11.13.04

Ignorant Americans in Israel: Part Four

Leaving (fleeing?) Bethlehem, we’re whisking our way to the Old City of Jerusalem to see the Western Wall – or Wailing Wall, the holiest of holy spots of the Jewish faith – and, eventually, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the site where it is believed Christ was crucified and entombed. Would we see it? Or, like our earlier experience, just run past it?

At the Western Wall, I was immediately struck by the sight of a very old, long-bearded rabbi there. I actually recognized him from television – a very telegenic person I’d seen interviewed (likely involving some of the recent terrorist activities). A face like that you don’t forget. He approached me with a huge smile across his face, asked who I was, where I was from, asked about my faith and my family. I was instantly taken. Then he handed me a small sheet of paper, asked me to write a prayer on it (I don’t care what religion you are or even if you have one, when a person like this asks you to write down a prayer, you do so). Prayer scribbled, he escorted me over to the wall and instructed me to insert the paper into a hole or crack, as has been done for centuries. He then pulled his shroud up over his head and extended it over mine, so we were both together under his hood. The heat was stifling. He prayed and chanted sincerely for what seemed like several long minutes, then lifted the hood, told me to live a good life and, oddly,with a huge, toothy grin to “have fun.” I appreciated the last part. I couldn’t see my friends immediately, but noticed their legs sticking out from under the robes of other rabbis. Looked funny. But not funny-funny. Trust me, this wasn’t the kind of stuff we usually did together.

Next we climbed the steps and walked the path of the famous Via Dolorosa – the route Christ is said to have walked en route to his crucifixion. Again, not a lot of people at a site that should be teeming with tourists. We were all saddened by the graffiti that was plastered everywhere. Who could mar something so important to so many people? We ended our journey at the church of the Holy Sepulchre and saw the areas where it is believed Christ was crucified and the area where he was entombed. Heavy stuff. We wanted to just stare, soak it in and think. But again, there was no time for lingering. I remember absolutely nothing of what I saw; it all went tooquickly.

Our driver said he was getting a bit nervous and that we should really be getting going now, so we jumped into his car. Then, completely out of left field, he announced, “I’m going to take you to a place that has the greatest hummus on earth.” My first thought: All this history and you’re taking us for hummus? Tongues bit, we were on our way to his secret hummus spot and, incredibly, he started chirping like a Bible school tour guide. “See up there? That’s where the Sermon on the Mount was delivered. See over there? That’s where Christ was handed over to Pilate. That road will take you to Jericho,” etc. All said while driving at 80 mph past military vehicles. At a hole in the wall restaurant, with a tiny fan moving impossibly hot air, we ordered hummus and cokes and I have to say, it was extraordinarily good. Best on earth. Gotta be, right?

At the security gate to leave the area under Palestinian control, we’re now questioned by Israeli soldiers who seemed rather incredulous that we took such a journey. Again with the I.D’s and HD pins. Again the gate opened with no smiles. We all noticed the driver relaxed his kung-fu grip on the wheel and was very noticeably relieved to be back home.

Back at the hotel, we invited our new friend in for a drink, but he declined. He insisted we take back half the money we offered him and said it was his pleasure to spend the day with us. He then said that he was in the U.S. in the early 1960s and a friendly stranger allowed him to play his saxophone with a small jazz band in a New York club he’d long read about. That, he said, was a dream come true and a highlight of his life. Taking care of us was his way of repaying the favor. How cool is that?

On our way to the airport the next morning, we were advised to ask the security personnel to not stamp our passports, as other countries on unfriendly terms with Israel wouldn’t allow us to enter if they knew we’d been on Israeli soil. My thought was, I’m not going to deny what I just saw or experienced so screw them. I got the stamp. On the long flight home, we rattled non-stop about the incredible experiences we’d just had and that, if not for our involvement with HD, none of them would have happened.

There’s no happy ending here. Just two weeks after our trip, a bomb was detonated on a bus leading en route to the Western Wall area, killing 26, including children. On CNN I watched as the same rabbi who took me under his hood spoke of his sorrow through wet eyes. To the vast majority of the world, I suppose this was just another tragic news story, eyewash forgotten as quickly as it was seen. But it broke my heart. And still does.

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