Israel-Palestine

, ,

How Christmas Trumped Realpolitik--Part II

, ,

Eb wanders in the room looking a little disheveled. His hands are in his pockets.

“Where have you been, Mr Milk Groootto?” I smirk.

He rolls his eyes. “Nowhere.”

After the whole Divine Indiscretion fiasco, I wasn’t sure when I would see Eb again. But I’m glad he’s here and I know just what he needs. I produce a plate of sugar cookies. He perks up when he sees all the colored frosting. We sit at at the table, munch, and talk texts. It is Epiphany after all, the 12th day of Christmas. Wise-men day.

, , , ,

A Cold War at Christmas

, , , ,
A Cold War at Christmas

I hold Josephus by the hand and squint into the wind.

Our view is good, but Herod’s was better. I sit with students on the stump of a tower (or “keep”) estimated to have been 120 feet tall. Herod could climb the stairs of this structure (now tumbled downslope) and scan the horizon from a lofty perch. Looking north along the Judean backbone, he could pick out the Mount of Olives. It cast a shadow over Jerusalem every morning. Looking south, he could see, or almost feel, really, the opening up of a vast desert. 

,

From Plonk to Krug

,

The small eatery in Kafr Canna is abuzz with life. Some folks are take-awayers. Others, like Hani and me, dine in. Or out, I suppose.

We sit at a table out front. Between us is a spread of delights: round pita bread, golden falafel balls, and a variety of Arabic “chip dips.” We dig in.

,

Befuddled

,

After losing the Jesus Trail a second time, I trudge back up the hill to the center of Mashhad. I peer across the valley, stymied. The irregular outline of Kafr Canna rises in the distance. It is almost one of those “you can’t get there from here” situations. But I know I can.

,

A Frankish Fort

,

Gwuf . . . gwuf . . . gwuf . . .

My walking shoes exhale as they press against the stairs. The pitch is steep, the steel rail, helpful. The passage is constructed of creamy limestone, glossy from the rub of countless hands and feet. I reach out to touch the wall. The surface is cool under my fingertips.

,

Hide and Seek, Seek and Hide

,

Jesus insists that we do the right thing. In his Sermon on the Mount, he calls his listeners “salt” and “light.” We can make a difference. Our deeds are not done in secret. And then he drops the metaphor:

“A town (Gk, polis) on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matt 5:14).

I wonder if Jesus had a particular place in mind?

, ,

And then I Stopped Breathing

, ,

But only for a moment.

We were driving up the road to Sepphoris when George, my favorite driver, began stammering:  “Dr. Mark! Dr. Mark!” (George insists on such formalities, even in the midst of crisis.)

,

Ribs of Stone

,

The dried seafloor is peeled back to reveal the road. It runs away from me like the pith of a split banana. The creamy ruts of farm vehicles are baked hard and pie-crust frilly on the edges. They issue commentary on a day prior to my own. I’m guessing it was a sweltering one, a humid afternoon of work in the hayfields.

,

Breaking Rocks, Gnashing Teeth

,

I drop over the al-Nabi Sa’in Ridge and hit dirt. Up until this moment, my experience of the Jesus Trail has been urban. The apartment buildings step downslope toward the Suffuriyyah drainage basin and exhaust themselves. The ground goes rural.

, ,

Heaven's Promenade

, ,

The bowl that holds Nazareth has a concrete rim. Because of the vista it offers, optimistic developers have dubbed that rim “Heaven’s Promenade.” The reality falls short of this lofty promise. Closer to earth, it is simply the al-Nabi Sa’in Ridge.

, ,

Nazareth Rise

, ,

I rise so as not to disturb other sleepers. Three Columbians, two young men and one woman, came into the hostel last night to join the two Canadians and myself already in residence. One of the Columbians took the bunk beside me, another swung into the bunk directly above. I listen to their breathing. It is slow and regular. The single oscillating fan cools the room and helps cover the noise of my exit. I dress and drag my pack out from under the bed. I carry it into the courtyard and set it on a bench.

, ,

The 'Hic' in Nazareth

, ,

Nazareth is a congested place, a town poured in a limestone bowl. Undisciplined roads scrape the steep slopes. Some 100,000 people call this miracle-site home, and oddly enough, in a modern manifestation of honking glory, they all manage to pound away on their car horns at precisely the same time. Daily. The city is a perpetual traffic jam.

, ,

A Nazareth Walkabout

, ,

Linda is not your usual tour-guide. Of course, hers is not your usual tour.

For starters, this tour is free. It originates daily from the Fauzi Azar Inn. And even though the focus of our walkabout is Nazareth, the boyhood home of Jesus, the tour is not about the churches or shrines or even the mosques that draw most folks to this town.

, ,

A Story with Windows

, ,

The Fauzi Azar Inn is a structure with a story.

I learn this from an elegant lady who knows it best. What I consider to be just a place to spend the night, she remembers as a childhood home. Her name is Suraida and she is the granddaughter of Fauzi Azar.

,

The Charming Man

,

I climb up the metal stairs to see the Charming Man. This is my second attempt today. On the first attempt, the wait was so long that the shebab were sitting on the stairs. I picked my way through them so I could look into the narrow room. The two chairs were full and still more shebab were lined up on the couches. I am twice the age of every stripling there. The Charming Man spotted me and waved me in. I declined, pressing my hand to my heart.

,

Baghdadi's Oriental Bookshop

,

Abdallah Baghdadi rests on a white plastic stool. He leans back against a display case inside his store that faces Azzahra Street. The case behind him is nearly empty. On top of it rest a few baby Jesuses, Christmas bells, a crèche, assorted pendants, and stick pens. I lean forward on my stool and ask him what he thinks.

,

Visiting the Sisters

,

On several occasions I have tried in vain to visit the Russian Orthodox Church on the Mount of Olives. It is not visitor-friendly, to say the least. There is a four-meter stone wall surrounding the property topped by a wrought iron fence. Three steel doors appear to be the only way in.  Views to the central building within are easily obtained from a distance; those seven golden “onion domes” make it one of the most recognized buildings in all Jerusalem. Still, I wanted a closer look at this sample of “Moscow in the Middle East.”