Jerusalem

May 15th, 2008 Citadel Youth Hostel, Jerusalem, Israel
I never grow tired of airports. No matter how much time I spend in them, I never cease to enjoy trudging through, waiting to board the next plane. I think airports carry the same connotation as that of brimming backpacks.
I said goodbye to my family and went through security. Single males between 20 and 35 who are traveling alone seem to grab some attention. My backpack was searched and swiped and I was frisked somewhat awkwardly by a large, heavy-breathing man before I was allowed to fly to Dulles International in Washington, DC. I started reading Brian McLaren’s Everything Must Change: Jesus, Global Crises, and a Revolution of Hope. This is a very appropriate book for the situation into which I am about to step.
Seeing Adam and Sean walking toward me in the airport was a little strange. For a moment, the two just seemed out of place. The realization finally hit that we were definitely doing this. We didn’t have a long wait for our plane to leave, flying on Austrian Airway to Vienna. Unfortunately, I was given a window seat. When I was younger, I absolutely loved sitting next to the porthole, watching the world getting smaller and the clouds getting bigger. But now that my legs are similar to stilts, I have found that chewing on my knees is not my favorite pastime during a transatlantic flight. However, I was pleasantly surprised when I found a little boy had claimed that seat, which was next to his pregnant Ukrainian mother. I was awarded an aisle seat. Due to the boy’s (and his mother’s) overactive bladder, I was later relegated to the window seat so that they could more easily go back and forth to the wizzer. And then the guy in front of me decided that I hadn’t already eaten enough of my knees, so he pushed his seat back and fell asleep. Somehow, in the midst of it all, I still slept around two of the eight-and-a-half hours. The lady from the Ukraine, whose name I have now forgotten, was very friendly and we talked for a little while about our homes and destinations.
Another short layover awaited us in Vienna. The terminal was very small, so we were prevented from wandering around. Soon, we were once again boarding a plane, this time for our final stop. My seat on this particular flight was behind the emergency exit row. But, the beauty of it was that there was no seat in front of me. I basically had two full rows of legroom. And I took advantage of it and slept most of the flight to Tel Aviv. A young Orthodox Jew sat next to me, crouched over a massive book which he read intensely. He carried a box with him that was labeled “A Large Selection of Hasidic Hats.”
I couldn’t help smiling when we touched down in Israel. The two years between now and my last visit had been far too long. As we exited the plane, a young Israeli guard stopped Sean and me; Adam had already walked ahead. She took our passports and asked us a few questions concerning our stay in Israel. We told her we are here as tourists and students (both of which are true) and that our Bulgarian friend was picking us up. No need to tell the whole truth when we aren’t asked. We found Adam just outside customs and he said he was stopped by the same guard.
“It was a little freaky,” he said. “She’s a mixture of two of my biggest fears: beautiful women . . . and security guards.”
Adam’s pack and my pack came through quickly, but Sean’s bag took some time. After fifteen minutes had passed, we became a little concerned. When a metal door slammed shut over the mouth of the luggage ramp, we got worried. Sean’s pack never came. We reported it to the lost and found desk and they said they would send it to our hostel in Jerusalem.
“No worries,” Sean said as we walked out. “Now I know what I’ll be wearing the rest of the summer.”
We walked out into the throng of boisterous people waiting anxiously for whoever they were waiting for. I couldn’t exactly remember what Svetlana, our Bulgarian friend (who is married to Mahmoud Abu Eid, whose family has been very close to mine for years), looked like. But when a woman kept staring at me and I kinda stared back, we eventually made the connection. She greeted me with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks.
“I am sorry,” she said in accented English. “I don’t speak English only a little bit.” She held up her forefinger and thumb to represent the amount of her language skills.
“It’s great,” I assured her. “Besides, you speak more English than any of us speak Bulgarian!”
She laughed and said, “Well, what about Russian, Hebrew, Arabic, French?”
That didn’t make me feel any smarter.
She led us out to her car, of which she was tremendously proud even though her children were embarrassed by it, and we drove off for Jerusalem. We only drove around thirty minutes before the land started rising into high, chalky hills decorated with dirty-white towns. The mountains do indeed surround Yerushalayim, Al-Quds. Svetlana took us to the New Gate and dropped us off. We thanked her very much for the ride, strapped on our packs (except for Sean) and strolled into the Old City.
I was surprised by how much I had forgotten in two years. The last time I was here, I had no trouble finding my way to David Street, the busy and beautiful narrow shopping street. We eventually found it, after a few minor detours. We at least got to see some areas we may not have seen otherwise. St. Mark Street split off from David, climbing up a set of stairs, leading to a secluded alley. On the right we saw the sign for the Citadel Youth Hostel, located in a 700 year-old building. We pushed open the heavy metal door into the lobby, a small, low-ceilinged room of uncut stone. We confirmed our reservations for the next three nights, agreeing to pay later when we actually had shekels. We could stay in dormitory-style rooms, but we opted for something better: 7 bucks a night to throw a sleeping bag on the roof. We slithered through the tight, winding staircase past the rooms, another small lobby, and the kitchen until we emerged on the top of the city. Bags and packs of a Swedish group were strewn across the roof. Before us was the expanse of the biblical city. The Dome of the Rock shone gold and blue atop the Temple Mount, set against the backdrop of the Mount of Olives. All around us the city stretched out in labyrinthine streets of ancient stone, walled by domed churches and the spikes of minarets. None of us complained about our accommodations. This was perfect.
We left our bags behind the front desk and jumped back into the bustling bazaar. Down David Street, to the right, we found Mahmoud’s shop. He sat adjusting his glasses in the back of the little store, framed by the arching doorway and the walls lined with antique pottery. Mahmoud had once been a successful journalist in Bulgaria, where he met his wife, but, according to tradition, he moved back home in order to take over the family shop when his father’s health began to decline. He rose as soon as he saw us and embraced me, saying “Welcome again to Jerusalem! God bless you!” Mahmoud heartily shook Adam’s and Sean’s hands, repeating his greeting.
“Are you finding everything okay?” he asked, a concerned look on his face. “You have no problems? Nothing you need? If you need anything, anything, you will come to me. I have already told your father, my brother, this. Anything you need I will take care of. Svetlana and I talked and we will have you to dinner at our home while you are here.”
The hospitality of God shines in this man. He asked us our itinerary, recommending we go to Masada tomorrow and explore the city some that evening. As we left, he again made sure we had everything we needed and ordered me to come to him when a problem arose.
“And when you are in the West Bank and there is tension, don’t go,” he said. “I’m not telling you, you know, not to do everything but if you don’t know what is happening and there is tension, then do not go.”
My mom would have been thankful to hear him say that.
“Oh and, Jonathan,” he said, “before you go to the West Bank you should take off that patch.”
My green backpack is covered with patches from the places to which I have gone with that bag; I have another backpack at home with more patches from other places. Mahmoud tapped the flag of Israel that is sewn to the bottom left-hand corner of my backpack.

(written May 16th, 2008)
We headed once more through the Old City, winding around shopkeepers and loud American tourists. The Old City is certainly one of my favorite places in the world. Shops push back into the walls on each side of the Roman-era streets. Parts of the twisting roads, which split into even narrower passageways, felt underground, sheltered by vaulted ceilings. Pottery (both stone and brass), hookahs, rugs, shirts, everything can be found in the market. We eventually came to a security checkpoint which led into the Western Wall. We pushed our bags on the conveyer belt and walked through the detector without any problems: none of us were carrying any guns. The same cannot be said of everyone else at the Wall.
Hundreds of olive green-clad soldiers filled the area leading down to what is left of Herod’s Temple. M-16s were slung over some of their shoulders, most of them younger than the three of us. Every now and then, someone dressed in a t-shirt and blue jeans would walk by carrying the same automatic weapon. Even when off-duty they are required to carry their weapons. The day before had marked the 60th anniversary of the founding of the state of Israel. Perhaps this gathering of guards was some sort of celebration. Our Palestinian friends were commemorating another event which occurred sixty years ago: the Nakba (or catastrophe), the expulsion of the Palestinians from their homes when Israel was formed. Every story has another point of view.
We grabbed paper yamulkas from a little container and held them to our heads so they didn’t fly off. We stood before the ancient stones, whose tributaries of cracks flooded with the wadded prayers of millions of pilgrims. The long side-locks of orthodox Jews, many of whom were adorned with phylacteries, fluttered in the wind as they swayed back and forth chanting softly. We replaced our disposable kappas and wove through the smiling and laughing soldiers before exiting through an arched gate; we then turned left onto the long, winding road to the Mount of Olives. As we passed the Church of All Nations and the Garden of Gethsemane, we heard gunfire echoing from the Western Wall. The celebration continued.
The climb to the summit of the hill is a good hike. We ascended past the Jewish cemetery, crammed with sarcophagi. Rocks sat on many of them as a way of honoring the dead. Finally, we reached the top. Behind us sat the Seven Arches Hotel and the Church of the Ascension (where tradition holds that Jesus- yep, you guessed it- ascended). Before us sat panoramic Jerusalem, one of the most beautiful sites in the world. We stood quietly for some time, breathing in the awesome significance of the place. History and the richness of stories almost sing out in that city. Joy and immense sorrow are mingled together in the view from the Mount of Olives. The City of Peace has been ravaged by hatred and war for so long. But somehow, passionate hope still hovers over churches and synagogues and mosques. Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
A harsh wind threatened to blow us off the mount, so we began to trek down, peering into the Garden of Gethsemane as we passed. We moved along the wall of the Old City, past the Damascus Gate and toward the New Gate. We made a short stop at the Notre Dame Guest House, a towering cathedral-like building where my family has stayed whenever we visit Jerusalem. Unfortunately, no one I knew was working at the time, but we got some information regarding buses for the next day.
Our next mission was food. The best schwarma I have ever had is on King George V Street. We had a little adventure trying to find it. Maps can come in quite handy every now and then. We found Ben Yehuda Street, a long stretch of pedestrian road. Restaurants and shops surrounded street musicians who plucked on fiddles and guitars. We turned right onto King George Street and, a short way down the road, we found what we wanted. And it was worth the long walk. A large spit of lamb rotated slowly and our mouths watered as strips of it were shaved into a thick piece of pita, which was covered with hummus and spice. Salad and chips (French fries) were added and we took our manna and sat down at a table next to the street. I looked over at Adam, who was holding his schwarma in front of him.
“I can’t help smiling,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”
Oh man. That’s all I can really say to describe schwarma. If you’ve tasted it, then you understand and are nodding as you read this, your mouth watering. If you haven’t, then I pity you. Sean bought a small packet of falafel to share before we headed pack to the Old City. We entered through the Jaffa Gate and walked straight onto David Street. We had stopped at an ATM, so we paid for our lodgings, grabbed our bags, and went to the roof. Small mattresses were provided and we made our little camp on the far side of the roof. Sean and Adam, after spending a little while on the computer, went to sleep. I sat at a table under an awning, staring out at the city under a nighttime haze. I wrote for a while, occasionally glancing up at the rooftops of Jerusalem. The Dome of the Rock was lit up almost like a beacon in front of me. I could see the dark domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to my left. I could hear piano music coming from somewhere behind me, harmonizing with a cool breeze.

I was awakened this morning by the words “Allahu Akbar” bellowing over the pale city. I crawled out of my sleeping bag sometime around 6 or 6:30 when the deep-orange sun was resurrected from behind the Mount of Olives, lighting the gold of the Dome of the Rock on fire. The City of Gold is certainly a fitting name. Adam and I had tea in the kitchen as the bells of the city’s many churches rang the morning into existence.
We left the Citadel around 8, walking through the Old City and out through the Damascus Gate to the bus station. My dad called on a cell phone we ordered for the three of us to use. International chats still amaze me. We decided not to go to Masada and chose instead to further familiarize ourselves with the city. We reentered the Old City and meandered toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, The site on which this huge structure sits is believed to be the site of Calvary. Constantine’s mother, Helena, visited Palestine in the 4th century and, due to oral traditions and excavations, declared this to be where Jesus the Christ was crucified, buried, and resurrected. The inside is exceedingly ornate, dripping with lamps and icons and incense. A large stone slab, where tradition holds that Jesus’ body was put after he was taken down from the cross, lies just inside the large doors. Several people were kneeling next to it, wiping it and kissing it. The stairs leading up to the hill (inside the church) were sunken and smooth from the hordes of visitors who have walked that way. Back down and around the corner was a towering shrine over the proposed grave, but it was closed due to cleaning.
We exited the Old City via the Zion Gate and went to King David’s Tomb. Very little evidence supports this claim, but it is nevertheless a very holy Jewish site. Several people stood inside the small room, praying fervently; others read from the volumes of the massive bookcase in an adjoining room. Coincidentally, the traditional site of the Last Supper was just upstairs. We began to question the validity of some of sites, but at least they have it narrowed down to the right city. The Church of the Holy Savior was just around the corner and, after a brief visit, we were once again on our way. We had to pay to enter the Church of St. Peter En Gallicantu, so we opted not to enter. We would be going in three weeks later when my dad and the tour arrive.
We walked past the Dung Gate, which leads out of the Western Wall, and into the City of David archaeological site. We bought tickets (and I bought a cheap pair of sandals) for Hezekiah’s Tunnel. Sean and I hadn’t done this before, and Adam definitely hadn’t, so we were all pretty excited. We changed into shorts and walked down to the entrance behind a group from Manchester, England. I put on a headlamp and we plunged into the tunnel.
King Hezekiah built this tunnel in 701BC as a water source during the oncoming siege of the Assyrians. The tunnel stretches 533 meters underground, burrowing through solid rock. The pamphlet we received understatedly describes it as “an extraordinary feat of engineering,” dug out by pick-axes hacking toward one another. The width of the channel was a little more than my shoulders, and at times I had to double over while at others the ceiling rose to a height of almost 20 feet. A flowing stream was present the entire way, mostly hovering around our ankles, but we had to wade through waist-deep waters at certain points. As we went, I met Jake, one of the members of the Manchester group. Once we emerged from the dark (and incredibly awesome) tunnel, he asked me to sign his journal, which was filled with notes and signatures from people he had met during his travels.
Sean, Adam, and I ate a small lunch of Nutri-Grain bars and granola at the tunnel’s mouth (actually, it was the end of the tunnel, so would it be more appropriate to designate it as the . . . well, nevermind). The recently excavated Pool of Siloam was around the corner, where we talked with a man who was part of the archaeological dig. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket he had found while excavating, many of them dating back to the 30s and 40s AD. We sat on the steps which had long ago led down to the pool, now covered by a garden owned by the Greek Orthodox Church.
We climbed through a string of backstreets before descending into the Kidron Valley. We ventured behind some very large monuments situated in the side of the hill, crawling back through some holes in the rock.
“Holy cow!” Sean suddenly shouted. “Check this out.”
Adam and I scurried back inside to find Sean holding a femur. We found several other bones, mostly ribs. And they looked, to our untrained eyes, fairly recent. We didn’t expect to find any skeletons as we wandered through Jerusalem, but I suppose you never know what pleasant surprises await you.
The Garden of Gethsemane was just out of the valley. Much smaller then it was several thousand years ago, what is left is still populated by olive trees dating back to the time of Jesus. Cement stumps supported several of the decaying trees. Next to the garden is the darkly lit Church of All Nations. I love that name. We sat in silence for a little while, gazing at the mosaics in three separate conclaves depicting Jesus’ anguished prayers.
We hiked the steep road up the Mount of Olives again, this time in order to visit the Church of the Ascension. However, it was closed. But the trip afforded us the opportunity to sift through tiny bystreets which we probably would not have seen otherwise. We have seen a diverse Jerusalem in the past two days. After almost rolling down the hill, we walked along the Old City walls to the Damascus Gate. The Garden Tomb is located directly across from the Palestinian bus station outside the gate.
The simplicity of the Garden is a striking contrast to the extravagance of the Holy Sepulchre. The historical support for the Garden is rather unconvincing, considering General Charles Gordon was the major proponent of this place in the 1880s. Also, The Gospels state that Jesus was placed in a new tomb which had never before been used. The tomb here dates back to the time of King David. But the Garden is a beautiful and quiet spot, creating a perfect atmosphere for contemplation. We took advantage of the peacefulness present there before going back through the Damascus Gate to our hostel. Sean and I sat on the second level, typing away, when we helped a lady carry her bags to the top floor. She was extremely friendly and very thankful for the assistance. She introduced herself as Heidi from Germany, and her husband, who came behind us, was Kiran, originally from India. They had been to Jerusalem several times before. Heidi had worked with Youth with a Mission in the ‘80s and was enthusiastic about our upcoming volunteer work. When we told her we went to a Christian liberal arts university, she said, hyperbolically, that all Americans say they are Christians, just like all Germans.
“But are you ‘born again?’” she asked.
At first, I was hesitant about what to say. I shy away from that phrase because of the ridiculous connotations that have become associated with it even though I love what Jesus meant by it. Her comment just prior to that suddenly clicked, and I realized she meant “serious” or “devoted.” We both answered that we were. Heidi and Kiran said they were Christians as well, part of the Free Church (what could be described as nondenominational with Pentecostal leanings). She and her husband told us not to go searching for dinner tonight because they had plenty of fruit and yogurt from the hotel which they had just left. They planned on enjoying the view from the roof later in the evening and asked us to join them. These are the kind of people that you hope to meet while staying in a hostel.
Someone from the airport called to say that Sean’s bag had been found and that they were bringing it to Jerusalem. Sean met them at the Jaffa Gate and came up the stairs with a smile on his face and a large green pack on his back. Before dinner, I took a shower for the first time since Tennessee, and it was glorious. I don’t know about cleanliness being next to godliness, but it sure feels good every now and then. Our wonderful new friends provided us with an assortment of pastries, cream, yogurt, cheese, chicken tuna, and chocolate milk in plastic bags. We had a feast and we didn’t spend any money. We couldn’t thank Heidi and Kiran enough.
One of the hostel workers, a 26 year-old local named Freddie (the name he gave me, at least), joined us for a little while. He jokingly complained that everyone in the hostel was eating in the kitchen at the same time.
“For one year I have worked here,” he said, “and never so many people have been in the kitchen. Why does everyone need to eat now? We cannot get gas for the stove because it is Shabbat (Sabbath) and everything is closed. How can everyone be hungry at the same time?”
He then tried to guess our ages; Sean guessed his age pretty quickly. He thought Sean looked 21, but Sean assured him it was only because he had shaved. Freddie thought Adam and I both looked 25. He thought Adam was older because of his long curly hair and scruff, and he thought I was 25 because “you think a lot,” and he forced a serious look on his face.
My predominant facial expression has been interpreted in many ways. Some say I look intense, a few say I look like I’m on a mission, others pensive, even others say pissed off. I’m not sure I like the last one.
Soon after Freddie went back downstairs, a German man named Vladimir approached us. None of us know German, so he grabbed his son Edward and daughter Valentina to help translate. He asked us where we were from and what we were doing in Israel. We showed him on a map of the U.S. (courtesy of the Internet) the states from which we come. Through Edward, we learned that the family originally came from Kazakhstan in 1990. Edward has been volunteering in a home for Holocaust survivors since August and his family was now visiting him for a few weeks. Vladimir asked us if we were Christians, saying he wanted to meet Christians who would always refresh their faith and not just be traditional, but be new and alive. We told them about what we would be doing this summer. I think that expresses a living faith. Later, we could hear them singing, in German, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” from behind the door of their room.
As soon as we said goodbye to our new friends, our now old friends Heidi and Kiran joined us at our perch on the second level. We sat talking for a long time. Heidi is a nurse and has worked six months each year for the past 20 in India with orphans. She and Kiran married four years ago, but they met 14 years ago. However, they had to go through a long process with the Indian government in order to be recognized. When they finished that battle, they had to do the same thing with the German government. Kiran was told that he could be a German citizen, but he had to give up his Indian citizenship.
“I cannot do that,” he said emphatically. “India is my motherland, so I cannot.”
He is now a permanent resident. He learned German, and his English is amazing. He pronounces the letter “v” as “w”: voiceless becomes woiceless and vegetable becomes wegetable. Besides these two languages, he knows eight Indian dialects. Heidi retired to her room while the four of us discussed wildlife and religion in India, tracing the history of the British and Christianity in Kiran’s homeland. For a large portion of this conversation, a tall, reserved man named Jeff from Texas joined us, commenting here and there. He studied Hebrew at Wheaton, and said he knew of my granddad. This is a small world.
After a time, Kiran, Sean, Adam, and I migrated to the roof, where we now sit as I write. Sean is sitting to my left, his recently-retrieved rain-jacket pulled tightly around him with the hood pulled over a hat. Adam is next to him, wrapped snuggly in a big red blanket, listening intently to Kiran, who is directly across from me. His white baseball cap is turned backwards and a cigarette slowly smolders toward his fingers, illuminating his black moustache. As he moves his head his glasses reflect the city lights surrounding us.
The Swedish group is gone. Our only “roommate” is an Asian girl, already enveloped in her sleeping bag. The night air is once again cool, but I am barefoot. I think they enjoy the fresh air. The walls of the Old City are dotted with orange lights. The sky is starless and the city is quiet tonight. Sunset marked the beginning of Shabbat.
I can’t stop looking around me. We are in Jerusalem, again. Somebody pinch me.

The Beginning

May 13th, 2008 Jellico, Tennessee, USA

One of the most beautiful, and somehow poetic, images is that of a full backpack waiting on the night before a long journey. That pack represents anticipation, excitement, adventure, and the plain ole’ love of travel. Brimming backpacks represent the Open Road.
The last time this picture filled my head (at least in the physical sense, because this image recurrently appears in my restless mind) was almost two years ago on the night before I left for the Far East and the South Pacific, gallivanting through China, Australia, New Zealand, and several islands. I recorded those adventures on a blog I titled The Wanderer. I didn’t really stretch my imagination too much with the name of this new blog, but I like it. This is the second part of my chronicled travels, which is, obviously, why I tacked on “Part Two.” I feel like the word “wanderer” sums up my life, both spiritually and geographically. But the fact that I wander doesn’t mean I’m not going anywhere. One of my favorite quotes is, “Not all those who wander are lost.” I have a need to wonder and to wander.
The road on which I step tomorrow, with this pack strapped on my back, leads me to the Middle East, where I will spend two months volunteering with the Palestinian Medical Relief Society, traveling throughout the West Bank and writing stories about what I see. This is the third time I have been to Israel and the Occupied Territories; the first time was in 2001, when my family and I spent close to a month in the Middle East during a six-month sabbatical. The second time was in 2006 with my dad (a doctor in the impoverished Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee), his parents (who are archaeologists, teachers, writers, and all-around smart people) and his closest friend (a medical ethicist and historian). This trip was my first encounter with PMRS, a non-violent resistance organization dedicated to the aid of the Palestinian people. This summer, I will be writing for the Palestine Monitor, which is a slightly more political branch of the relief society.
Fortunately, I will not be going alone. My good brothers, Sean Boehrig and Adam Clement, are also coming. I was incredibly excited when these two expressed interest in what I would be doing and said that they wanted to join me. The three of us are all fairly laid back, but determined. We have all traveled quite a bit, and we travel similarly. And all of us will be working in capacities related to our fields of study: I am English major and will be writing; Sean (who just graduated) was a Youth and Family Ministry major and will be working with youth camps; and Adam, a General Studies major with an emphasis in pre-Physician’s Assistant work, is volunteering with the Emergency Response Unit.
When I tell people I am going to Israel and Palestine for the summer, a large number of them respond, “Oh wow! Are you going to do mission work?” I’ve struggled with the response. I want to say, “Yes, but not in the way you think of mission work.” We are not going to beat people over the head with Bibles or to convert them to another imperfect religion. We go because we are followers of Jesus of Nazareth, and that forces us to look, as G.K. Chesterton said, “with a frantic intentness outwards.” Our mission is to serve. Francis of Assisi is attributed with the potent statement, “Preach the Gospel always, and if necessary use words.”
The purpose of this trip is not to point judging fingers. Too much of that has been done already. We go to serve an oppressed people and to better understand the conflict between the Israelis and Palestinians. My family has close friends who are Israeli and close friends who are Palestinian. We love these people and want to do whatever we can in the effort for peace. Right and wrong exists on both sides. But one story has been given preference and the support of the most powerful nation in the world; we want to help turn up the voices of those who are too often drowned out. This is not about choosing sides. According to the Hebrew Scriptures, Joshua inquires of an angel whether or not he is for the Israelites or their enemies. The angel replies, “Neither.” The question is rather, “Are we on God’s side?” And God is on the side of the oppressed, the poor, the sick, the weak, the hungry, and the thirsty wherever they are and whoever they are. If I claim to be a follower of Jesus, then that is where I am supposed to be also, because God is seen most blazingly from below. We go with a belief that peace is better than war, harmony is better than violence, creativity is better than destruction, hope is better than fear, reconciliation is better than racism, and love is better than hatred. The Mission is a Lifestyle.
The road over the next two-and-a-half months will be taxing, both physically and emotionally, but it is one which I cannot wait to start trekking. I hope everyone who actually takes the time to read all this will enjoy (and, hopefully, gain something more substantial from) the stories to come. Thanks for the support and the encouragement, and for following me through Israel, the West Bank, Egypt, Turkey, Greece, and maybe Jordan. “The Road goes ever on and on,” and may we wander deliberately. Peace, Shalom, and Salaam.

PS I am also posting a story I wrote over a year ago about one of my experiences during the two-week period in 2006, which was published on the Palestine Monitor.


The van pulled around the looping driveway and parked in front of the cathedral-like Notre Dame Guest House in Jerusalem. The Virgin Mary stood tall at its summit, as if she were watching over those who came to this place for rest. Wassan, the driver, met us in the lobby. He was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties and wore a pair of dark sunglasses. A Palestinian Medical Relief worker, Wassan would be guiding us to the little town of El Jiftlik.
I had been once before to this small strip of land, caught between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River. That was five years before, during a six-month sabbatical from my dad’s medical practice in an impoverished part of the Appalachian Mountains. That journey stretched all over Europe and parts of the Middle East, with my family and most of my college money. My grandparents (who are archaeologists, writers, and professors) have been to Israel and Palestine over thirty times. The Middle East is a place very close to my family’s heart, and so are the people, both Israeli and Palestinian, Jew and Arab.
For the past four years, my dad has returned to Israel and Palestine, hoping to learn more about the seldom-heard plight of the Palestinians and the increasingly devastating situation in which all who live there find themselves. He has also gone to gather information concerning the consequences of the conflict on rural healthcare and the need the violence has created for humanitarian aid. And he has gone to simply listen. His good friend Doug Brown, who has served as the ethics advisor for Dayspring Family Health Center (for which my dad is a practicing physician and the CEO), has joined him for a few of those trips, and, for the most recent excursion, I found myself fortunate enough to become the third member of the team. One of the purposes of this particular mission was to help build a relationship between the Arab-American community in Knoxville, Tennessee, (and, hopefully, others as well) and the Palestinian Medical Relief Society. This mission led us to the village of El Jiftlik.

The van left the gated confines of the Notre Dame and drove away. To my right, I could see the golden Dome of the Rock, standing emphatically and proudly on the Temple Mount. We left Jerusalem behind, going east into the occupied territory of the West Bank. The Separation Wall stood tall and threatening, a perfect personification of the turmoil and hatred that plague this land. The terrain became harsh and rocky as we descended into the Jordan River Valley, 1,300 feet below sea level. My ears didn’t stop popping until we reached the bottom.
A light haze covered much of the ashen valley. To the south, our right, sat the light blue waters of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on earth. Through the fog it appeared as a mirage, an illusion faintly dancing on the horizon. The blue sky had paled under the veil of the haze, and the land that stretched beneath it seemed to have been washed of any color. To my left I could see the city of Jericho.
We continued on through the desert. Only a few cars accompanied us on this road. For a time, a military jeep hummed in front of our van, a machine gun mounted on its top. Sheep lazily wound through paths in the rocks on the hillsides. In some of the gorges were ancient pick-up trucks, parked next to makeshift homes of cloth and metal sheets. They were the abodes of the shepherds, some of the poorest of the poor.
An hour-and-a-half after we left Jerusalem, Wassan pulled the van off the road to the right. We had arrived, he said. I had barely noticed. I then realized that “village” was a very loose description. A scattering of cinderblock buildings, some of which were decorated with flowery vines, sat nestled beside a chalky hill. A dirt path split El Jiftlik in half, lined on one side by a thin metal wall and on the other by small piles of garbage. In the 104 degree heat, sweat cascaded from my body and my shirt clung to my skin.
As we exited the van and the heat hit us like a wall of fire, children suddenly appeared from the blackness of the naked doorways and raced down the path towards us. They swarmed around us, speaking rapidly to one another in Arabic and pointing excitedly at our cameras. I was carrying my digital camera and a video camera, and the kids gathered around me and peered into the viewfinders of the bizarre little machines and laughed as they saw themselves, frozen in time. They would motion to me, signaling me to photograph them posing in almost every possible locale in the limited space of the town. I learned their names by pointing to myself and saying my name and then nodding towards them. By using this very simplistic form of sign language, I was introduced to Faris, Faras, Nehev, and Hussein. They grabbed us by the hand and led us up the mount behind the houses.
The hill was as rocky as it was chalky. As I watched my feet to keep myself from falling, something on the ground caught my eye. I bent down on one knee to get a better look. The empty shell of a military rifle bullet lay in the midst of the stones, next to the small sprout of a plant. Wassan followed my gaze to the dirt.
“This hill,” he said, “is used for target practice by the Israeli soldiers. They come here to use their guns. They hope to scare the people away. They do not want them here.”
It may have been a weed that was growing next to the bullet casing.
A range of pale mountains rose far across the bronzed valley, dappled with patches of green. A few trees grew in these fields where the Palestinians worked and harvested the fruit and vegetables, which would then be shipped out to Israel and marked with a hefty price in order to be sold back to the Palestinians. Through Wassan, Faris told us he had dropped out of school five years ago to work on the farms in order to help support his family. He is eleven years old now.
El Jiftlik looked even smaller from the height of the hill. I could now see the tops of the buildings which comprised the village. Multiple pieces of tin had been placed across the cinderblocks and were held there by large rocks. The roofs could not be bolted down, Wassan said. If they were, the Israeli soldiers would bulldoze them down. Nothing was allowed to be permanent.
“They do not want them here,” he said again.
Dad followed Wassan down to the clinic beside the road. Dr. Brown and I sat on plastic lawn chairs in front of one of the homes. A lady, robed in black with an ornate shawl covering her head, passed in front of us and smiled broadly, welcoming us to her home. After some time, Faris came out of the house, holding a tray with two small glasses of Arabic coffee, made especially for us by the woman, his mother. This particular coffee is very strong and thick, slowly crawling down your throat as you try to swallow. I had actually come to like its potent taste, and it was made especially for us with loving hospitality.
We found our way down to the clinic. The interior was simple, extremely Spartan. A few filing cabinets and some dilapidated machines rested by the walls. Women and children sat crowded together, waiting to be seen. As I raised my camera, the women’s hands stole quickly upwards to hide their faces. In a dark backroom we met with a lab tech and a doctor, the latter of which knew little English and relied upon his prematurely balding colleague to relate his story. The doctor sat at the table with his hands folded in front of him, occasionally reaching up to scratch his unshaven chin. His father had sent him to study medicine in Russia, and had “taken bread from the family” in order to have the money for his son’s education. While in Russia, he had married and the two had a small child. The doctor returned to his home in the West Bank to care for his people, and has not seen his wife or his daughter since he came back. That was six years ago. The Israeli government will not allow them to immigrate. They want people to leave, not come.
The only constant light available in the room came from a small window in the far wall, casting a square beam on the stained linoleum floor. Every few minutes, the generator beneath the window would roar and hiss, and the lights overhead would flicker, stuttering indecisively before finally illuminating the small space. After a moment or two, our eyes would then be forced to readjust to the dimness as the generator clicked off and the white box on the floor became visible once more. The dial on the voltage meter of the generator, when it was not performing the high jump, predominately hovered around 150 volts, far below the required 220 needed to operate the machine. On most days the medical equipment remains unusable against the walls. The power line connected to El Jiftlik is not very strong, hindered from its use by Israeli soldiers, who will not allow an adequate signal to come through. The lab tech shrugged as he spoke.
“This is our life.”
For most of the ride back, I sat in silence.
As we flew home a few days later, I looked over my sleeping dad and out the window. According to the map on the screen in front of me we were flying over Ireland, whose history has also been burdened with violence and hate. In the darkness below I could see the lights of Limerick and Cork. The world seems at peace from the air.

“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem……for the sake of my brothers and friends, I will say, ‘Peace be within you.’” -Psalm 122:6, 8