He that gives should not remember, he that receives should never forget
The Talmud
For the next week, I travelled with Mishael over the central Jordanian highlands, usually just picking up lifts at the roadside and hitchhiking from town to town and village to village. We passed by the old Christian city of Madaba, with its Byzantine church and mosaics; we wandered around the ruins of the old Crusader castle at Shobak, and ate with shepherds in the Wadi Dana. We trekked past the tomb of Moses at Mount Nebo and looked down at the Dead Sea from the Mujib escarpment. The blue skies had now darkened with storm clouds and a distant thunder rumbled to the west. It was a timely reminder that winter was upon us, and the further north I travelled, the colder it had become.
We were in the second week of December now, and Christmas was almost here. The hills of the Holy Land shimmered in the distance on the far side of the lifeless lake. It was almost time to leave Arabia behind and enter the Levant. I was excited to be in a land of so much history; a place so vivid in my own imagination and one that I’d dreamt of returning to for such a long time.
I remembered my school nativity play again and my inauspicious introduction to the Middle East as the back end of a donkey, and allowed myself a little silent chuckle. I’d almost made it, I thought to myself.
‘Yalla,’ said Mishael. ‘I want to see the Dead Sea.’
I’d promised him a night in a hotel. After camping out and staying in caves for so long, I wanted a shower, and down on the Dead Sea there was not much choice of accommodation apart from five-star hotels anyway, so I thought I’d treat him to a bit of luxury. Mishael hadn’t stayed in any of his own country’s resorts before, so for him it was an entertaining treat. He took great pleasure in wearing his Bedu dishdasha and headscarf and for once in his life feeling equal in wealth to the rich Arab holidaymakers.
‘I feel like a sheikh,’ he said to me over dinner, swilling some red wine with abandon, although he couldn’t bring himself to ask the waiter for anything personally, and looked to me when he wanted to order more food and drink.
The highlight of Mishael’s holiday, though, was donning a pair of board shorts and bathing in the Dead Sea like all the other tourists.
We made our way after that to the capital, Amman, where I spent a week or so making final preparations for the onward journey. There were still some logistical complications in store. I had no idea how I would get from Israel into Lebanon, since the border was closed, but I needed to ask around for local advice. The political situation had suddenly become more tricky, after President Donald Trump announced that he was going to move the US embassy in Israel from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.
I watched news bulletins of protestors lining the streets in Gaza and the West Bank as riots erupted along the Palestinian borders. There was every chance of a renewed conflict. The situation in Syria was as bad as ever, and I’d heard some horror stories of kidnappings and murders in Lebanon, too. It made me realise that my journey was far from over, but I promised myself to push all that to the back of my mind, at least until I’d made it to Bethlehem and celebrated Christmas.
On 22 December I left Amman behind, saying goodbye to Mishael. We promised to remain friends, and despite his illiteracy, he added me on Facebook and we continued to communicate with the sole use of emojis. I travelled west through the green plantations along the River Jordan and the next day at dawn crossed the famous Allenby Bridge over the biblical river and into the ancient land of Palestine.
Just to set the record straight, before I continue, I’m calling it Palestine because that’s what the vast majority of people who live in the West Bank call it. Technically, I was in the State of Palestine, or the Occupied Palestinian Territory as the International Court of Justice refers to it, and big red signs warned Israelis against entering. In fact, it was against the law for an Israeli to even enter the ‘red zones’; if they did they could face death. The border was manned by Israeli Defence Force soldiers, however, and to all intents and purposes, and from an Israeli government standpoint, I was in Israel.
Despite the dire warnings that I’d be questioned for hours, and my passport would be ruined by the presence of an Israeli stamp, I was waved into the country by a very friendly and helpful Jewish soldier, who also happened to be a very beautiful girl in her mid-twenties, armed with an automatic weapon and some lethal lip gloss.
On the far side of customs, I was free to hitchhike down the road to Qasr al-Yahud, the baptismal site of Jesus. To navigate the complexities of this most controversial bit of land in the world, I knew I’d need to get the inside track from a local. I’d asked around when I was in Jordan and been recommended a guy named Saleh, and so I’d agreed to meet him at the place where Jesus was baptised by John the Baptist, 2,017 years ago.
The place was thronging with Christian pilgrims from all over the world: Americans, Russians, Filipinos, Nigerians and hordes of Chinese. They’d all come for one thing – to pay their devotions to the holy water of the River Jordan, now a mere trickle draining through a murky swamp. There were a handful of bored Israeli soldiers supervising the scene, but the pilgrims were busily dipping themselves in the fetid ponds and splashing the filthy water all over themselves, oblivious to their Jewish guards.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they caught bilharzia,’ came a voice out of the crowd. I turned around to see a man about my own age, with a long beard and wearing thick glasses. He had an American accent and as I shook his hand, I noticed several fingers were missing.
‘I’m Saleh,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, though. I respect their devotion and their right to come here and pray. I believe that Jesus was here and that it was the place that John baptised him, I’m just genuinely concerned for all these poor people’s health. They’ve come a long way, and I’d be very upset if they came to my country and caught some nasty disease from this foul river.’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, welcome to Palestine, you are my guest. I’d be delighted to show you around, but I’m guessing since it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, you want to get to Bethlehem?’
I told him that I did.
‘And you like to walk?’
‘Funnily enough, I do,’ I said.
‘Good, so do I. We’ll walk to Bethlehem from Jericho,’ he said. ‘Yalla.’
We drove the thirty minutes to Jericho, and it was a reminder of the tiny distances involved in getting anywhere in the Holy Land. I’d been used to travelling hundreds of miles a day in Saudi Arabia and walking for eight hours a day in Jordan, but here everything was so close together, I thought it would be a shame not to walk between all the holy sites. It occurred to me to get a donkey to help carry my kit, but then I realised that might be a bit blasphemous. And anyway, my primary school nativity play had put me off them a long time ago. From a distance, I saw the ruins of Jericho and wanted desperately to see them.
‘We’ll come back and explore properly in a few days,’ said Saleh. ‘But if you want to get to Bethlehem by Christmas, then we should set off.’
I didn’t want to rush and miss seeing more of the West Bank. There was a whole miniature nation to explore, places with such historical importance and current relevance, like Hebron, Nablus and of course, Jericho; yet at the same time I knew that I couldn’t miss Christmas in the place that the world’s biggest religion was born. We agreed to go and spend a few days in Bethlehem, and then come back to see more of Palestine, before heading to Jerusalem and beyond that into Israel itself, later on in the New Year.
So we went to a little supermarket on the outskirts of the town and stocked up on some provisions for the forty-kilometre walk. As we left the outskirts of Jericho, the suburbs soon gave way to low brown hills that were bare and windswept.
‘This is the start of the Judean Desert,’ said Saleh, wrapping his shemagh tightly around his neck to keep the chill away. ‘It’s where Jesus spent his forty days and forty nights in temptation.’
I looked around. There wasn’t much temptation going on here these days, that’s for sure. The undulating mounds seemed to roll on forever. The landscape was bleak and empty, something resembling an abandoned quarry, filled with scars and long-lost excavations, and yet … there was magic in the air. I could almost smell the roast turkey wafting over the mountains.
‘The last bit is also the route that Mary and Joseph would have taken from Nazareth, so we’re taking a well-trodden path,’ said my guide.
Looking around, it certainly didn’t feel that way. We’d crossed a main road earlier in the day, but other than a few dusty old military tracks, we walked along the stony footpaths that were now followed only by Bedu shepherds and the occasional pilgrim.
‘Not many people come here on foot anymore,’ said Saleh. ‘The Christians come in big coaches from Jerusalem for a day trip with armed guards to see Bethlehem and some of the churches, but most people are too scared to take the trails and walk. It’s a shame, because it’s safe here … as long as you don’t get involved in politics.’
‘Let’s leave that till after Christmas,’ I suggested. Saleh smiled and nodded in agreement. And so we walked in a straight line across the desert, simply enjoying the silence and the gravel beneath our feet.
There’s something revitalising about just walking. I’d realised it in Jordan, and I knew that there was only one way to enter Bethlehem and that was on foot. My mind was clear and full of excitement about reaching the Holy City. I’d invited my parents to come and visit for Christmas. My brother, Pete, was coming too, along with a few other friends. I’m not religious, but I still like to go to church at Christmas and spend it with my family and I knew it would be a dream come true for my mum and dad, and it would be good to socialise with people I’d sorely missed.
The plan was to celebrate Christmas in Bethlehem, and then travel together to Jerusalem and reach Tel Aviv a week later in time for New Year. After months on the roads, I was ready for a party and what better way to bring in 2018?
That night we reached a steep gorge inside Wadi Kidron, and on the far side I saw the silhouette of the monastery of Mar Saba, a fifth-century church that resembled a Tolkienesque fantasy fortress. It was made all the more enigmatic by the tolling of bells and distant chanting of monks. It was too late to cross the valley and reach the monastery that night, so instead I suggested sleeping in a cave overlooking the river that crashed through the mountains below.
‘It used to be an old hermit’s cave,’ said Saleh, as we climbed through a hole in the rock. He seemed reluctant and insisted on putting up his tent inside the cave, even though it was covered from the elements.
‘There’s snakes and scorpions here,’ he said. I told him that it was too cold for them at this time of year, but he was having none of it. I unfurled my roll mat and sleeping bag and laid down on the bare rock. We were sheltered well enough, but later that night after the fire died down, the temperature dropped to freezing and the wind bellowed across the valley. A solitary candle light glowed from a window in the monastery. Despite being far from home, I felt a smile creep across my face in the blackness of the night. I imagined the Holy Family two thousand years ago, also crossing the Judean Desert, heading towards what was then a small provincial town, sleeping in caves along the way.
Even now, little has changed. Perhaps Mary and Joseph slept here, or maybe the three kings as they travelled from the East. I gazed across the Kidron Valley and looked up into the night sky. The moon shone through a silver cloud and as I peered further, straining my eyes, the stars began to erupt, one by one. One in particular stood out, to the south-west, some interstellar luminary glowing brightly. I had no idea what it was called, but maybe, just maybe it was the star of Christmas.
We woke at dawn to a cold chill and the drizzle of light rain. Heavy clouds filled the sky and Saleh and I were in agreement that we shouldn’t hang around.
‘Let’s cross the valley and get to Bethlehem,’ he said. The footpath wended its way down the cliffside towards the great walls of the monastery, which now at six a.m. was deadly silent. I had for some reason expected the monks to be up and about doing their prayers, but the enormous wooden gates were firmly shut as we passed. I was hoping to drop in for a cup of tea, but nobody answered.
‘It’s a Sunday,’ said Saleh. ‘Even monks need a lie-in.’
So we carried on up the other side of the valley, following a trail that led to a dirt track, which in turn led to a paved road. From the top of the hill the first houses came into sight – they were the outskirts of Bethlehem. We’d made it.
As we got closer, the suburbs closed in and I noticed the spires of churches and the minarets of mosques vying for the skyline. There were domes, pylons and palm trees competing with a jumble of electricity lines and water towers. Most of the city was grey, plain and filled with concrete and breeze-block apartments, and yet here and there were flashes of colour: bright green painted walls, golden roofs and red terraces.
Probably the most vibrant of all, though, were the profusion of murals covering the walls of the town. It seemed that every square inch had been used to make political statements; of which the most well-known, of course, were the murals of Banksy – the infamous graffiti artist, who had a particular interest in promoting Palestine. The side of an industrial-looking warehouse was covered in one of his most thought-provoking pieces – a huge spray-painted figure of a masked protestor throwing a vase of flowers.
But I’d already decided to leave off the political stuff until I’d had a chance to see my parents, and anyway, it was Christmas Eve, and there were other things on my mind.
Saleh led me through the streets of the city, up steep hills into the very centre of town, where crowds were already beginning to gather. It was lunchtime now and as we headed to Manger Square, Saleh managed to push past the beefed-up security forces, flashing a press card to try to keep me out of trouble. After all, I had a big rucksack and a big beard, and that combination doesn’t go down that well with Israeli soldiers.
I’d sent my parents a message to ask them to meet me in Manger Square, the spiritual heart of Bethlehem, where a huge Christmas tree took centre stage, right next to the Church of the Nativity. We fought through the massing crowds that were flanked with stalls and vendors selling Santa Claus hats and inflatable reindeer. It resembled a funfair more than a holy city. Everywhere there were flashing neon signs advertising Coca-Cola; baubles and bunting dangled from every street sign and the whole place had a kitsch, moneymaking feel.
It wasn’t what I’d expected at all. Pickpockets and hawkers riddled the crowds and swarthy men with cropped beards whispered as we passed, offering drugs and money exchange. On one level, it felt like the last days of Sodom and Gomorrah and yet, despite the awfulness of the in-your-face commercialism, once you looked beyond the blow-up snowmen and candy-floss machines towards the church itself, I was reminded why everyone was here.
I resigned myself to the theatrics and sat down with Saleh to enjoy a mulled wine.
‘Hello, son.’ I looked up. My mum, dad and brother Pete were standing in front of me, along with Dave, Simon, Tom, Ali, Janessa, Lian and my old walking partner, who’d come all the way from Mexico, Alberto. It was suddenly a right old reunion. I felt abashed that I might have brought my parents to a place that sat dearly in their Church of England parish imaginations and ruined the illusion. If I had, they showed no signs of showing it.
‘Lovely to be here, son. How’s your trip been?’
I hadn’t seen my family in months, and suddenly here were all my mates, too. I was almost moved to tears by the fact that people had travelled halfway around the world so that we could spend it together.
‘Great, thanks,’ I said. Now wasn’t the time to go into detail. If we wanted to find a space inside the church, we had to move quickly.
I dropped my bag at a nearby hotel and changed into some semi-fresh clothes, although I had only a pair of walking boots, and I felt rather scruffy entering one of the holiest religious sites in the world dressed as a rambler.
Saleh, who was nominally Muslim, said that he wouldn’t be joining me in the Church of the Nativity, but we agreed to meet in a couple of days, whereupon we’d travel to Hebron and Jericho before crossing into Jerusalem, and he handed me over to a local Arab Christian named Fadi, who had secured my group access into the church itself – a process that takes months to organise.
‘We’ve got the best spot in the house,’ said the young man, who led us through the throngs and into the main entrance, which was a tiny wooden door that led into a stone porch, where security scanners blocked the way. We were unceremoniously patted down and searched by armed sentries. The queue filed around the block, but Fadi was well known to the guards and pushed us all right to the front. The Englishman in me reeled at such impolite behaviour, especially at Christmas, but Fadi insisted it was the only way to get inside on the busiest night of the year.
‘Everyone is waiting for the Pope,’ he said, referring to the Orthodox Pope Tawadros II of the Archdiocese of Jerusalem. All around, hundreds of devotees stood huddled together under the shining golden chandeliers. The church was split in two, with the Catholic part on one side and the Orthodox, Armenian section on the other. There was hardly room to move, but Fadi pulled us deeper and deeper into the crowds, until we reached a tiny doorway at the heart of the church, where some ancient steps led to a dark grotto.
‘Follow me,’ he whispered. Our group held each other’s hands so that we didn’t get lost in the hordes. ‘Watch your head,’ he warned us. I ducked as we passed through the passage and down the narrow corridor to a small cave. This was what we’d come for.
The cavity was tiny and packed with pilgrims, monks in robes and nuns. There seemed to be lots of youngsters – perhaps they were the only ones able to sustain the intense heat and humidity of the rarefied atmosphere. They were all chatting and singing and praying, not at all in unison. There was still an hour and a half to go till midnight when the mass would start, but Fadi told us to hold our ground, so we formed a solid circle right next to the stone where Jesus was supposed to have been born in a manger. I looked up at the blackened roof of the cave, and it was very much a cave, and not the wooden stable of the type you see on Christmas cards.
We waited and waited, watching as more and more people filed in and crushed themselves up against each other. It was hot and sweaty, but even my father, who isn’t the most patient of people, seemed to be enjoying himself. And when the clock struck midnight and a procession of priests came in to light the candles and lead the hymns, a sense of electric harmony seemed to fill the room. My dad got down on one knee and restated his wedding vows to my mother. Everyone hugged each other and wished complete strangers a Merry Christmas. I knew for my parents it was a lifetime ambition fulfilled, and for me, too, this signified perhaps the biggest reward of my journey.
I was with family, friends and surrounded by happiness and love. I knew that this would be a moment I’d remember forever. Later, we spilled out into the perfect night and drank wine and shared stories into the early hours. The next day we all went out, joined by Fadi and his family, for Christmas lunch at a restaurant overlooking the shepherds’ fields. There wasn’t any turkey on the menu here, and we had to resort to rice and deep-fried chicken drumsticks, but none of that mattered. We laughed and joked and wore silly Santa hats and got very drunk on local wine.
For all the hardships I’d been through over the last months, everything was worth it – the risks, the hunger, the endless deserts and fear of kidnap. For a moment nothing else mattered, and even home didn’t seem so far away now. I was almost on the final leg of my journey and it was easy to forget that I was in the middle of one of the most controversial and fought-over places on the planet. As we drank wine and laughed at Alberto’s tales, dark political clouds were forming on the horizon.
Only a few days before, Donald Trump had announced that the US embassy was to be relocated from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, effectively declaring Jerusalem as the official capital of Israel. The protests had already begun, and in the towns and villages of the West Bank and Gaza, thousands of Palestinians were preparing for a fight, and the Israelis were also readying themselves for war. There was talk of a new intifada, or Palestinian uprising, and in the corner of the restaurant the newsreels played out familiar scenes of violence and death. It was a harsh reminder that death and destruction were never far away in the Holy Land, and I knew that trouble lay in store.