Marlin and Sally: Frontline Stories from a Backwards Brain

Hiking the Land - Day 9 (Walking the West Bank)

(Mosque in Zababdeh.)

(Peter talking with the delivery man as twins listen in.)

We began early in the morning at one of the local markets in Zababdeh.  Here we put together our lunch for later in the day – pita bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, tuna, cheese, a sweet cake or two, and Nadal’s necessary addition of pickled cucumbers.  We all thought they were unnecessary extra baggage, but then later, when it was time for lunch – pretty good!

We are here to walk the land and meet the people.  We’ve done much of the former during the northern leg of this hike, but not so much of the ladder.  We haven’t met the people.  This will change as we hike through the West Bank.

We meet a shepherd, a friend of Nadal’s, and talk with him about sheep and goats. 

(Don't know what the t-shirt is about.)

He prefers goats – smarter, more resilient and considerably more useful that sheep.  We meet a family picking olives. 
They invite us to tea, but Nadal politely refuses - three times.  I question him on this.  He tells me, “They barely have enough food with them for their own lunch.  If we join them they will force us to eat what they have.  The proper thing to do is gratefully decline the invitation to tea.”

We meet three boys carrying a large, white bucket.  They are gleaning from what is left on the trees after the owners of the orchards pick their olives.  I think of the story of Ruth.  “These are among the poorer families in the area,” Nadal explains.  We watch these wiry young boys climb the trees to pick the olives.

We walk by a woman in traditional Palestinian garb – black dress with embroidered front – hanging clothes on the line.  Nadal explains how each section of the region, indeed, in some cases, each village, have their own design depending on the agriculture in the region.  The design on her dress is of olive branches.  She calls out to Nadal asking who we were and why were we here.  I’m not quite sure all that he tells her, but I do recognize the word “friends,” so I assume he tells her that we are friends of his and hopefully of his people as well.

The land is stunning in it’s beauty, and so well kept.  One of the lies that we often hear is that Palestinians don’t love the land, or don’t take good care of the land.  (They can't be trusted with water, for example, because they will just waste it.)  What we see along this hike repudiates that in every way.  The olive groves are groomed, the ground below the trees clean and raked.  This is necessary for several reasons, Nadal tells us: First to protect against fire that might destroy the trees; then to make the harvest easier, as well as to allow water, irrigated or rain, to best soak to the roots of the trees.  The litter that we saw in the north is nonexistent here. 
These farms are pristine.  We'll see plenty of trash the closer we get to the larger cities, but not in the country.

We walk closely bunched together, listening to Nadal as he describes trees and methods of farming and landmarks.  It is clear to us that this man loves this land.

Nadal is Muslim.  We ask him question after question after question about Islam.  He does not shy away from any, and he answers them thoughtfully and with a tremendous grasp of history.

“Why are Muslims not allowed to drink alcohol?”

“Why do Muslim women cover their heads, and many their faces?”

“Why the emphasis in Islam on jihad (Holy War)?”  Nadal turns this one right back on us, by the way.  “What religion,” he asks, “is responsible for more bloodshed than Christianity?”  A spirited discussion followed.  “But Christianity does not have jihad as one of its foundational tenets,” one of us counters.  “Try telling that to the people of Iraq,” Nadal says.  And we are reminded again of how connected Christianity is with the United States.  In the minds of many Muslims, America is Christianity!  Scary thought, and sobering for us as American Christians, I think – and say, by the way.

Nadal gives us the historical context as well as a solidly moderate theological response to each question.  The exchanges between him and us are rich and from my viewpoint extremely encouraging.  Nadal is an sensible, intelligent man.  If he represents a faction of Muslims then there is hope for improved relations between us.  Hopefully, Nadal told his wife the same about us that evening.

Hiking the Land - Night 9 (Meeting Nadal)

(Note: I have no pictures from this night.  As far as I know none of us took any.  I expect this is due to the anxiety we all felt.  Too bad and reflective of poor leadership on my part, but also the powerful force that is fear of the unknown.  I know better now.) 

(Qalqiliya - Kalkilya in the text below - is the place where we enter the West Bank.  Zababdeh is not on this map, but it east of Jenin, north of Nablus.  We drove from Qalqiliya to Zababdeh.  We'll hike from there to Ramalah, through Nablus, and then drive to Jericho and hike part of the way up toward Jerusalem.)

As we drove from the Kalkilya checkpoint, the soldiers eye us impassively.  They are soldiers, after all, with jobs to do, and quite frankly, they don’t give a fig about what might happen to us next.  What they hope is that whatever that might be it does not involve their shift.  This is not to speak disparagingly of soldiers, just to speak the truth.  The soldiers at this checkpoint would rather be anywhere else but here.  Their families are sitting around Shabbat tables (it is Friday night the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath) or they are enjoying a night out in Tel Aviv or Haifa.  College is on hold, if indeed college is in the offing.  Life is on hold for them.  They have to be here and they are bored silly.  If five fools from the United States want to drive into the West Bank, then so be it!  Be on your way and let us get back to our smokes, our gripes and gossip – back to the hurry-up-and-wait-life of a checkpoint grunt!

Nadal told us to look for him by a gas station two kilometers into the West Bank.  We drive two kilometers – trust me, we are watching the odometer – but we see no gas station.   The road we are on is a stark contrast to the roads we’ve been on for the past nine days.  They were wide, lined, brightly lit, and everything was well marked.  This road is narrow, unlined, dark and there are absolutely no markers.  This is not the case in all of the West Bank, or even in most of it, but this is true here and now. Meeting us in the other half of the road are taxis going 70 and 80 miles an hour.  There is no law here so no fear of a speed trap.  These drivers are bringing passengers to the checkpoint, or at least as close as they can get.  It is more than a little disconcerting to have them roaring by this close, especially given the fact that we are snailing along at about 30 miles per hour.  We drive further, another two kilometers, and we crawl into a small stretch in the road with a two-block row of shops and restaurants.  Clearly these businesses are here to serve the folks coming in and out of the checkpoint as well as rural locals.  There is a coffee shop/restaurant, a pharmacy and grocery on one side, and a barbershop, auto repair place, and fruit and vegetable market on the other.  There are three or four dim streetlights setting out the place in the darkness.  We slowly drive through looking for a gas station, and see none.  The place does not look inviting so we do not stop.  After three more kilometers we call Nadal again and he tells we’ve gone too far – turn around, go back into the area with the shops, give the phone to someone there that speaks Arabic and wait for me!

We park in front of the grocery store and tentatively climb out of the van.  Sally has had to go to the bathroom for miles now and this can wait no longer.  This seems like no problem for those of us accustomed to truck stops and rest areas with clean bathrooms and vending machines, but we are not in Kansas anymore.  Sally and I walk to the pharmacy where a 30-something Palestinian woman dressed in a clean white frock is attending to the needs of a mother and child.  Both women are wearing the familiar to us headwear (hijab).  I ask in Arabic about the rest room.  The woman in the white frock answers us in excellent English telling us to go next door to the restaurant and inquire of the owner.  We pick out the man who makes eye contact and ask him.  He points us to a plywood door that hides porcelain covering over what we think of as an outhouse hole.  (Clearly, this is a man’s world.) Sally grew up with this and knows the drill.   I wait outside for her and when she is finished we walk back to the grocery.

Nadal has arrived.  My three companions are nervously drinking cokes given to them by the owner of the grocery.  He will not take their money!  Nadal is directing the packing of the taxi.  We embrace.  Nadal feels badly about the confusion.  It turns out that the gas station he meant for us to meet was closed down now.  This is life in the West Bank, a life of uncertainty and constant change, even while things stay mostly the same.  He apologizes many times.  I assure him that we do not blame him, which is the truth.  I know how it is here, or at least I know enough about how it is here to know that Nadal and people like him are not free to go where they want.  They have learned to adjust on the fly and often have to change plans in the middle of a plan.  I get this!

Sally is anxious to get back through the checkpoint and on to Jerusalem.  She too faces an unknown as we worry about how she will be treated as she returns to Kalkilya checkpoint.  Will she have to get out of the van?  Will they strip search her because they are unhappy with us for having driven into the West Bank?  Will they detain her?  Will they take down the information on her passport and will this come back to haunt us when we leave the country?  She wants to get on with it so she can get it behind her.  We touch foreheads; she climbs into the driver’s seat, and leaves.  We’ve long ago decided not to show affection when in the company of our Muslim neighbors and friends.  We do this out of respect for their customs, but also in the knowledge that we don’t have to kiss to communicate our love for one another – the eyes do the work.

We climb in the taxi and head for Zababdeh where we will eat dinner and spend the night.  Ten minutes down the road and Sally text messages me to say that she is through the checkpoint and on her way to Jerusalem.  This is a great relief.  It turns out that she hardly had to slow down, as the young Israeli female soldier simply waved her on.  I thank God for her and for the young soldier as well.

It takes us about ten miles in the car with Nadal to begin to relax.  This is a good man.  He is steady, intelligent and seems genuinely pleased to have us with him.  I have this powerful feeling that all that has taken place in the days before this were to prepare us for our time with Nadal in the West Bank.  This is why we’ve come.  We’ve come to meet the people of the land, to walk with them, listen to them, learn from them, see the world through their lens, and try to understand.

What we experienced back in that short row of shops was a foretaste of what lie ahead.  Everywhere we went we received hospitality.  Were there hostile vibes coming from some as well?  Yes.  Did we have some uncomfortable times, times when we felt ill at ease?  Yes.  The West Bank is a tough place that has known tough times, and continues to experience set backs and disappointments.  But the people here are tough as well.  They are resilient and determined to live as best they can with what they have, and to hold on to those values that have always defined them as a people.  One of those values is hospitality and we were shown hospitality at every turn – sometimes grudgingly, but always respectfully.  No mean trick!  Are the people here angry?  Some, yes.  But most are sad and beat up by forces they cannot defeat or control – some of these forces are outside and some are within.  And the Palestinian people are tired – sick and tired.  Sick of broken promises, tired of the lies and politics played with them as the pawns.  They are armored against false hope, and suspicious of do-gooders like us who come and go.

And yet, they persevere!

We arrive in Zababdeh around 9 o’clock, have a good dinner at a shop that I believe to be owned and operated by Palestinian Christians.  Zababdeh is the only village in the Northern West Bank that has a majority of Christians.  Nadal is Muslim, but is obviously well known here and respected.  He buys our meal, escorts us to our lodging place, and then leaves us alone to shower and turn in.  We do.

It’s been a tense, exhausting day.  Before I climb into bed, I kneel and thank God for the woman in the pharmacy, the restaurant owner who allowed us to use his rest room, the grocery man who gave my companions a free coke and stood beside them as they waited for Sally and me to come back from the rest room, the taxi driver who sensed that we were nervous and who drove so carefully, and mostly for Nadal who patiently guided us into his care and who demonstrated from the very beginning that we were in good hands with him.  I fall asleep knowing that the adventure is now beginning.

Hiking the Land - Night 9 (Kalkilya or Qalqilya Checkpoint)

(Sweatshirt worn by an Arab Christian young woman.  She is participating in a Bible Study outside the Franciscan Church on top of Mount Tabor.)

By the time we get to the van it is nearly 5 o’clock.  We hope to meet our West Bank guide, Nadal, by 6 or 6:30.  It is about a 40-minute drive to Kalkilya Checkpoint, and we are anxious, because we know it will be dark by the time we get there.  We take the time to repack our bags at the base of Mount Tabor.  We expect that we may be in a hurry to transfer our things when we meet up with Nadal.  This proved to be a wise decision – thanks Peter!

It will just be the four men taking the next leg of our journey.  The plan is for Sally to drop us off at the checkpoint.  We plan to walk through carrying our things and meet Nadal just on the other side.  Sally will then drive to Jerusalem where she will stay with friends – Mark and Marcia Holman.  Mark is also our pastor – Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. 

The phrase “best laid plans” will serve to best fit what happens on this night.

I drive.  Sally has the map.  The others look for markers.  We drive west for a little over 40 minutes, heading for the Mediterranean Coast. 

(View of Jezreel Valley from Tel-Megiddo.  The road running down the center of the photo is Highway 65.)

We drive on Highway 65, which takes us through the Jezreel Valley, over Wadi Kishon, and past Megiddo, the oldest Tel (term for archaeological dig/site) in Israel - place of Armageddon.
This way is approximately the same path as the ancient Via Mara (Way of the Sea), and earlier the Trunk Road (from Egypt to Mesopotamia).  We also pass, on the left, an Israeli prison for Palestinians – Israelis say “men with blood on their hands.”  (One understands that this term is not limited to Palestinians. But that’s another story for another time, probably after my time.)

(Recent find on the Prison grounds of a ancient church.)

We pull onto Highway 6, which is a new toll road running north and south.  It is a modern four-lane thoroughfare.  We know that the city of Kalkilya is located just off this road.  There is no exit sign for Kalkilya.  As soon as we realize this we also realize that finding the checkpoint will be no easy task.  It is not.  Sally is zoned-in on the map and does an unbelievable job in navigating us to the place.

The sister city to Kalkilya is Kfar Saba.  At one time the residents of this Jewish city would travel back and forth to Kalkilya for fresh citrus fruit as Kalkilya was surrounded by vast groves of orange and lemon trees. 
Now Kalkilya is surrounded entirely by the wall: hulking concrete and towering almost 28 feet into the sky.  The Jewish folks of Kfar Saba don’t come to Kalkilya anymore.  When asked, most of the population has never even seen the wall; they just know that it’s there and are convinced that it belongs there.  The people of Kalkilya, all 40,000 of them, don’t come to Kfar Saba anymore either, and they, not by choice.   Walled in, they are walled out.

The residents of Kalkilya say that the wall has turned their city into a ghetto.  The Jews of Kfar Saba don’t care what the Arabs of Kalkilya say.   They say that for now the wall is necessary.

The short drive, down the dark, two-lane highway between Kfar Saba and Kalkilya has a sobering affect on each of us.  It feels like you are driving out of the light and into the darkness, because that is exactly what is happening.  Behind us is the brightly lit city of Kfar Saba.  We can look behind us and see the lights and feel the life.  Ahead of us is only darkness, with a spattering of lights here and there and none of these bright.  It feels like we are in the middle of the ocean, or at least that was the sensation for me as the driver.  When the checkpoint came into view it was ominous in its bleakness.  The initial stop with two Israeli soldiers manning a manual crossbar was relatively easy.  When we told them where we wanted to go, they just laughed and waved us through.  The laughing was strange behavior and surprised me.  I’ve been through many, many checkpoints and this was the first time I saw soldiers this flippant about their duty.  It was disconcerting to me and I don’t know what to make of it.  Sally felt the same.

We drove through the lifted crossbar and parked alongside the concrete barrier.  Another soldier wandered over and asked us what we wanted.  I told him that we were hiking through the land and were meeting our Palestinian guide on the other side of this checkpoint. (Note: The checkpoint area is a military zone and Nadal, our guide, is not allowed entry without a permit.  He cannot get a permit, so he must wait for us the required distance beyond - around 2 kilometers.)

“He’s not here,” he said.  “I can tell you that.”

“I just talked with him,” I responded.  “He’s on the other side of the barrier waiting for us.”

“You can’t walk into there,” he said.  “There is no one within 4 kilometers on the other side.”

“He (Nadal) assures me that he is there,” I said.

“He’s not!” the soldier insists.  “And you don’t want to go in there anyway.  It’s not safe in there for you.”

“We want to go through,” I said.

“Up to you,” he said.  “Go, if you want, but you can’t walk in; you must drive.”

Now we have a problem.  Our car is a rental from an Israeli company and we are not insured in the West Bank.  Plus, we know that there have been car-jackings in the region so we are not anxious to take our van beyond the barrier.  Add to this the factor that Sally will be driving back alone and you can see that we are conflicted.

“I can do this,” Sally said.  “It’s not that far.  I can do this.”  The five of us stand looking into the West Bank.  We see nothing but some lights in the distance.  It looks dark and foreboding.  We call our guide.

“Nadal, are you near to the checkpoint?”

“I am only 2 kilometers away, waiting for you.  You can come in.  You will be safe.”

(Nadal and Marlin in conversation on the roof of Nadal's home in Al-Fara refugee camp.)

Either we are going to trust this man, or not - that’s the bottom line.  We put it to an informal vote - meaning that I look everyone in the eye to see if their is anyone wavering.  Four heads nod in support.  Sally says, "Let's go." We get back in the van, and drive into the darkness.

Hiking the Land - Day 8 (Mt. Tabor)

(Nate, Peter and me with the village of Daburia and Mt. Tabor in the backgroud.)

Today we wind up the northern portion of our trip.  We'll hike from Nazareth to Mount Tabor - one of tradition's sites for the Transfiguration of Jesus. Did Jesus ever make this trek?  No doubt.

After some search we finally found the trailhead to Mount Tabor.  It is located in a forest preserve named Churchill Forest.

(Main road into Churchill Forest.)

Our hike to the base of Mount Tabor takes us in and around and through the Arab village of Daburia, named after the biblical prophet, Deborah.  “Deborah sent for Barak son of Abinoam from Kedesh in Naphtali and said to him, ‘The LORD, the God of Israel, commands you: 'Go, take with you ten thousand men of Naphtali and Zebulun and lead the way to Mount Tabor. I will lure Sisera, the commander of Jabin's army, with his chariots and his troops to the Kishon River and give him into your hands.'" (Judges 4:6-7)

Along side the trail we encounter villagers from Daburia picking olives in the groves around the village.  Women and children work alongside the men of the village.  Grandfathers and grandmothers are there as well, a true family undertaking.  It reminds me of harvest time in Iowa.  My Uncle Billy, mid-eighties, has been participating in the corn and bean harvest for as long as he can remember.  Just a few weeks ago he proudly told me he was out there along side his son Mark, Mark’s wife Kathy, and their three sons.  As we make our way through the West Bank next week (today is Friday), again and again, we’ll see families working together in the olive harvest.  It’s hard not to be envious.

Along the way we stumbled upon a cave that reminded us again of shepherd dwellings, as well as backrooms of ancient homes.  (One such home was just discovered in the heart of Old City Nazareth.  It is dated to the time of Jesus.) We know that families in that time period, earlier still, built their homes using caves such as these as one of the rooms.  At night, in these rooms, they would keep their animals – sheep, goats, cattle, and a donkey if they owned one.  We can see the wisdom in this.  We remember “no room in the inn,” and can see clearly that this is the kind of place in which Jesus could have been born.  These are the kind of discoveries that can happen around any bend in the trail.

The actual climb up Mount Tabor is difficult.  Having Sally join us gives us each a psychological boost, I think.  A woman’s presence changes the dynamics in a positive way – especially, I think, among Type-A men.  We slow down a bit, and our softer sides immerge. It brings out the best in us, and with this bunch the best is pretty good.  As we near the top, we meet a group of Italians coming down.  We are amazed at the age of these pilgrims, but also with the way they are dressed.  No hiking shoes or hiking clothes of note – men and women both have the look of people on a picnic.  And we’re talking some in their 70s.  We are in awe, and remark how we cannot image an American group of this particular people make-up climbing down this trail – it is difficult – without killing the group leader.  He was a Jewish guy who didn’t seem even the least bit worried.

Anyway …

The designation of Mount Tabor as the place of the Transfiguration happened in 348 C.E. when the bishop of Jerusalem declared it as such.  Prior to that the place of the Transfiguration was believed to be Mount Hermon.  Many still hold that view, maybe even most.  Personally, I don’t much care where it happened.  But what happened back then is as important a happening as anything else that has happened any time, any place before or since, excepting, of course, the cross and resurrection.

(Front of the Franciscan Church with chapel below.)

(Painting in the front of the Chapel to Moses off to the left in the Latin Church.)

(Chapel to Elijah off to the right of the Latin Church.  By the way, from Mt. Tabor you can see the Kishon River and the Carmel Mountain range.)

On Mount Tabor are three wonderful churches - The Latin (Franciscan) Church of the Transfiguration (or Church of the Savior), in the Greek area, the Church of St. Elias (Elijah), and most fascinating of all, the Church of St. Melchizedek, located on the northwest side of the upper plateau.  The name derives from a 4th-century tradition in which Melchizedek spent seven years as a hermit on Mount Tabor before meeting and blessing Abraham.

There is also a famous icon of the Transfiguration connected with this place.  The beauty of this icon is found in the teaching – which is, by the way, the primary purpose of an icon.  This icon shows Jesus with the divine light shining, not on him, but from him!  Wonderful!

(Jezreel Valley looking out to the Southwest.)

 
We enjoy the views, take time to read the stories connected to this site, and then, around four o’clock, make our way down the mountain.  We’ve completed the Northern portion of our trip – walking as much as possible from Mount Hermon to Mount Tabor.  If I get to do this again, I’ll change some routes, but not the beginning point or the ending.  This seemed right to me!

(View to the north from Mt. Tabor.  If you know what you are looking for you can see Tiberias in the distance and beyond that - on a clear day - all the way to Mount Hermon.)

“You created the north and the south; Tabor and Hermon sing for joy at your name.”(Psalm 89:12).

"As surely as I live," declares the King, whose name is the LORD Almighty, "one will come who is like Tabor among the mountains, like Carmel by the sea”(Jeremiah 46:18).


“Jesus took with him Peter, James and John the brother of James, and led them up a high mountain by themselves. There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light.

“Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus. Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.’

“While he was still speaking, a bright cloud enveloped them, and a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!’ When the disciples heard this, they fell facedown to the ground, terrified.

“But Jesus came and touched them. (I love that!) ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Don't be afraid.’ When they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus. As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus instructed them, ‘Don't tell anyone what you have seen, until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.’" (Mt 17:1-9)

Hiking the Land - Night 8 (Fauzi Azar Inn)

Tough night sleeping.  

Sally and I shared room with three other travelers – a young man from Korea, and a middle-aged couple from Bosnia. 

The young man snores.  I grab my mattress and move out into the lobby.  The middle-aged man from Bosnia - built like a military man (walked like one too) - followed suit.  Guess what?  He snores too! 
(Painting on the ceiling that I stared at half the night.)

(Cute little angel watching over me?  I'd like to think so!)

Thank God that Nate had an extra pair of ear plugs. 

Still – tough night sleeping.  Can’t shut down the brain.  Tomorrow we climb Mount Tabor, one of tradition’s spots for the Transfiguration event.  Don't know where we go to start this part of the hike.  Anxious about it!  Feeling responsible.

Tough night sleeping.

Tomorrow night we’ll be in the West Bank.  Everything is about to change!

Tough night sleeping. 

I’m not afraid of being in the West Bank – not even a little.  But I’m anxious.  I don’t know our guides.  I don’t know the places where we are to sleep.  I don’t know if the West Bank trails will be marked.  (They aren’t.)  I don’t know how to get to the checkpoint.  I don’t know if the soldiers will check us through into the West Bank. (They do.) I know they won't want to. (They don't.)  I don’t know if our guide will be there.  I don’t know where he’ll be.  I don't know how my three companions are going to react to my not knowing these things that I don't know.

Tough night sleeping.  I feel like Martha – “Marlin, Marlin, you are anxious and troubled about many things.  Only one thing is necessary …”  And Sally, soundly sleeping in the next room has chosen the better part.  I get that!

Right Lord, I am anxious.

Turns out I had good reason.
(Store in Nazareth that reminded us of our starting off point - Nimrod Fortress.  In front of this store I run into a car door - not all my fault!  I get a deep bruise on my left thigh.  This will bother me the rest of the trip.)