It is possible to be different and still be all right.
Peter Shaneb looked just like a vampire—or at least what I imagined one would look like before Twilight ruined my mental picture. Tall, dark, with a widow’s peak and a long salt and pepper ponytail, he was founding a fledgling Christian organization in Jerusalem called The Holy Landers, a name evoking images of medieval knights on crusade.
I met Peter after reading a posting on a Jerusalem Christian message board about lesser- known miraculous Christian sites in the area. As I sat across from him at a little bistro table on the balcony of the old Jerusalem Imperial Hotel, I couldn’t help but notice that he looked resigned, somehow, as if he’d realized only too late that “they” had won. According to Peter, infighting, personal interests, and the financial, emotional, and physical stress of life under military occupation had sapped the community of its critical mass. Slowly but surely, the Palestinian Christian community was dying out.
The total number of Palestinian Christians remaining in the Holy Land is estimated to represent between 40,000 and 90,000 people in the West Bank and Gaza, with a further 144,000 to 200,000 inside of Israel. Descendants of the first Christians, the once-robust Palestinian Christian community has dwindled to endangered status, with the majority living abroad. Still, despite the relatively low percentage of Palestinians who are Christian (about one in seventy-five), Peter still found it astonishing that relatively few Western Christians seemed to know about their community at all. Even worse, some (including the same tourists who aimed their cameras down from their giant tour busses, slumming for a few hours in Bethlehem) considered this group of Christians irrelevant, a bump on the road of a prophecy that said that the future of the world and the Second Coming of Jesus depended upon the triumph of Israel.
The question of whether the descendants of the first Christian disciples deserved to survive in the Holy Land seemed far less important than the success of the Jewish State, and that was an idea that indigenous Christians like Peter felt they could not embrace for obvious reasons.
It was Peter, struggling to start his own Christian organization, actually, more of a kind of social club, aimed at convincing the younger generation to stay around the country, who told me that if I was looking for an interesting, creepy, miraculous Christian story, I should check with another, larger organization in Jerusalem called Sabeel.
That’s when I heard about the dead body.
Omar Haramy, a young Palestinian Christian, welcomed me into his office at Sabeel’s Jerusalem headquarters. This organization was co-founded by Palestinian Christians and endorsed by Desmond Tutu to challenge the idea that Palestinians (Muslim and Christian) were doomed to continue this occupation according to the “will of God.” It also supported continued non-violent resistance to the Israeli occupation.
Sabeel was a growing organization, with chapters in eleven Western countries, including the United States. Its goal was to support the local Christian community, educate the world about the plight of the Palestinian people and, according to Omar, “get in the way” of the occupation.
Obviously used to visitors of a more political bent, Omar nonetheless was happy to give me some suggestions about some of the more unusual Christian sites around the country. Ticking off the obvious places, his eyes suddenly lit up. “Well, there’s the monastery in Al Lud, where St. George was tortured to death. They still have the chains, which they say are miraculous!” Then, he said, much like an afterthought, “Of course, there’s the miracle of the murdered priest up in Nablus…”
“What was that all about?” I interrupted, leaning forward in my chair.
“There was this priest who was a caretaker up at Jacob’s Well in Nablus. Well, there were some settlers there who got mad because they wanted the site, so they killed him with an ax. Anyway, the cool thing is that his body is still there, looking the same as the day he died.”
“And when did he die, Omar?” I asked.
“Oh, I think something like thirty years ago,” he replied with a grin.
Nablus is located in the northern West Bank. It’s one of the cities in the Holy Land outside of Jerusalem and Bethlehem that still has a sizeable Christian population, as well as being the only surviving community of Samaritans. It has tons of history and an ancient vaulted market that rivals Jerusalem’s. It was also reported to have the best Kanefe—a baked confection consisting of a layer of sweet, locally produced cheese, buttery dough, and hot, sugary syrup—in the entire region. I decided to go, regardless of the fact that this was probably going to be a frivolous jaunt.
For some women, I think many, little decisions are never made because it is just too much trouble to explain the urge to do them. One of the great things about being in Palestine, though—maybe the best thing—was the fact that I could choose to go wherever I wanted without explaining myself to anyone, and if I really had to, it was usually only after I returned, fait accompli. Surprisingly, though, it seemed that now that the family and I really started to know each other, I began to look forward to telling them about my plans—because they seemed to actually be starting to get me.
Before visiting Nablus, though, was the first time that I really told the family in advance where I was going: Why, to see a dead body in a church, of course! And this time they didn’t bat an eyelash. Although it probably didn’t hurt that I promised to bring them back some Nablus Kanefe…
The road to Nablus from Jerusalem is hilly and marked by sweeping green pastures and winding roads. Unfortunately, it also had one of the most notorious and volatile checkpoints in Palestine just outside of the city of Huwwara.
Because it was one of the larger checkpoints, located in an area dotted with Israeli settlements and patrols, I knew that getting through probably wouldn’t be an easy or pleasant experience, so I was pretty nervous once I neared the omnipresent warning signs that led up to it. Still, I expected that after the usual paperwork check, the soldiers would finally let me through, just as they had at the other two checkpoints on the way. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be that easy.
Approaching the checkpoint, I stopped the car at a concrete barrier designed to protect the soldiers manning the post from bullets, bombs, or any shady behavior from the natives.
“Your car…” said the soldier, pointing to the license plate at the front of my Polo, “It is an Israeli car. It can’t go inside Nablus…Momnooh, momnooh,” he laughed, using the one Arabic word that seemed to be a part of virtually every checkpoint soldier’s linguistic repertoire: forbidden. This was as ridiculous as one could imagine. However, there were several places in the occupied territories that had this frustrating and incomprehensible rule. I just wished I’d thought to ask someone if Huwwara was one of them.
On one level, I could understand the supposed logic behind disallowing Palestinian cars inside Jerusalem and Israeli towns—it keeps out “the Arabs” (whether that meant it kept out the terrorists, the non-Jews, or the riffraff depended upon personal interpretation). But this odd reversal of the rule—supposedly to protect innocent Israeli citizens from driving into places like Nablus and getting into trouble (or much worse) was complete and clear bullshit. Jewish Israelis weren’t exactly begging to drive their cars into downtown Nablus. Instead it was Israeli-Palestinians who were effectively barred from entering non-Israeli towns freely.
Shit, I thought. I’ve come all this way for nothing. There was no doubt about it. I would have to be brave, leave my car behind, and use my Arabic to its fullest capacity to brave Huwarra’s public transportation. Yes, and I would do it, I vowed. But, as I was to find out, that was no small thing.
I parked my car in a small, fenced area that I hoped would be safe and I crossed through a walking security checkpoint. I passed through a long, chain-link chute and emerged into a huge, noisy melee of crowds, honking taxis, and men shouting destinations in the city that I had no chance of comprehending. Always finding it better to ask women for directions, I hurried over to a small group of college-aged girls and asked them the way to the city center taxis. There, I found one and settled into it with another woman, happily waiting for enough other passengers for us to depart.
Now, I normally have a better sense of social responsibility, such as waiting for my turn, etc. But there was something about this country on both sides of the Green Line that made embracing its residents’ seemingly general disregard for lines and common courtesy uncommonly easy. So, when my co-passenger brought up the bright-idea to jump taxi and make for the next one with only two passengers till take-off, I happily made for the new car, full of passengers, idling, and ready to go. Ah. That’s better. I smiled at my seatmate, and she winked at me in response.
Funny how it only takes a second for smugness to evaporate, though. As soon as the first, now jilted driver spotted us—his lost prey—he sprinted over to the taxi, ripped open the driver’s door mid-acceleration, and hauled the man out like a light sack of potatoes. The car shuddered to a sudden stall.
Thankfully, and as usual in the West Bank, other men intervened before an all-out brawl could ensue, pulling the two drivers apart and forcing a quick reconciliation. With additional problems averted, the driver returned to the car, pulled out a cigarette, and screeched out of the lot, cursing the other driver loudly out the window.
Although my Arabic had been steadily improving, I still wasn’t confident that I could navigate a new city with my linguistic handicap, no map, no car of my own, and—as I was just realizing in the car as we neared the city center—no cell phone. Uh oh. Even my phone’s SIM card was “Israeli” and wouldn’t function in Nablus. Still, there had to be a way to find Father Ibrahim, who, according to Omar, would be happy to point me the way to the church at Jacob’s well and introduce me its resident priest.
After I got out in the city center, I calculated my next move. I didn’t have a lot of time, and I certainly didn’t want to go back through Huwwara at night, so I decided to find the fastest way to locate Father Ibrahim. Hunt down another Christian—and to do that, all I’d have to do was look for a sign…
People in the Holy Land love symbols of who they are. Golden Stars of David, Western and Eastern Crosses, and Quranic verses adorned the necks of the faithful (and the not-so-faithful) like nobody’s business, to say nothing of the clothing styles that clearly identified the religion, and even politics, of the wearer.
Even the buildings often bore the mark of the owner or developer’s religion or politics somewhere—from door plaques to traditional and funky mezuzahs and flags (Israeli towns make post 9/11 America look positively flagless in comparison). In Nablus, as well as in other Palestinian towns, this usually meant that finding a Christian Palestinian was about as easy as looking for the figure of St. George, the patron saint of Palestine, always on his steed, slaying a dragon in carved-stone relief upon the lintels of their homes and businesses.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to walk far from where I’d gotten out of the taxi until I spotted George and his dragon adorning a small shop just off the main road, and I hurried over to what seemed to be a commercial tailor’s shop. I walked in and approached a middle-aged woman sitting behind a large desk.
“Marhaba,” I said, switching from my usual Salaam to the religiously neutral Arabic greeting. “I’m not from here…could you tell me where I could find the church of Father Ibrahim?”
I must have seemed more than odd. A foreign Muslim woman asking to see a priest in butchered Arabic? It’s not like you encounter that every day in Nablus!
“Ahlain, Welcome,” she answered, rising from behind the desk and walking around to get a better look at me.
She was middle-aged, short-haired and wearing slacks and a scoop-necked sweater, and she carried herself in the classy, confident, almost Sophia Loren-ish way I’d learned to associate with older Christian-Arab women. It was a blend of intelligence, pride, and attractive self-assurance (usually coupled with an excellent fashion sense), which came easier to these women. It distinguished them from their younger sisters, who seemed to prefer a more, shall we say, Fredericks of Hollywood style of dress.
“Where are you from?” she asked, introducing the usual litany of questions that my foreign demeanor always evoked—Why was I there? Where I did I live? Why did I want to see Father Ibrahim? (whom, thankfully, she knew.) Perhaps most important, was I married or not?
I did my best to answer her as quickly as I could, and though she still looked confused by me, and a little dubious about just what I was after, she carefully explained the directions to Father Ibrahim’s church, which I wrote down quickly in transliterated Arabic, and headed out again on my way.
By the time I tracked down Father Ibrahim using the woman’s directions, it was becoming late afternoon, and I was desperate to see the “miracle” body before I had to cut the day short and call the trip a bust. I still had three checkpoints to cross to get back home, and miles of windy, hilly roads through settler country.
Happily, Father Ibrahim understood my predicament, and after serving me the obligatory tea (and asking me the same questions as the dry cleaning lady), wasted no time in directing me to the site, which was in a much larger, and older walled church compound called Bir Yacoub, Arabic for Jacob’s Well—thankfully, just down the road from where he lived.
Bir Yacoub is the site which Biblical Jacob purchased and camped on more than two thousand years ago. Today, a large, beautiful church is built over the deep well, which is situated in a cave-like crypt under the sanctuary floor. The well itself was definitely unusual, and when I peered down into its dark depths, I could clearly see the surface of the water, seemingly not more than twenty feet down. But when I threw in a coin, it took a full five seconds for it to hit the surface. It was then that the guard who took me down to the well told me “off the record” that the place is haunted. In fact, according to him, the water recently bubbled up to the rim clean and pure, at exactly the same moment the rest of the area’s water supply became mysteriously tainted. Poisoned, he said…
Pretty cool story, I thought.
But, as I explained to him, I’d come to see the body.
A few steps up and out of the crypt and over to the right of the nave lay Archimandrite Philoumenos, the Greek Orthodox caretaker of the church, meters from where they found his body by the well, and only a week after a settler group had come to claim the site as a Jewish holy place. Although the killers were never convicted, the belief remained that it was a political/religious murder.
That was what got him there, encased in a glass box and on display for eternity. I did wonder if I was missing something, though, because the body was clearly decomposed—broken skull and all. Maybe I was lacking a certain faithfulness in my eyes, but all I saw was just another victim. It wasn’t miraculous, or even inspiring. It was just a sad reminder of all those who have been murdered in what seemed to be an ageless—and hopeless—fight over holy land.
I hurried out, but not before getting a recommendation for the best Kanafe joint in town, where I bought ten kilos to go and headed back to Huwwara.
Thankfully, I make it back to the village without incident. I was exhausted, but proud of myself for going. Whether the well was miraculous or not, I didn’t know (although I’d like to think so), and the dead priest on display was damn depressing. But one thing was for sure—something seemed to shift to the positive after the trip, as if I’d gained some sort of pilgramatic mojo.
Whatever the reason, my family crowded around in the living room when I got home—even my father-in-law! They were very curious about the details of my visit, listening intently to my story, and happily devouring the Kanafe. Clearly, they were adjusting to my trips out of Safa. In fact, the next time I returned to the village at night, following another evening visit to the Temple Mount with the kids, their only response was a demand from my sisters-in-law to take them along the next time.
To my surprise, no one resisted the idea, and I realized that the family’s definition of what was acceptable for women might just be changing—a miracle to rival anything else I’d seen yet on my visits out and about in the Holy Land!