Fri Oct 10th: From Beit Rima to Bethlehem: A road traveled

I wrote several little and not so little pieces on my ride to Bethlehem from Beit Rima.
We were in the car for a little while and as I looked at the scenes (which are sprinkled below) I was inspired to write. And then there is my experience in the Basilica in Bethlehem after that and I sprinkled some photos through out.
I hope you enjoy the writing I have.


(The mountains, view of Tel Aviv and the Dead sea in Beit Rima)


We sped along the highway, passing Jewish houses sprinkled along the mountain side. Their roofs were the red of an unripened tomato, fading day by day in the sunlight. Into the plain off-white of the sides of the buildings.

The hills curve and curl like the hips and long hair of the Palestinian women as we drive, letting you know their beauty and love if you are careful. Letting you know their bite and their danger if you spite them.

My ears clog and pop as we drive above, below, above, below again and again along the mountain side. Old smoke rises from thousand year old Olive Trees that the Israeli government decided to get rid of. October is the time of Harvest. October is a time for mourning dead Olive Trees.

My cousins point out burnt out old houses that Palestinians were kicked out of on the way to Bethlehem. The signs read, "Slow. Dangerous. Curves," as young Palestinian girls walk along the railing with bags of Khubuz (bread) and cautious eyes.


We pass the Wall that divides the people. That divides the land. Divides our country into pieces of a puzzle, never knowing how we'll ever connect the parts that are missing. And how can we when greedy spiteful children play with our lives, play with our land, play with what we'd share if they hadn't taken it by force. How can we know how to put it back together?
Here they call the it the Apartheid Wall. Graffiti dances along the sides of it. A melodic dance of words.



Ghetto is the first word I see. Later on it reads Palestine. Finally Freedom. Phrases for miles of wall glitter the concrete creation. Drawings, paint, words, names. Some in arabic, some hebrew, some english, some spanish. The colors of Palestine. The colors of hope.
Phrases asking for peace. Showing that a wall is not the answer. Showing that a people's passion and spirit can not be killed off by pieces of cement.

Bedouins have their camps by the highway where they look up to their sheep walking along the mountain sides. Trucks speed along, sending waves of air into the hair of the little boys and girls.

If you close one eye, you can block out the ugliness of the phone towers that scar the view of the hills, the donkeys, the willows, the olive trees.

The road from Beit Rima to Bethlehem winds like the sage leaves in our morning tea. Leaf. Vein. Stem. Curl of the herb. Could trace your entire history. Like this road. Like the wind Lou Lou (curls) of my hair that spin like the thought of my father, that twirl around my fingers like the circled insides of the koosa as you clean it. The road and it's dangerous curves ahead.

We pass the sign for Jerusalem. I am the only one in the car who can go. Simply beacuse of my U.S. citizenship. I am still a dirty arab to them. Worse, a mud blood who is also Black.

Men who look like the white corporates who are gentrifying NYC stand by their businesses with writing in Hebrew. Women with tired sunkissed faces who are dressed in black dresses and colorful hijabs walk by.

Children run about, gazing longingly at me with eyes the color of honey and sand, of grass and of the the sea they will never see in their own country.

From the outside, the massive stone church sports 3 bell towers along its roof. The ring every 30 or so minutes and it's chime can be heard through out the small stone streets. This church was built over the manger where Jesus was born.

As I stepped along the stones to enter the church, a chill in the air rose the hairs on my arms. You just know there is something special inside. You just know that something special happened here. The front door entrance is only about 4 feet high, so one must watch their head as they walk in. Even though the outside is big, I wasn't expecting the inside to be so massive. When you first walk in, the entrance is very plain. Only stone and dust. The second entrance is where the sparkle lies. Pillars that looked to me to be 100 (maybe more) feet high ran along the very long hall with lanterns of Gold and red jewels hanging around them. High on the ceilings and the walls were stained glass windows and old paintings that were put there when Constantine put the Church over the manger in the 300's.

As you walk along, there is a couple wooden doors on the floor that are opened with carpets below. I'm not sure they were for. My uncle didn't know and the guide that was there with a group was speaking Russian. I don't remember if there was a reference to that in the Bible. Maybe it was the original entrance for the inn next to the manger.

From there you can see up into the next part of the church where there is more Gold than I have ever seen in my life. Everything looked like it had gold on it or in it. There were pictures everywhere from as far back as Constantine's time. There are steps leading up to that part of the church, but you can't really go that way. So we went to the side entrance where there was a mass-like thing going on with the priests there. They were dressed in robes, waving the lantern with the incense in it around and reading from their very old bible. It didn't sound like latin or arabic to me. I'm not sure what language it was. Their voices echoed through the whole place, like a chorus sung behind them to amplify their sound. I bet it would sound so beautiful to hear a chorus in that hall.

We couldn't go in that way while the procession went on, so we went in the other way. To the right there were seats to watch the procession, to the left there was a higher level type stage where where were pictures and more seats for what seemed to be important people and then on the other lower level, the priests chanting and waving the lantern.

We walked around and saw all the pictures. Amazing art and beautiful clothes hung about.
On this side was also the entrance (which was lower) to the manger where Jesus was born.
After we walked around on top and looked at all the pictures, we went down below and saw where he was born. A golden star rests in the spot they believe it took place. People came around it, gasping and sighing at the site. The cavernous stones vibrated their hushed sounds as they looked about and resembled the sigh of the winds above.
After their sigh, each person took turns going down on their hands and knees and climbing inside the opening to kiss and place their heads upon the star. They all prayed in their respective languages, pushing and shoving at one another, not an "excuse me" in sight, to see it, to touch it, to be near it. I wonder if Jesus would have minded me elbowing someone in the side for pushing me out of the way? Maybe. I didn't kneel down and kiss anything. I just wanted to see it and take a picture. I try never to be in the way.
Of course when dealing with certain folks, it is the way they act. I'm not sureprise. After all, the Crusades and the Iraq war should show me just how Christian folks act towards each other.
Maybe Jesus would want to elbow all of us in the side for being such fools.
Maybe.

There were also paintings down below by the birth area of all kinds of other interpretations of Jesus and Mary and the birth. Some looked Greek. Some looked Asian. Some looked very Semetic with big connecting eyebrows and larger noses. Mary and Jesus are whoever you want them to be, right? So they looks like all of us.

After looking at all of that, we went back upstairs and ended up in the chapel where the organs played something that sounded straight out of Phantom of the Opera. It echoed throughout the pulpit and the pews. Rumbling the inside of my chest. Making me feel warm inside. I like the sounds of organs. Its been a long time since I've been up close to hear one and see it being played. My cousin walked along with me and she was amazed by everything. She's 12 or 13 and has never seen anything like any of that. So it was extra special just to see how happy it made her to see these things. My other cousin stayed close to my Uncle, his dad. And our grandfather found places to sit and wait along the way. He lost interest after one of the priests told him he couldn't wear his kuffiyah on his head in the church. He told the priest that it's a muslim custom and that he was being disrepectful by telling him to take it off. And that muslims respect Issa/Jesus very much. And that was the end of that.

As we walked to the exit of the chapel, confession boths that read "French" and "Arabic" sat along the walls. A few people said prayers as they sat on the edge of the seats. Statues and flowers hung along the white walls. Everything sparkled clean and neat in this place. Not a speck of dust or dirt or anything. Clean. Maybe I should get these priests to come to my house. :)

I walked along and saw the candles to light to say prayers for folks. I said a little prayer for my dad and lit a candle. My cousin insisted on lighting one too, even though he didn't know what it was for. He's 8. Of course he had to copy me.

I don't remember what they are called, but those bowl like things that hold the holy water was by the door. I slowly dipped by fingers in and put some over my heart, saying a little prayer of guidance and wellbeing for myself along my journey.
We walked out into the courtyard and the sun shown heavy over our heads. The breeze cooled us though, making the combination pleasant and warm.

Another hall laid before us as we walked out towards the front entrance.A bigger than life-sized statue of Gabriel on a white horse slaying the devil sat in a museum like glass. It reminded me of the statue my mother had when I was 9 of the Angel, of God's soldier, wearing robes of blue and white with a small red cape that rested under massive white feathered wings. His muscled arms hold firm and strong to the sword that he held to the neck of the beast as he stood over him. As a child, I would sit there for hours, staring as hard as I could at the statue, hoping that one day he would come alive and fly away with me. Weeks later my mother smashed all her statues in the backyard and I knew he'd never come. At least not until Judgement day.

After all that, we went to check out the shops that sold some crosses and wooden statues made of the Olive Trees. My uncle said those were good things to get because the trees were from this holy place were sill alive. So I got a nativity scene and an angel. And several other things. He wouldn't let me pay for anything. Says Im a guest and his neice and it's a present. And he got a discount because he's an arab from beit rima and they know how to talk a price down.

Then off we went for Shawarma and home.