Beer is good. Some might say very good. For some, it is told, would sell their last drop of blood – of their children’s blood even – for just one swig of that tasty, tasty brew. Short of owning said children, I am of this later ilk.
Upon moving to Israel I was faced with the harsh reality that is
Israeli drinking culture - spooky! Beer, for a long time, was limited to the options of Macabee, the light lager, and Goldstar, the token dark.* Both are brewed by the Tempo beverage conglomerate. To clarify what should be the obvious: conglomerate, taste and quality are three things that never walk hand in hand.
And, as is the case when Jews, alcohol and walking hand in hand are concerned, I turned my attention East towards our Arab neighbors of the Christian variety (read: the good Arabs**) and
Taybeh beer.
I had first tasted the Palestinian brew while living with some friends in Jerusalem. The trans-border micro-brewery offers up a light and a dark; but this time, the act and taste of the drinking itself was as much a pleasure as the inebriated dry humping of a urine soaked, public toilet bowl – the inevitable result of said act. Happy days, good times, Allah hu-Akbar and so on and so forth.
The Taybeh brewery is in the Palestinian-Christian village of the same name, just north of Jerusalem. The label on the bottle, which I have read innumerable times, states that the name, in Arabic, means delicious. After checking with an Arabic speaker (though not an actual Arab since, as a faux-liberal, I am too scared to talk to Arabs. An unfortunate circumstance that leaves me with no Arab friends or acquaintances, thus vulnerable to being called a racist.) it seems that this is close to being true. Because I was drunk when I asked, I punched him for not exuberantly confirming the divine text that is beer bottle copy. He was drunk too, so after a reciprocal fist to the face, we hugged and remained buds.
Clearly, the time had come for a pilgrimage. According to the brewery’s website, tours may be arranged most days of the week. According to me, gigity, gigity. I phoned up, scheduled a tour and procured for myself a travel mate (not nearly as gay as it sounds). Together, but not together, we set out on our journey, Taybeh bound. Little did we know that our quest would be a beautiful and enchanting one, complete with twists, turns and multiple checkpoints.
We left Beer Sheva mid-morning, all set to get our drink on. My friend Jared, an American WASP who looks suspiciously like Ashton Kutcher, was equipped with his US passport complete with student visa. I had my Israeli ID on me but, being that it is illegal for Israeli citizens to cross the imaginary border into imaginary Palestine, I also carried my US passport – though it does contain my Israeli immigration visa, giving me away as a citizen of both occupying nations. But, “what the fuck?” I thought to myself figuring it best to carry both forms of ID. After all, two evils make a positive.
Following the half-hour’s journey through bucolic Israeli desert countryside, we arrived at the Re’em Junction. Taking the right towards Jerusalem we passed the numerous ultra-orthodox Jews who congregate at this spot 24/6, hoping to hitch a ride to the holy city in exchange for homosexual favors. To be sure, they are always willing to play the catcher (I heard from a friend). With no time to spare – and still too sober to seriously consider the option - we kept on keeping on.
Arriving in the Eastern section of the undivided capital of the Jews we came to the a-Ram checkpoint. Apparently, when you’re a Jew headed East you’re simply waved past the soldiers. Lucky for us, my Semitic appearance was perceived as being on “the good side” and no one asked to check the wrapping on Jared’s package.
The village of Taybeh is nestled within the rolling hills of the “disputed because they’re occupied” territories better known as Palestine – or at least, “Not Ours.” The landscape of said West Bank is breathtaking, to say the worst, making it easy to understand why a religious person could mistake such a view for god himself.
Navigating through the unfamiliar terrain and without the aid of any signs that read “Taybeh Beer, Waiting to whet your palate,” or “Taybeh Beer, Drink it when you
kill for honor!” we relied upon the amazingly accurate directions given to us by Nadim Khoury, proprietor, brew master and beer baron of Palestine.
Along the way we passed a number of Jewish settlements. And, even though they’re not supposed to be there, they’re really fucking nice apparitions. I hope their eventual evacuation is well appreciated. We also passed numerous Palestinian villages, picturesque in their rustic appearance - an undoubtedly Orientalist observation – and surely the result of hundreds of years of occupation, be it Ottoman, British, Zionist or whatever.
It turns out, funny as it may seem, that Palestinian villages are not comprised of hate filled terrorists who want to murder every Jew who passes through. Though there are some crazy motha’ fuckas’ partying hard out there. One such gentleman was standing on the opposite side of the road, about a half-hour’s trek from the nearest village. He stood alone, clad in beat-up tennis shoes, worn jeans, a well-worn, black leather jacket zipped halfway up his chest and a red kafiyah wrapped loosely around his neck. As a Palestinian cab, yellow with green plates (Israeli cabs are white with yellow plates), the dude casually crouched down and grabbed a rock. Standing back up, he signaled to the cab with his free hand. It did not stop. As the cab passed, the man raised his clenched, rock filled, fist. Extending his arm up, behind his head, he thrust the mineral mass at the offending Mercedes (cabs in the Middle East are often Mercedes). Neither Jared or myself took note if the target was hit.
Perceiving the fright on our faces - our car was close enough for him to easily detect the white left when the red drained from our cheeks, forehead, nose and chins - he held up both hands in a friendly gesture and waved as we passed. Lesson learned. Palestinians don’t throw rocks out of hatred or militancy but because they don’ have cell phones. And, fucking good thing we weren’t traveling in the opposite direction.
Alas, we arrived. Taybeh itself is picturesque, straight out of a postcard for what a Christian village under occupation should look like - complete with monastery, church and olive groves –the Terezinstadt of the West Bank if you will. As worshipers of the Christ, these non-citizens have been spared much of the bad mojo of the past few years. Being Palestinian, they’ve still been fucked up the figurative ass with literal land confiscations and restrictions on movement – both of which have adversely effected the beer brewing protagonist of our story, Nadim.
Originally from Taybeh, Nadim and his brother left their home town in search of the opportunity America had to offer. They found their way to Boston where they opened a liquor store in a poor, urban community, where, not unlike myself, the locals were easily parted from their scarce financial resources in exchange for that tasty, malty refreshment. With financial success upon them, the Khoury’s were able to afford a number of visits home. Each time Nadim would return with home beer brewing kits that, at the time, were popular in the US and unheard of in Taybeh. A buzz was created – and felt.
Following the 1994 Oslo Accords, many Palestinians living in the Diaspora returned to their homeland with the prospects of peace now on the horizon. Nadim was one of this group of hundreds. The opportunity seemed rife to establish the first Palestinian beer. Politics aside, someone had to save them from a fate of drinking Macabee beer. A habit picked up, according to Nadim, from years of working in Israel for the Jewish man.***
Taybeh’s a small, high-tech operation with all the equipment imported from abroad – with the exception of the bottles that are sometimes purchased from in Israel due to difficulties with Israeli customs officials. In recent years production has slowed down to such a pace, about 20% of full capacity, that all functions have been moved to the first floor – brewing, bottling and logistics. Spotting, a hand painted sign of a Taybeh bottle hanging from the two-storied brewery confirmed our arrival. We parked in the driveway (ever wonder about that?) and exited my Citroen hatchback to enter the two-story structure. Crossing the threshold of where dreams are made, Nadim was waiting with a warm, hospitable greeting. Immediately we were taken in by his charm. He is a stout man of average height, wears a thick black mustache and speaks heavily accented English - despite his years abroad.
Following the tour, a short effort as everything is confined to just a couple bottling and capping machines which Nadim operated briefly at which we marveled. We then stared at the stainless steel vats for as long as a person can stare at vats. Upon completing the circuit, the two of us sat with Nadim to ask him all sorts of questions about himself, his village and the free beer that comes with the tour. He spoke mostly of his time in the States and the local reception of his home brews during his visits home along with the trials and tribulations of brewing beer in an occupied, developing, Muslim country.
Nadim informed us of his brewing studies at UC Davis, one of two universities that offer such an academic program in the entire United States. He spoke of his dreams for peace – both personally and economically motivated. He also told us about his community activism. The brewery gives all of its agricultural by-products to local farmers to be used as feed. He then took us outside to show us the few hundred olive tree saplings he purchased for local farmers following the destruction of their groves in an IDF operation in the area.
Despite wanting them out, Nadim tells us of the relative coexistence with his neighbors. For many years his beer was certified kosher by the rabbi of the local settlement, Ofra. This was done so that the beer could be sold in Israeli supermarkets and hotels. This is no longer the case following the recent years of violence since these places will no longer carry his beverage. It can still be found in numerous restaurants and pubs in Israel. Nadim also recalled how, only a few days prior to our visit, a settler fellow came by to pick up an order, accompanied by an acquaintance. “It’s alright. He’s the Sam Adams of the Middle East,” the veteran imbiber told his friend to quell his shaken nerves.
Finally our host uncapped a bottle of his light and split it between three glasses. Having hoped for our own individual bottles – and of the dark – we were initially bummed out. But after one sip of the goods a smile was back on our faces and we were asking him about bulk buying bargains. At six shekels a bottle it was still more expensive than the local Israeli beers, but I believe I’ve already made the case for buying his cases. And, that’s a shekel per bottle cheaper than the cost of Taybeh in Israeli liquor stores – not all of which stock Taybeh nor always have it on their shelves if they do. So upon, loading up with five cases (two for me, two for Jared and one for a friend who asked) we bid farewell, setting off for our return home.
We made it back to the same checkpoint we had passed through coming into Taybeh. The plan was to hand over our US passports as proof of identification, receive a wave and a smile from the guarding soldier and be on our way. Silly, silly us.
Jared was alright. His student visa was valid, his picture matched his face, that’s really all you need. I hadn’t expected an actual visa check and was a bit nervous when the green man started flipping through my little, blue book. As expected, he turned to me to ask about my visa. At that point I decided to point out my immigration visa, which he checked then noted that it had expired two years prior. Before any further exchange of Q&A he was off to his commanding officer to ask if this was suitable. He returned. It was not.
He asked if I had any other identification, specifically something that would allow my reentry into Israel. At that point I realized I had little choice left but to give him my Israeli ID, which I handed over with palpable fear of my first arrest. He opened it, looked at the picture, looked at me, and asked, “What, you’re Jewish?” Due to my aversion at having offer up my carefully crafted and nuanced answer that includes a bit on freedom of choice, questioning the nature of god and religion and a borrowed rant regarding the religion of my mother’s vagina, I opted to ask in response, “Yeah, why? Did you think I was Palestinian?” To which the answer was, “Yes. I wasn’t going to let you through.” Fucking IDF, always trying to turn perfectly good Jews into enemy Palestinians.
Happy ending though. We arrived home safely and got drunk with some friends.
*It is true that Israel had other beers on the market at the time such as the ever-so-crappy Nesher and a few imports - decent imports even. However, this information does not fit into my sardonic tone and has thus been excluded from the formal body of text.
**If you agree with this statement you are a racist, you dickfor!
***In all fairness I’ll point out that Jews, for the most part, did not own slaves during slave times in the US. They knew better. As the chosen people they were fully aware of the opportunity that would be afforded them once conquering the sandy section of the Levant that is Israel.
