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Finding
Peace in Israel
Published
in the San Francisco Bay Guardian, 1998 around-the-world-series
None
of Israel's God-made wonders, neither the Red Sea corals nor
the Judean Desert palms, neither forests of the Galilee nor
salts of the Dead Sea, can let my restless heart forget the
stories of holy
Jerusalem.
Entering Jerusalem, the bus rolls up soft green hills covered
with olive trees and sandstone-brick houses. I am following
the path of the ancient Jews by fleeing Egypt for Jerusalem,
arriving before Pesach (Passover). This Jewish holiday celebrates
their escape from Egyptian slavery to the Promised Land.
My first meal here is with new immigrants escaping the empty
futures promised them in the former Soviet republics of Georgia
and Uzbekistan.We
have several rounds of vodka over flowery Russian toasts and
red bowls of borscht, munching raw onions and turnips in between
bites of plum-crowned rice pilaf. "L'Chaim," Hebrew
for "to life," they say again and again.
As recent immigrants, these families are well provided for
here; tax
breaks, free housing, Hebrew classes and other benefits are
guaranteed for at least six months. When the state of Israel
was created in 1948, the Law of Return promised citizenship
for all the world's Jews. Since then, millions have flooded
into this small state. They come from Yemen, Iraq, Poland,
Hungary, Ethiopia, India and a hundred other countries, bringing
a varied cornucopia of languages, foods and traditions. After
2,000 years of exile, the descendants of the Jewish Diaspora
are happy to be home -- a happy ending if the Palestinians
had only been house-sitting.
The Palestinian people also know the meaning of Diaspora.
Since the
events of 1948, which the Palestinians refer to as the "nabka,"
or
"catastrophe," more than half a million Arabs have
been forced to leave their land for crowded refugee camps
in the West Bank, Gaza or in neighboring Arab countries.
Palestine and Israel are only the latest flags to have fought
and flown
over Jerusalem; the city has seen many conquerors, from Byzantines
to Ottomans, come and go. Today the Old City of Jerusalem
is divided into Christian, Armenian, Muslim and Jewish quarters.
The shotguns and olive fatigues of Jewish soldiers -- girls
and boys alike -- make it clear who draws those lines.
Garments of piety still overpower Old Jerusalem's scenery.
Armenian Orthodox priests hide under pointy black hoods; Orthodox
Jewish men sport dark hats and suits, rough beards and curly,
shoulder-length sideburns; Palestinian women wear jalabayya
dresses embellished with needlepoint flowers and Palestinian
men don white kuffiyehs secured by a black halo of rope. The
common thread is covering one's head out of modesty and humility
before God.
Day after day I am drawn to the Old City for the peace of
its courtyards and protection of its walls, kept alive with
birds, plants and spirits. Muslims, Christians and Jews agree
something happened here: this was where God told Abraham to
sacrifice Isaac; Jesus was crucified and resurrected; or the
Muslim prophet Mohammed ascended to heaven.
The stone corridors echo with holy cacophony. "Allah
el-Akbar, God the Greatest," calls Muslims to prayer
as an international assembly of Christian pilgrims sing hymns
in Arabic and English, retracing the steps Jesus took with
His cross.
One day in the Arab quarter, I meet a mechanic going to nearby
Jericho and decide to ride with him there. This West Bank
town was among the first areas granted trial Palestinian self-rule;
it also happens to be the oldest, lowest city on Earth. From
this green oasis we can see the Judean mountains shading the
banks of the Jordan River, where Jesus was supposedly baptized.
Only Palestinian shanties disturb the simplicity of the surrounding
desert terrain.
The midday temperature tops 105, causing the car to overheat
between towns. An endless stream of vehicles pass before one
stops. The Israeli hears out our story before nicely turning
us down. Who can blame him; in this fiery land trust is stupid.
I myself have been far too trusting on my Middle Eastern journey.
I have gotten many places on faith in strangers, luckily returning
from them. Peace can only be built on such risk.
As an ambivalent Christian, I am free to move between the
Jews and
Arabs, and I eat at the tables and sleep in the beds of both.
An
orthodox Jewish family with eight children hosts me for Seder,
the meal that kicks off Passover. The American-born couple
met on a kibbutz (communal farm), eventually coming to orthodox
Judaism after an Atheist upbringing. By having me for Seder,
they fulfill one of 613 Mitzvahs (good deeds) the Torah proscribes
for Jews. When properly performed and thoroughly explored,
the Seder rituals entail five hours of eating, drinking, washing,
praying, singing and questioning. Asking questions is crucial,
the mother tells me, to understand the meaning behind the
ceremony.
Jews come to the Western Wall, the remains of King Solomon's
First
Temple, for God's answers. Its cracks are stuffed with prayers
and wet with tears. I search the stone fabric for signs, but
instead my
questions multiply. Did Jesus, Moses and Mohammed really walk
this way, was this cloudless Jerusalem sky really their road
to heaven? What will happen tomorrow in the West Bank and
Gaza, the cramped Palestinian territories now on the delicate
fringes of peace?
Back in the Muslim Quarter, a Palestinian student leads me
to a postcard view of the Western Wall, a golden-domed mosque,
and staggered church steeples. An impatient American, I jump
straight to politics. He very politely tells me that he has
spent nights in jail for answering such questions into the
wrong ears. Eventually I learn he was a leader in the intifada,
the popular Palestinian uprising. I cry over his scars and
tales of the dead, of sleeping with open eyes. He picks an
olive branch for my 25th birthday before I leave for Tel Aviv.
The sleek, secular city of Tel Aviv is Israel's modern baby.
Basically
built from scratch, Tel Aviv has no ancient ghosts to haunt
it. Here my only worry is whether the turquoise Mediterranean
is warm enough to swim. The heat wave has youth skipping school,
eating ice cream bars and flocking to the beach with cell
phones in their back pockets.
Commemorative flags line Tel Aviv's streets. April 1998 marked
the 50th anniversary of the nation, or from the Palestinian
point of view, the occupation. Israel has quickly grown up,
with a little help from her friends. Still, half a century
is but a brief chapter in an age-old
story, being told as it unfolds.
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