5-26-15. Bethlehem, West Bank
Bethlehem is only about seven miles from Jerusalem, but the bus from the Damascus Gate station took almost forty minutes, largely because it had to snake around the massive concrete barrier between Israel and the West Bank. When the bus arrived, I was immediately accosted by a knot of taxi drivers offering to take me to sites in the vicinity. After haggling for a few moments with one of them, I set off immediately for my first stop, the famous monastery of Mar Saba. Along the way, I had an engaging conversation with my driver, a young man determined to single-handedly dispel every stereotype about Palestine: “Palestine peoples are good. Loves tourists. But a few assholes and shit media – these make us look bad.” I had hoped to avoid any discussion of politics or religion in the West Bank, and thus tried my best to be noncommittal as my driver asked me in turn my opinions of Israel, the Jews, Palestine, the Holy Koran, Islam, Christianity, and the Western Media. It was a long ride.
After about ten kilometers of barren hills, just as the Dead Sea began to twinkle on the eastern horizon, the towers of Mar Saba, greatest monastery of the Judean Desert, pulled into view. I realized that I had no idea whether the monks would understand English, and was desperately trying to recall my Greek phrases as I knocked at the gate. It was opened by a wizened old monk with an immense beard, who, just as I was about to launch into a sentence of execrable Greek, greeted me in perfect English and asked where I was from. When I told him I was from Chicago, he asked if the Bulls were any good these days. Clearly, the monastery was less isolated than I had imagined.
I was given a brief tour by a tall, grave Russian monk, who showed me the dusky and icon-filled main church, where the shriveled body of St. Saba was on display in a glass coffin; a terrace overlooking the plunging Kidron valley, pockmarked with the caves made by Byzantine hermits; and the refectory, where I was offered a glass of cloudy water. After asking my guide a few questions about life at the monastery, he politely enquired my name. When I told him, his brow furrowed. “I know of no Garrett. What does this name mean?” I replied that it was Germanic in origin, and originally meant something like “sword-wielder.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I see. It is a Pagan name!” Not sure how to respond to that, I asked his name. “My name” he replied primly “is Philaretos. It means ‘lover of virtue.’” I refrained from observing that Philaretos was originally a pagan name. We shook hands, and he joined his brothers in the refectory, where a sparse lunch consisting of bread and feta cheese was being served. After taking my leave of the gatekeeper, I hiked for a half-hour along the cliff opposite the monastery, which afforded stunning views of the monastery itself, clinging to the side of a steep wadi, and of the long ranges of brown hills that rolled to every horizon. Satisfied, I returned to my driver, who immediately embarked on a long monologue about the presentation of Old Testament prophets in the Koran.
Our next stop was the Herodion, site of a palace, and possibly of the tomb, of Herod the Great. The center of the complex was a tall hill, artificially smoothened into a conical shape and crowned with a circular building. The architecture of the hilltop palace, curved to suit the unique terrain, is absolutely unique, and was, despite its ruinous condition, correspondingly fascinating to explore. The scanty remains of Herod’s tomb (discovered to much fanfare a few years ago) were less impressive, since the monument itself was destroyed by Jewish zealots during the first revolt against Rome. When I returned to my cab, the driver asked what I thought of it. “You know” he said conspiratorially, “the tomb of Herod is a fake. Shit media again, my friend.”
My last stop outside Bethlehem was the Wadi Khareitun, a deep canyon near the Herodion notable for containing the ruins of a large Byzantine monastery. According to my guidebook, the ruins could be reached by a “level and well-marked path.” Unfortunately, an Israeli settlement had recently been constructed near the entrance to this path, and my driver, as a Palestinian, could not approach. He claimed, however, that the site guard at the Herodion had told him of an alternate way to reach the monastery. Parking his car at the edge of a small village about a mile from the Wadi, he pointed toward it, helpfully noting that there was supposed to be a path there somewhere. There was not. The dirt track I had started down petered out in a field bordered by a six foot wire fence, which I had to jump, tearing my pants in the process. Beyond, what looked like an innocuous patch of wheat turned out to covered in thorny weeds and bushes of every description, which tore mercilessly through my shoes and pants. When I finally reached the wadi, cut and sweating, I discovered the ruins of the monastery – on the other side of a canyon with sheer hundred foot walls. Defeated, I took some pictures from afar, retraced my painful steps, and jumped the fence again, only to find that the farmer had closed the seven foot gate at the head of the path. Clambering over this, I found my driver just waking from a nap. “How was it, my friend?” By way of response, I spent the cab ride back to Bethlehem tearing thorns from my socks and feet.
My driver dropped me in Manger Square, the center of old Bethlehem. After pausing to pluck the last thorns from my shoes, I made my way to the Church of the Nativity, ducking under the well-named Door of Humility. Inside, I was disappointed to find most of the church’s famous mosaics and frescoes hidden by scaffolding. Photographing the few visible traces, I walked between the imposing red columns of the nave toward the crowds clustered around the entrance to the Cave of the Nativity. As the only tourist there not associated with a tour group, I was able to sneak in through the exit, where I saw the silver star that marks the traditional site of Jesus’ birth.
Another series of caverns, accessible only from the modern church next door, are claimed as the place in which St. Jerome translated the Vulgate. Although there is no historical basis for this identification, it was faintly thrilling to imagine that I stood in the place where the most important book in the Latin Middle Ages was produced.
Ducking back through the church door, I wandered around Bethlehem for a while, making my way toward the Jerusalem bus. The trip back took even longer than the ride in, since all the Palestinian passengers had to exit at the border to have their papers reviewed. The Israeli soldiers ran through the identity checks with practiced efficiency, lining the Palestinians up in the shadow of the barrier fence.