|
Oh little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
the silent stars go by.
Ugly chunks of concrete and dust-covered army trucks block the road into Bethlehem. At the main checkpoint, two young soldiers wearing silver sun glasses and machine guns, pore over passports and papers. Snapping in the October breeze is a blue and white Israeli flag. Off to the left I see a new Israeli settlement – a treeless jumble of block-like apartments and condos.
This is Bethlehem?
The Bethlehem of my youth, the little town I sang about at Christmastime, was a place of safety and promise: a child placed lovingly in a manger, a mysterious star, wise men with exotic gifts. This Bethlehem is a war zone.
I am here on impulse. After wrapping up a business trip in Jordan, I decided, against the advice of my Jordanian hosts, to cross the formidable and unwelcoming border into Israel. Bethlehem is only an hour and a half by car from Amman, and sweet childhood memories of the little town tempt me to make the trip.
In Jerusalem I had hired a driver, a talkative Christian Palestinian, named Nackle. "You are either brave or crazy," he says when he picked me up at the Christmas hotel. When the soldiers finally give us the OK to enter Bethlehem in the white Mercedes taxi, I am shocked at how quiet the town is. The crooked streets are empty. Stores are shuttered. The few locals who are sitting on steps or standing in doorways stare as we drive by. "They used to get at least 9,000 visitors a day," Nackle says. "Tourists are too afraid to come here now. It's very bad."
Famous Manger Square is also empty, except for three security guards with guns, two pesky guys hocking cheap jewelry, and a couple of church guides hoping to give me a tour. The fortress-like Church of the Nativity, built over the birthplace of Jesus, is much smaller than I had imagined and sits directly across the square from a glittering Muslim mosque.
As I duck through the low entrance of the church, originally designed to keep marauding horsemen out, and aptly named the Door of Humility, I reach up and stick my fingers into several rough, round holes. "Bullet holes," a guide with brown curly hair says to me. "Do you want to see where King Herod killed the children? There are bones there." I wonder what he takes me for.
Even though bright sunlight streams in from high arched windows, it feels cold and damp inside the old church. I notice a few torn up floorboards. "During the hostage crises there were about 240 people here in the church," the guide says trailing me. "They were here for 39 days. Eight people were killed." I walk away.
I confess my interest in Bethlehem is more historical than spiritual. After all, this is where it all started: the birthplace of one man who would have a profound influence on the world. I want to be left alone to absorb the essence of this powerful spot. I want to think about then.
I don't want to think about last April when Israeli soldiers stormed into the town searching for relatives of a suicide bomber. Several gun-toting Palestinians, including some local policemen and the Governor of Bethlehem, fearfully took refuge inside the church, creating a made-for-TV international incident.
While I feel sorry for the Christian Palestinians who depend on tourism for their livelihood, I am secretly thrilled to have the church mostly to myself. Descending the narrow stone steps to the Grotto of the Nativity, I share the small white-marbled room with one other American tourist – a nice-looking guy named Dean from Nebraska, who has been traveling for several months. The cave, where Mary gave birth to the baby Jesus, is softly lit by flickering candles and 15 silver lamps. The walls are draped with shimmering tapestries. The curly-haired guide approaches: "People think Jesus was born in a stable, but it was actually in this cave." I struggle to feel something meaningful, have an epiphany perhaps, but all I feel is irritation. As I start back up the steps, he calls: "Do you want to see the bullet holes in the courtyard?"
Maybe some things never change: This is a church with a turbulent history. It has been one of the most fought over of holy places. The original structure was completely destroyed in the early 6th century.
It has been seized and defended by a succession of armies, including Muslim and Crusader forces. Now it is run by three Christian denominations – Armenian, Roman Catholic, and Greek Orthodox, each with their own convent. To add to the confusion, The Palestinian Authority was given control of Bethlehem in 1995 and now a large color photo of Arafat hangs inside an office just off the main entrance.
I find myself standing in the hot afternoon sun, staring up at high terra-cotta colored walls pockmarked with white bullet holes. "They put a sniper crane in the square," the guide explains. "They could fire into the courtyards better that way. The Israelis claimed the Palestinians were holding the priests and monks hostage. But the church leaders just wanted to protect the church and help the wounded. They did not consider themselves hostages. You know, the Church of the Nativity is a place of refuge for everyone, that includes Palestinians and Israelis."
He smiles at me proudly. His smile tugs at my heart.
A soft murmur fills the church. Several Armenian priests in long, black, hooded robes are conducting a prayer service. "Just give me some time alone, fifteen minutes," I beg the guide, feeling guilty for not wanting him around. Sitting alone on a step, I close my eyes, listen to the rhythmic chants, and imagine the ghost-voices of all those who ever uttered prayers in this ancient place. But the moment is shattered by two French tourists chatting loudly to each other while clicking at the priests with a fancy Nikon.
"Would you like to see where King Herod killed the children now?"
The guide has found me. I trail him down steep stone stairs. In another cave-like area, several small bones are displayed behind thick, yellowed glass. King Herod, the half-Jewish King of the Jews at the time Jesus was born, was never part of my family's Christmas program. Crazed with fear the newborn child would steal his kingdom, Herod ordered all male children under the age of two to be killed. If these two thousand year old baby bones are authentic, to me they represent the beginning of Bethlehem's disturbing history.
Needing some fresh air, I walk out into another courtyard and come across the small, unimpressive bell tower of the church. "The bell ringer was killed in the stand-off in April," the guide says. "The janitor was also killed," he says. I stare at him, expecting to hear more of the story, but he says instead: "Would you like to do some shopping after your visit? We have some very nice things in our gift store."
Suddenly I want out of this church, out of Bethlehem. I don't want the rest of the tour. I don't want to see any more or hear any more.
I feel like I am digging for something I can't find. I keep trying to connect with my comforting illusion of the past only to be confronted with the violent, chaotic, and bloody present. It is then I realize the magical Christmas card Bethlehem existed for only a brief shining moment, perhaps only as long as it took the star to fade.
As I step out into the bright sunlight of Manger Square, I imagine Israeli tanks clattering across these worn cobblestones while an F-16 screams overhead. I imagine the sniper crane slowly turning in the very spot where I am standing. A man in a plaid shirt approaches me with a handful of beaded necklaces. "I have some very nice necklaces," he says, Would you like to see them?" Hot and irritated, I wave him away, but will later wish I had bought all of his necklaces. He probably has a family to feed and there are no other tourists in sight.
Nackle is standing beside the Mercedes, waiting for me.
"Lets go back to Jerusalem," I say. "I've seen enough."
Air conditioning blasting, we snake back through the narrow streets and I reassure myself that I will go back to Bethlehem someday and finish the tour. I'll even get to Rachel's tomb. Only next time I will know what to expect. As we pull into the long line of cars and trucks waiting to get through the checkpoint, I can't seem to shake the haunting little melody I hear in my head.
Yet in the dark street shineth
the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
are met in thee tonight.
|
HOME
