In the footsteps of Jesus or Palestine, Part Deux

By Zev Forman

I am very interested in the life of Jesus Christ. Not because I have “found” Jesus, I’m still a practicing, though marginal as it may be, Jew. Kind of like Jesus himself, though I wouldn’t say that I’m bigger than him - yet. But, to be honest, I just can’t seem to get enough of someone else’s lord and savior. I can’t say exactly why, he’s just an interesting fellow I suppose.

Last week, I was up in Nazareth while traveling around the Galilee as part of my tour guiding course. I walked in the places where Jesus walked and stood and smoked a butt in the places that Jesus preached and made miracles - allegedly. I have also, of late, made it a habit to spend my weekends hanging out in the holy Christian sites of my home town, Jerusalem. Recently, I have taken friends on tours of the Mt. of Olives and Church of the Holy Sepulture. I have walked the Via Delarosa so often that it almost feels like I was there to taunt God’s only acknowledged, albeit illegitimate, son during his last days, as he struggled under the weight of his cross, while blood ran down his brow.

Like all Christian pilgrims to the Holy Land, I wanted to see all of the places that Jesus passed through. Until recently, there was still one major place and event that I had been unable to experience.

Bethlehem is about only a 10 minute drive from my home. However, it is in Palestine and therefore a world away. I had mentioned the idea of visiting the hometown of the Bastard Child to Ari a number of times, but due to the fact that both of us find it very difficult to wake-up before noon on a Saturday, there was much talk prior to action. Finally, we set a weekend, called our friend Elhanan and, eventually, we left after noon.

The tentative plan was that Ari would pick up Elhanan from a friend’s place at 8am. They would then call me, at which point I would walk over to Café Aroma on Emek Refaim, grab us some coffee, wait outside for them to pick me up and the three of us would head out on our pilgrimage. The plan worked out perfectly, with the one exception being that Ari didn’t make it to Jerusalem until about 12:30. So, about a half hour later we reached the boarder crossing – caffeinated, and full of hopes and dreams.

I was somewhat nervous that the Israeli soldiers at the checkpoint would not let us cross. Israeli citizens are not supposed to go into areas controlled by the PA. While we all carried American passports, both mine and Ari’s are marked by big-ass Aliya visas and - though they are expired - scream that we are citizens of this country. The female soldier with the oversized ass stood at the border staring at us, supposedly, through her oversized Gucci sunglasses. She glanced at our passports, then waved us through. It was either our perfect tourist English or my boyish good looks that got us through. The important thing is that there was no hassle. I don’t care for hassles.

We drove for about a minute and a half before we were in what seemed like it could very well have been an inhabited area. We were on a large, dusty street, already baked from the afternoon sun. Falafel stands and cheap gift shops, all with names suggesting that we had already entered Beth Lechem, stood closed. There was hardly a person in the street, we had the impression of having entered an old western ghost town.

It seemed so strange that, on a Saturday afternoon, the streets of Bethlehem would be so quiet - more quite, in fact, than the Shabbat plagued streets of Jerusalem. As we moved slowly forward looking for any signs of life - or signs pointing our way to the major tourist sites - the cause of the death of this once flourishing street came into view. A cement wall, thirty feet high, transgressing the street and cutting off any means of passage. We had not passed any other major streets and, judging from the empty stores, this had to be the major thoroughfare leading from Jerusalem to Manger square.

We sat, staring at the wall and, for a few minutes, discussed various potentials as to what our next move should be. We could park and climb over it, we opined, which gave rise to a good laugh. Maybe there was a way to walk around it. Judging from the height of the wall and its razor wire fixins’, these options were about as feasible as trying to drive Ari’s tiny, Citroen hatchback through the grey monster. We turned around and happened to see a few guys sitting in the foyer of a closed falafel stand. Decidedly, they were Arabs, so it was only natural that we were a bit afraid to approach them. After all, Arabs have been known on some occasions to blow up when in close proximity to Jews. Thankfully, they did not combust. Rather, they informed us that the road we stood on had indeed been the main thoroughfare into Bethlehem, not too long ago; but, due to the advent of fear, threat, concrete, reinforced steel rods and unabated US funds, this was no longer the case. And so, the unexploded Arabs gave us directions, which we followed, and in a matter of minutes we were back on track. Damn Arabs!

Upon driving the car onto Manger Square a Palestinian police officer, the first I have ever seen, approached the car. Quick thought to myself: now we’re fucked. I had heard about these guys, nothing but terrorists in uniform. But, once again, the Arab gave us directions instead of blowing us up (or, at the very least, shooting us), and pointed out were we could park. At this point, I realized that AIPAC may have lied to me in college.

We parked the car and headed out to explore Palestine on foot. First stop was the tourist center on Manger Square – we were in desperate need of bathrooms. The center, called the international peace center, is beautiful and has a great bookstore. And, as far as public bathrooms go, these were amazing, complete with sensor activated soap dispensers. If you’re in the area and have to take a piss, now you know where to go. With our bladders now empty our stomachs were in need of filling. Heading down one of the more commercial streets, we settled on one of the small oriental restaurants with whole chickens roasting out front (being that our first choice, the doughnut shop, was closed). Despite finding the chickens to be unsettling and kind of gross, Elky and Ari dug right into them and said they were great.

After a wonderful lunch, we headed back up to the Church of the Nativity, the spot where Jesus was born. What I found to be most shocking, was that the manger where Jesus was born looks nothing like those cheesy nativity scenes you see on American lawns. But, hey, live and learn. However, the people who run the church are Palestinian, an entire people that doesn’t even exist, so I guess I can forgive them for some historical inaccuracy.

After the church we headed up to the Milky Grotto. This is a cave where the holy family lived with the baby Jesus. Kirk Cameron has it that while the Mary formerly known as the virgin was breast feeding the kid, a drop of her milk hit the floor, consequently turning the whole cave white. All joking aside, the pictures in this place were amazing - we’re talking full on titty. And, to be sure, Mary was a babe, which is nice since I don’t get to see a lot of breasts, let alone mother of god tits.

On our way to the Milky grotto some guy began to follow us and, not knowing what to do, we kept on walking. He, however, was very persistent and, more than wanting to take us to his store, he really wanted to show us around the Milky Grotto. So, Mahmud gave us a great tour, talked politics with us and then brought us to his store where his aunt prepared tea for us all. On the way in, Mahmud took us into the basement to his family’s factory where the olive wood is carved. I thought that was cool. Sitting in his shop, drinking our tea, we talked about Israel, Palestine, the US and our collective hopes for peace. I walked out of his store both with a gift of a wooden dove pin and hoping that maybe we could solve all of the problems in this region, and that maybe one day I would see peace. We headed back for the car to head back to the Jewish State.

Ari and Elky had other plans. “Let’s drive around a bit,” they said. I was sitting in the back and had very little power to stop them, so I just sat quietly and thinking about how angry my parents would be that I had been killed. As we drove around, I was struck by one major observation - there was a huge difference in the graffiti in Palestine as opposed to that found in Israel. In the latter, you see things like “Kol Ha Kavod L’Tzahal” (Kudos to the IDF), “No Arabs, No Terror”, and “Ha am im…” ( The nation is with … which ever sliver of land is hip that week). In Bethlehem, however, there were walls painted with doves and peace signs. One particular piece of graffiti that stood out was on the side of a mechanic’s garage, on which a masked Arab protester held his arm back, ready to throw a bouquet of flowers that he clutched, instead of rocks. It seems that all those Israel “activists” who have claimed over the years that there is no partner for peace have never been to Palestine. It seems like the people in Palestine want peace much more than those on the Israeli side - at least they are much more willing to spray their desire on the sides of their buildings.

On our way back into Israel we made one last stop at the “security fence” to add our own bit of sprayed hope for peace to the copious graffiti already there.

With night falling, we headed back to the boarder. This time we where not waived right through. Instead the soldier took the time to look at our passports - he was not pleased. He informed us that Jews are not allowed into Palestine; not Israelis but Jews. Obviously, this was bullshit. Yet, the three of us are all Israeli citizens and, as such, actually forbidden by law from entering these territories, unless in uniform. We questioned this policy, he threatened to arrest us, we gave three big smiles and he let us pass. I was quite saddened that the only person during the whole day who was not nice and welcoming to us was an Israeli soldier. And, asides from breaking one, silly, little law, we’re actually supposed to be on the same side.

It’s funny, I have always been taught that Israel has actively pursued peace while the Palestinians were never interested in anything more than to see all Jews killed. Now, I have no doubt that there are those in the region who would like to see just that, I mean look at this whack job in Iran; and, I know for a fact that there are plenty of Jews and Israelis who work every day towards peace. Yet I am enraged that I have been lied to for so many years, for little more than the purpose of national indoctrination.

Jesus preached peace: to love your neighbor and to turn the other cheek. There is not a place in the world that could use his message more than his hometown. Maybe some day Jews will be allowed in Palestine and Palestinians will be allowed to visit Israel. Then we can all walk in the footsteps of Jesus, figuratively or literally. I look forward to when I am finally welcomed home by the Israelis in the same way that I am welcomed as a visitor by the Palestinians. And, maybe it will be an Israeli Jew who brings peace to the region, just 2000 years after we killed him.