Day 6: Finding my way to Bethlehem

Today began like any other: our scheduled work had been completed two days early, so here I was in a foreign country with extra free time. Ho-hum. I'd planned on going to Jerusalem/Dead Sea after five days of auditing, but here I was, left with the awful task of figuring out where to adventurate before then.

Bethlehem? Bethlehem.

Bethlehem is actually not that far from Jerusalem. Maybe just a few miles as-the-crow-flies from the southern edge. But logistically, Bethlehem is far separated. That is because... it is part of the Palestinian Authority. That's the pseudo-state of Palestine. Remember reports of West Bank clashes and Israeli settlements several years ago? Since then things are at a cease-fire, but tensions and complications still exist. To get from my hotel to Jesus's birthplace, I would need to take a bus to the Tel Aviv central bus station (~15 min), a coach bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem (~1 hr), a city bus from central Jerusalem to the outskirts in between Jerusalem and Bethlehem (~15 min), then a bus that caters to Arabs (I guess bus lines are somewhat segregated here?) that takes a tortuous path to a checkpoint (~20 min), pass the checkpoint through no-man's land, and squirrel my way through the city. Sounds pretty straightforward and fail-safe, right?

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In order to get to the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, google told me that I needed to get on a bus of a certain number. However, it didn't tell me that it would be a minibus that could zip around more easily than a large city bus. So I was a little hesitant to hop onboard when a beat-up minivan with a numbered cardboard sign arrived at my bus stop. But it looked official enough, so I climbed onboard. Fortunately it appeared to follow the correct route on google maps, so I quickly felt at ease. A few tourists boarded and also locals, and it was heartening to see the manner by which people paid: someone would climb on and take a seat, and if they weren't near the front they'd just pass their money up person-by-person, like they were passing notes. Then the change would get passed back without being picked through. I felt heartened to observe the helpfulness and trustfulness of strangers.

I visited the exterior of the CSB earlier in the week for a podcast pilgrimage, but hadn't gone inside. (Actually my Israeli workmates were distressed that I'd visited the area alone, as it was a little seedy.) After putting my bag through the x-ray scanner, I stood before the interior of the station in all of its messy, anthill tunnel-like passages, partially abandoned glory. It had much the feeling of an old shopping mall gasping its last breaths. The levels below the 3rd level street entrance were darkened and foreboding, with dusty shadows that led to illicit imaginations. Buses departed from the 6th floor, and the view of the empty 4th floor was illuminated by ambient light and felt only somewhat post-apocalyptical. Despite the dysfunctional appearance of the station, tickets were easily purchasable and my bus left within a minute of my gate arrival, so I didn't get to explore the nether regions... perhaps a good thing.

About an hour of traffic later, and we arrived in the central bus station of Jerusalem! This station felt more on the level. The difference in the populace compared to Tel Aviv was immediately noticeable. Folks from varied groups--nuns, Hassidic and orthodox Jews, uniformed youth coming home from military service, and tourists--darted to and fro, eating (Kosher) snacks, trying on earrings, buying bus tickets, checking out yarmulkes. I exited and after waiting for my bus on the incorrect side of the street (wrong path direction) I was soon aboard, headed for southern Jerusalem. I enjoyed the views of Jerusalem as we made our way south. It wasn't particularly scenic or touristy, but rather more of a window into everyday Jerusalem residence. The city is built atop a hill (mountain?), so the roads snake up and down topographical features, and flat-topped white homes cover the hills in stair-step fashion.

When google told me to, I disembarked the bus and saw it--the massive wall the separated Palestine from Israel! I walked a block or two to my next bus stop and saw... oh wait, that wasn't the border wall. It was a retaining wall for the highway. I guess I was a little eager to assume.

I knew that I needed to take bus 231 that would take me to the checkpoint, and when the first came rumbling down the road, I waved at it but they kept on keeping by. I figured maybe it was because I wasn't exactly at the bus stop, so I moved down 20 feet. The next one came and didn't heed my gesture... well maybe that one was full? Some time later a half-full bus with burka'd passengers passed my frantically flailing arm. Hm... I was missing something. I asked a nice Jewish fellow if I was doing something wrong. He was a little aghast that I wanted to take the Arab bus (my Israeli coworkers would later repeat this same response, mentioning my "boldness" [but really, many gentiles take the Arab buses. I think it's just inconceivable for the locals to consider mixing?]) and said that they would stop in this Jewish area. He then suggested I try hitchhiking/carpooling. Near the stop, pedestrians regularly arrived and gaggled together. Periodically a local would drive up, and announce where they were going. Strangers would either decline or hop in. My coworkers later confirmed the legitimacy of the method, noting that the area is very underserved by public transit. I tried my luck once, repeating to a driver the name of the checkpoint area, but I assumed from the head shake that they were going elsewhere. I quickly forgot the name of the area and lost a bit of nerve, so after a fourth bus passed me by I decided that either I could return to Jerusalem or pilgrimize it up by walking. I couldn't tell from the map if it was a demilitarized zone, but that added to the excitement.

Passing through the checkpoint was much less exciting than my coworkers thought it might be. Really the whole place felt more like an old cattle corral, but with much grander walls and machine guns.

The checkpoint was a few miles from the historic area, and the entrance had several taxi-come-tour-guides drumming up business. I arranged a route--and agreed on a price--with a nice Palestinian guy, and I was off on the fifth leg toward Jesus's birthplace. The three different cities I'd been in that day were strikingly different: the laid-back attitude of Tel Aviv featuring both gleaming new and crumbling old buildings; the religious earnestness of Jerusalem, bursting at its seams with new neighborhoods; and the chaos of Bethlehem, with a feeling of failure-to-launch, lost tourism economic initiatives, and stalled building projects.

My driver Louie (no, not a very Muslim name. His father named him after a French friend. But Louie named his sons Houssein and Mohammed, so he proved is Aram authenticity) bubbled with enthusiasm and did the math to discover that our birthdays were within a few months. Unfortunately his computer engineering degree was unused due to lack of such jobs in Palestine and the inability to relocate outside. He described his family in warm terms and told jokes. In so many words, he said that his jocular nature was a coping mechanism for the bleak conditions in Bethlehem. I felt torn, because I recognized that such woe-is-me stories can be used to ask for more money, but the conditions he described were observably undeniable.

We first stopped at Shepherd's Field church that features a small, domed structure commemorating the area where angels announced the birth of Christ to shepherds. As I entered, a church group sat in a circle around a pulpit and someone read aloud the biblical narration. A wave of appreciation and recognition came upon me as I considered the reality of such important events millennia ago. The group then sang two verses of "Angels We Have Heard on High" and I joined with my harmony. 

Louie next drove me to the Church of the Nativity, built in the 4th century over the potential site where Jesus was born. The main floor of the church was under significant construction, but stairs led to under the nave where a silver star marked the site of Jesus's birth. A small grotto a few feet away is said to have been the manger in which He slept. This was also very touching to visit, though perhaps made less impactful by the teeming crowd. However I found it interesting to observe other attendees: a small group of Arab school children (Muslims revere Christ as a great prophet but deny His divinity), a large group of Arab teen boys more interested in taking selfies than reflecting on the site's significance, several Eastern Orthodox adherents, a British family, and three Russian young men. We made quite the motley crew.

After a brief stop at a church where supposedly some of Mary's breastmilk was spilt and blessed the ground, Louie took me to the border wall on which the graffiti artist Banksy had painted some works. The few tourists in this area consisted of young multi-national millennials, and a Palestinian man walked from one to another, desperately hawking cheap jewelry and Arab head scarves.

Louie and I then went to lunch at a café near the university. He insisted the Kesadiah was authentic Palestinian, and insisted that the Spanish quesadilla was merely a homonym. "Spanish and Arabic share the same roots, after all!" Uh-huh. It sure seemed like a quesadilla to me. But a tasty one, nonetheless.

On the drive back to the checkpoint, Louie blasted Saudi Arabian pop music, translating for me. During quieter parts, he described the history of the area. I asked when a Palestinian state would form. "Long after I die! The US doesn't support such a state." When I asked why the US is so supportive of Israel--an answer to which I don't firmly have--he responded immediately by smiling and flexing his bicep. "To have a strong ally in the Middle East." To try to further discuss the possibility of a Palestinian state, I asked which city of Palestine is most important. He briefly replied "Bethlehem and Jericho," and mindlessly turned the music back up. The conversation was over, not because he didn't want to talk about it, but more perhaps because it would be futile to do so. I wondered if Louie was representative of other Palestinians: educated and yearning to succeed, but stunted in large part due to external factors beyond his control. I hoped that spirited music and jokes would be enough to carry him through his circumstances. My easy ability to move among the borders without issue was not lost on me.

Back in Jerusalem the bus dropped me off next to Damascus gate. I was about to just follow the google directions back to Tel Aviv when I thought to myself, "I have a bit of time left. I wonder what's important in this area?" A quick look at the map revealed that, the garden tomb and Calvary was a few blocks away. On my way, I helped an elderly Muslim lady carry her grocery bags up the hill to a bus stop (she didn't skip a beat when I offered help!).

The exact location is not known (a common refrain) of the tomb where Jesus was laid, but several details suggest that this might have been where He was crucified and resurrected. For 150 years, a non-denominational British group has maintained a beautiful and calming garden around the tomb. Flower blooms filled the air with sweet fragrance and chirping birds (hoopoes?) hopped about, and yes there was even a holy cat. All of these and a peaceful spirit set the area apart, surprising considering a bustling bus station was just outside, and the air was occasionally punctuated by a Muslim call to prayer. Of course we don't know for certain where Christ died and was lain--though a 1982 LDS article presents it as an excellent candidate versus the more traditionally revered Church of the Holy Sepulchre--but it served as an place for contemplation of Jesus' critical gift and role in our eternal lives.