under Arabic script. This was converted to a mosque centuries ago, the Ibrahimi Mosque after their patriarch as well, and now arks with torah scrolls and Hebrew biblical passages sit in rooms covered in clashing religious décor. Cenotaphs honoring Abraham, Sarah, Jacob, and Leah are situated among small prayer rooms, while Isaac and Leah’s are in the Muslim side of the building, which Jews only have access to ten days out of the year. The whole complex used to be open to all, until American-Israeli Baruch Goldstein opened fire on worshiping Muslims in 1994, killing 29, and a gate now separates the Muslim side from the Jewish side, with neither allowed on the other’s turf.

By the end of the day I had visited the graves of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs, the holiest places in Judaism after the Temple Mount. I saw the yearning of Jews to be in this place, and heard of the courageous acts they performed to be here. But I also saw a nation divided, justified or not, and the home of our forefathers resigned to rot. We drove through the well-kept Kiryat Arba on the way out, contrasting sharply with the decrepitude of the Hebron streets. I pass no judgment, but I do hope to get an alternate story on a Palestinian tour later this week.

Touring in Stereo

Tomorrow I go on what will be the first of two official tours of Bethlehem and Hebron. Visiting these places and seeing the historical sites and the current situation for myself was a priority of mine when I came here. This was complicated by the hullabaloo over Beit Shalom (a house in the Arab outskirts of Hebron that was bought by an American Jew for Israeli Jews to live in, and because no one takes the idea of residential heterogeneity particularly well here, the Arabs got upset back in late October, the government agreed and told the Jews to leave, the Jews rioted, hilarity ensued, or something to that extent). Now that my time here is running low, I finally made plans to do it. I wanted to find a non-political trip so I wouldn’t be bombarded with whatever propaganda. No such luck. There are no non-political trips. Each has is its own unassailable agenda. Then I had an idea: I will take two tours and get both an education in the history of the region and of the perspectives of the respective groups. Tomorrow I take the right-wing Jewish tour and Thursday is the Palestinian tour, with still-in-flux Christmas plans Wednesday in between.

On the Way Down South

Tomorrow I have a tour booked of Petra. All tours to Petra leave from Eilat, so I took the 4.5 hour bus from Jerusalem to Eilat where I would spend the night. Alone, after various people bailed on me. After a close call (I left my passport in the bag I had left in Emek Refaim and made a few frantic phone calls to have someone take a cab to the bus station and bring it to me) I was on my way, east toward Jericho, south along the Dead Sea, past Ein Gedi and Masada, through desolate desert expanses, to Israel’s prized coastal resort. Which was pretty dinky and kind of a letdown. I checked into my hostel, thankfully the least sketchy looking of the bunch, and commenced my romantic day with myself. I explored the city with myself as my guide. Put my feet in the cool waters of the Red Sea and gazed at the boats bobbing on the cerulean waters and watched the sun set over the mountains of Jordan. I wandered by myself through the promenade, pointed out to myself the interesting people I saw. I marveled to myself at the Muslim girls riding the bungee swing in their hijabs on their Muslim holiday. I took myself out to a delicious steak dinner (across from a Muslim family eating opposite a portrait of the Lubavitcher Rebbe) and then out to a movie. Getting late, I walked myself back to the hostel and prepared for my big day in Petra.

Mount of Olives and Jesus' last days

Going back in time to the day before Jesus’ last, I went to explore the Mount of Olives. Walking the same route as yesterday, I visited the Church of St. Peter in Gallicantu, named for Peter’s rejection of Jesus and his later repentance. The main sanctuary has lovely pastel mosaics in an art nouveau style. Caves on a lower level are believed to be a possible location of Christ’s prison, and an ancient stairway along the side of the church, possibly the path Jesus took down to Gethsemane on the other side of the Kidron Valley that night. Walking along the Eastern Wall, I could see the various churches on the Mount of Olives, to their right the historic Jewish cemetery, and beyond that the town of Silwan.

I descended into the valley and investigated the monumental tombs at the base of the mount. These tombs, traditionally identified as the tombs of Avshalom, Zechariah, and Jehoshaphat—and a fourth marked as the tombs of the sons of the priests—were carved out of the very rock of the mountain. I meandered through the thousands of Jewish graves, some new, some ancient, cracked, and worn to oblivion. The churches were closed for siesta, so I trekked up and up to the top of the mount by the Seven Arches Hotel with its spectacular views of Jerusalem and the Temple Mount. I tried to follow a church spire but got disinterested and stopped partway at the Pater Noster church, close to where Jesus related the Lord’s Prayer to his disciples. The walls of the church, cloisters, and courtyard are covered with translations of the prayer in more languages than I knew were spoken by Christians, everything from Cornish to Tagalog to Hmong and beyond.

On the descent down the mount, a small residential complex also includes an underground complex of tombs, believed to be the burial place of Malachi. I ran into some Americans in the blackness and searched the tunnels with them. Farther down is the Dominus Flevit Church, where Jesus wept for the destruction of Jerusalem. A window at the front of the chapel looks across onto the Temple Mount. The grounds also include ossuaries of the type used at the time. Sadly, the Church of Mary Magdalene, with its gilded onion domes, is only open to visitors for two hours once a week.

At the foot of the mountain is the Church of All Nations, built on the site of two older churches, which sits next to the Garden of Gethsemane. “Gethsemane,” derived from the Aramaic for “olive press,” is where Jesus and his disciples gathered the night before his death. A small olive grove stands there today, and a very forward young Arab man with surprisingly good English offered to show me through, until I mentioned that I was not willing to pay him. The church façade’s stunning mosaic, the colossal marble columns in the interior, and the ornate architecture were the most awe-inspiring I’d seen the whole day. But for all their beauty, I was still surprised that all of these churches were less than two hundred years old. Their locations were historic, but the actual structures less so.

Just outside the garden is the tomb of the Virgin Mary, an Orthodox crypt cut out of the ground, and housing the sarcophagus in a small shrine. As an Orthodox site, the dimly lit space, heavy with smoky incense, profuse with lamps and mismatched art, stood in stark contrast to the elegant, carefully crafted Western spaces I had visited earlier. The father wished me well in very broken English, then I headed back to Emek Refaim, where, in one of the odder sights of the day, saw frummies on Segways. Miracles never cease.

In the footsteps of Jesus

This post is really long and I have way too many photos to post. I'm considering adding them all to a photo site instead of bloating this entry even more. Suggestions are welcome.

I’ve had a fascination with Christian imagery for as long as I can remember. It’s an epic story of good and evil, told and retold in pictures by different people in different times, each giving their own vision to the greater fabric of legend. Years of art history and travels to museums and churches abroad fostered this love of Christian art and thinking, and I was thrilled with the opportunity to see the places recounted with my own eyes. The Via Dolorosa, the route that Jesus walked on his last day, is memorialized as a pilgrimage with 14 Stations of the Cross, tracing his journey through suffering to salvation.

I began walking along the southern wall of the Old City, at times along the ramparts built by Suleiman, and along the eastern wall of the Temple Mount. This side is not seen by most Jewish tourists, though the walk around the southern and eastern sides affords views of the Hulda Gates on the south, the original entrances to the Temple, and the Golden Gate, the gate through which, according to Jewish tradition, the Messiah will enter Jerusalem. Opposite the Temple Mount is the Kidron Valley, and beyond that the Mount of Olives, which also features prominently in the life of Jesus. The Church of St. Peter in Gallicantu being closed on Sundays, I walk along the Muslim cemetery that flanks the Eastern Wall and through the Lions’ Gate to the Muslim Quarter, past the ridiculous traffic caused by a truck trying to go in and a van trying to go out. The first thing I see is a small market in the plaza selling everything from nuts to knock-off Barbies and cologne. Farther down a wall has engravings illustrating the 14 Stations.

1. Jesus is condemned to death

The tour traditionally begins in the plaza of a girls’ school, but unless you take the tour along with the monks on Friday afternoons, this spot, where Pontius Pilate sentences Jesus, is closed to the public.

2. Jesus takes the cross

A complex built here includes the Chapel of Condemnation and the thorn-themed Chapel of the Flagellation. On the floor of the Chapel of Condemnation is some of the original Roman pavement with games carved into it. This is reputed to be the Lithostratos, where the Roman soldiers gambled for Jesus’ clothes. Father down the road is what’s visible of the Ecce Homo Arch where Pilate declared, “This is the man.” Under the church built on the site is a network of rooms and cisterns in use at the time of Jesus. Past the arch is a chapel marking one possible site of Jesus’ prison. Groups of Jews in black hats and coats mill about the shops, crowded among throngs of Arabs shopping in the market. I make a small detour out the Damascus gate for a look at East Jerusalem, where markers of Israeli nationalism and Arab culture butt against each other.

3. Jesus falls for the first time

A small chapel was built here by the Free Polish Army in the 1940s. Beautiful though modern chapels along this route and in Jerusalem in general seem to be common; this was unexpected, as I was hoping for something more ancient. A nearly toothless man named Walid decides that he will be my tour guide and brings me downstairs.

4. Jesus meets his mother

A mosaic on the floor shows footprints of where Mary may have stood. Walid then takes me through an unmarked door on the street to the Austrian Hostel, and to the views of the area from the roof. Realizing I may not finish before dark if I don’t hurry, I plead with Walid that I can do the rest on my own and thank him for his trouble. On the street is another marker of the meeting of Jesus and Mary, though I don’t know if it’s above the chapel below or a differing tradition. Traditions, I find, differ greatly on the locations specified in the 14 stations.

5. Simon takes the cross

Whatever is here to mark where Simon of Cerene took the cross from the ailing Jesus is closed. I keep walking.

6. Veronica wipes Jesus’ face

Story goes that St. Veronica wiped Jesus’ face with a handkerchief and the impression of Jesus’ face was imprinted on the cloth. Known as the Sudarium, it is in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Whatever is here to mark the spot and the home of Veronica is also closed.

7. Jesus falls a second time

This is in the middle of a packed marketplace set up in the narrow streets. Butchers, barbershops, restaurants, and shops selling shoes, antiquities, and pirated movies line the passage. Some guy is blocking the door to the chapel with his stand. No respect.

8. Jesus speaks to the women of Jerusalem

A marker on the wall points to the spot.

9. Jesus falls a third time

I wander through the Coptic monastery at the leisure of some old monk, before getting kicked out by a younger one. Down below a Coptic chapel is Helen’s cistern, allegedly found by St. Helen, mother of Constantine. The acoustics are incredible, and a woman sings a hymn as per the guidebook’s advice, the notes rising and echoing across time. A number of Ethiopian Coptic monks live in tiny shacks on the platform before the entrance to the Holy Sepulchre plaza. They’ve been here for a while, though changing allegiances and feuds between Israel, Egypt, and Ethiopia have kept more of their fellows away. Through an Ethiopian Coptic chapel is the plaza before the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Stations 10 to 14 are inside.

10. Jesus is stripped of his clothes

A small side chapel viewable through a window marks the event. Walking into the church and up the stairs to the station, the huge diversity of Christian traditions is very apparent. Ancient Byzantine architecture is flecked with Orthodox excessiveness, Catholic elegance, and chapels from diverse groups over the ages.

11. Jesus is nailed to the cross

An altar adorned with silver plates donated by the Medicis sits below a mosaic of the scene in this Catholic chapel. A woman reaches up to touch the wounds on the mosaic, as if the mosaic itself was a holy relic.

12. Jesus dies on the cross

Lanterns hang by the dozens over the Orthodox chapel. Figures of Jesus, bloody and in pain, doting Mary, and doting Mary, stand before an ornate silver wall of reliefs. It borders on gaudy, and exists in stark contrast to the more restrained chapel to its right. This is the climax of the pilgrimage. The emotion is palpable. Women dab at their tears. A line forms to touch the rock of Calvary through a disk under the altar. The mood is only broken by a noisy Israeli tour guide and his boisterous group. I tag along and follow them downstairs to the Chapel of Adam with the Rock of Golgotha, cracked by divine earthquake, Adam having many parallels to Jesus in Christian thought. After waiting for one of the various services to pass, I walk back upstairs.

13. Jesus is deposed from the cross

Nestled between stations 11 and 12 is a small shrine of the Stabat Mater, or Virgin Mary as Our Lady of Sorrows. Down below in the entry to the church is the Stone of the Anointing where Jesus’ body was prepared for burial. Pilgrims kneel to pray and bring their heads to rest on the red rock.

14. Jesus is laid in his tomb

In the center of the rotunda is the holy sepulcher itself, the Aedicule, the tomb of Christ. Held in place by steel girders since an earthquake decades ago, cracks and seams bulge with notes left by pilgrims, much like the Western Wall. I can’t bring myself to duck (translation: bow) and go inside the chapel, so I watch the service from outside. I explore the many chapels around the church and then find my way back through the Christian Quarter and back to the German Colony. My feet ache and my entire being is exhausted. Despite not having a personal religious connection to Jesus, I felt the sorrow and salvation. The journey has touched my spirit and I think I have gained a new understanding of the human condition. Congratulations on getting this far. Now we both sleep.

I Love Jesus

I walked the Via Dolorosa, tracing the steps of Jesus on his last day through the Muslim and Christian quarters and passing the 14 stations of the cross. I took something like 400 photos. This post is on hold until I get that sorted.

Fleeting

Over the last few days I sulked a bunch, did some work, tended the compost, played with babies, and the like. The poor blog feels very neglected. Sorry, blog. I also planned my forthcoming big travel week: Tel Aviv, Eilat, Petra, take 2. It’s starting to hit me that I only have less than a month left in Israel and that I haven’t done a lot of what I was hoping to accomplish. For Shabbat I’m staying with a friend I hadn’t seen in three years. It seems like everywhere I turn are people from past lives and lives unlived—this one I worked at retreat with, this one knows most of my high school class, this one went to college with my friends, and all the ones I’ve emailed for PresenTense for years but only met in person for the first time now. My brother plays for a flag football league made up of teams from the various American yeshivas. They play Saturday nights at Kraft Stadium, the first American football field in Israel, built in Sacher Park near the Knesset by Robert Kraft, owner of the Patriots. I went to watch their game and stood among the 18 year old boys cheering for their friends and fawning over the 18 year old girls. Good for them that they can find the comforts of home in this foreign land. They seem so young. And only a handful of years until they find themselves in the midst of their own quarter-life existential crises.


American football in Kraft Stadium, with the Patriots logo in the middle of the field.


The shuk at Machane Yehuda at night—a rarely seen view of a place everyone goes. Kinda eerie.

Disaster

I was supposed to go to Tel Aviv this morning to spend the day with a friend of my parents’ but as I was getting my stuff together, Micah informs me of this: there is a terror alert in Tel Aviv and the city is under lockdown, roadblocks have been set up, and traffic is backed up from Tel Aviv to Modi’in, halfway on the hour’s drive to Jerusalem. Everything’s been relatively quiet since I got here, aside from a minor riot in Ashdod after Yom Kippur and the ongoing drama in Hebron with a few Jews who are living in houses they technically own but probably shouldn’t be living in. Stupid friggin’ terrorists. This comes after my proposed trip to Eilat and Petra this week got postponed because my friend who I was planning on going with recently became an Israeli citizen and thus needs an Israeli passport to leave the country, which he doesn’t have yet. (And after the friend I was planning on going with originally tells me she won’t make it to Israel until right before I leave, and then not at all, for reasons that are annoying though not in her control.) I vow to spend the rest of the day sulking.