Jerusalem, The Holy City

     So there I was in Jerusalem! I suppose most people would love to go there at some point in their lives, and I too was happy to be there, and to have such an experience before I had even turned 40 (I was still in my mid thirties, which now seems like a baby!), but I was starting to get really pooped out! I was on the adventure of my life and here I was, completely exhausted! But, as my beloved J would often say, "You can rest when you're dead." Or maybe that was "rest when you get back home" and "sleep all you want when you're dead." Whatever. So, once we were dropped off at ASOR, we went in, said our hellos to the staff, and found our room. I might have sat down for one minute (probably on the toilet, which is sometimes a good place to just sit and rest, and because I could seeing how these were western toilets!). But alas, there was only so much time, and lots to see, so off we went!
     

     ASOR is situated in the Muslim section of Jerusalem, which having just arrived from Jordan, made me feel right at home as we ventured out into the streets. Not too much new too quickly. But for those of you waiting for me to begin a diatribe about how holy and godly the whole place was, here's the thing -- I know that many tourists (millions maybe?) go to Jerusalem every year because it's supposed to be one of THE most holy cities in the world. For Christians, for Muslims, and for Jews. And I'm certain that it once was and still is, I guess, but in all honesty (and it scares me to be this honest, and has even caused me a bit of writer's block), I never felt its "holiness." Not once. I felt, instead, its lack (or loss) of holiness. Maybe this was because I was tired. Maybe I was in some sort of culture shock and my system was on sensory overload. Maybe it was because I was a new convert and didn't have the right attitude. I don't know. I WAS fascinated, though, if that counts.  We walked all around the area we were staying in that first evening before heading back to our room. We even "toured" the ASOR complex, which was exciting as well, as some very famous 20th century archaeologists have stayed there. Let me just drop some names right here, as I was feeling closer to them than to God (at least for the time being): William Foxworth Albright, Nelson Glueck, Cab Calloway, Hershel Shanks, Bill Dever, Al Hoerth, Larry Stager, John Pinkerton, Eric and Carol Myers. I'm leaving out lots of people, both dead and living, I know, but, like I said, I'm no archaeologist, so I'm impressed with myself that I know the names of even these (plus, I'm using the term "famous" loosely, as you may or may not be guessing). But most of these esteemed men and women have passed through these same doors and have eaten and slept in this same place. And here I was! I even had the most delightful chat with Bill Dever's ex-wife one morning out in the courtyard. She had much to say about her ex, and though I see she's currently typing up his manuscripts and papers for him again, at that time she had very little nice to say about him! (You know, all the other women and all. Typical egomaniacal male prowess.) And besides, Bill Dever's an ex-Church of Christ guy (his dad was a preacher) who became so disillusioned with Christianity that he almost single-handedly dispelled the notion of "Biblical Archaeology," though he had to retract a little of what he said since both interest in archaeology and funding by church people began drying up.  Jerk! Okay, enough of that! All of that was my own interpretation anyway (I'm thinking I need to say that for legal protection. I don't know.) What I'm really doing here is putting off the inevitable explanation as to why I didn't like Jerusalem all that much once I got there. And yes, I was a little mad that I couldn't feel all that impressed by it!

     Here's what I saw: I saw lots and lots of people, everywhere. Up and down the streets, Arabs, Israelis, European Jews, New York City Jews, tourists, "pilgrims." And I saw an ancient city built on top of an even more ancient city, now quartered off by different religious sects. In the Christian Quarter I heard voices whispering that under this glass lay a piece of the cross that Jesus was crucified on, while a piece of the stone that sealed his tomb lay under another; In the Jewish Quarter I saw men and women, who were separated by gender, placing their prayers on folded paper into the cracks and crevices of a wall, tears streaming down their faces as they cried for a Deliverer, mourning the destruction of the Temple Mount, or who knows what, some with phylacteries wrapped around their arms and foreheads, reminding them to stay close to the law; I stepped over vendors' wares as they were lined up and down the Damascus Gate, selling everything from food to underwear to hats to jewelry to cheap souvenirs; J and I bartered with a shopkeeper for an olive wood nativity set and a silver Jerusalem cross as we walked along the Via Dolorosa where we were followed by young Arab boys who wanted to "give" us tours. (One kid over at the Mount of Olives even wanted me to pay him for an olive leaf he had handed me, but I flung it back at him, telling him he could just keep it!)

    Back inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre my nose and lungs were filled with the smells of body odor, mixed with the smoke of lighted candles and incense that hung thick in the air, as people stood in long lines, shoving and yelling, or else whispering and praying their rosaries quietly, crying as they knelt beside erected shrines made of gilded saints. In the Muslim Quarter, the Dome of the Rock was closed off due to recent Israeli and Arab conflicts, so that no one was allowed to visit, as there had been "trouble" of some sort earlier. We could see the renovated cupola of the Mosque of Omar, gleaming gold with the pride of King Hussein, Protector of the Holy Shrines, the place where Mohammad ascended into heaven, and the hill where Abraham took Isaac to be sacrificed. While outside the Damascus Gate I saw soldiers lined up, cocking their guns in preparation for a trip to Gaza. Everywhere outside the walls of the Old City I saw guns. I have experienced so much more holiness in so many other places I have been, and while I wanted to experience it here, and so many people seemed to be able to, I just couldn't! All I could think of were the words of Jesus (Mathew 23:37 and Luke 19:41-44) who wept as he looked out over the city, "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem! How I have longed to gather you up like chicks to a hen, but you were not willing. If you in your turn had only understood on this day the message of peace! But, alas, it is hidden from your eyes!" And that was what I felt. Separation, sorrow, and discord.

Crossing the Border into Israel

     During the dig Dr. Mare gave the volunteer workers one long weekend off, so J and I took advantage of it to make a quick trip to Israel. While we were in Amman the weekend before, we had gotten our visas (at the consulate over by the multi-storied mall complex), as we would not be entering from the US, and so were set to go the following weekend. I cannot begin to say how excited I was to make this journey, though I was a little scared as well. We were going to cross the Jordanian/Israeli border at the Allenby Bridge (though why we did not cross further north at Beit She'an, or the Peace Bridge, is beyond me), and there was trouble brewing in Israel, as there so often is. I had heard stories about how the Israelis often pulled individuals aside and questioned them as to where exactly they were going in Israel and what they planned on doing, and why. I had heard of people getting stuck at the border for days while their passports and luggage were both taken from them. I also knew that we were not allowed to take any pictures at the border. I felt unbelievably queezy about leaving Jordan, where I had begun to feel somewhat safe and comfortable. But still, bible studies had taught me to think of Israel as the promised land, the land of milk and honey, the land God had promised the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (Deuteronomy 34:1-6) when he chose Moses to lead them out of Egypt, though God never allowed Moses to go in because of his arrogance and disobedience. Fortunately, God did allow Moses to see it from Mt. Nebo in Jordan, where years later I also would catch a glimpse of the panoramic view of the Promised Land.  But now here I was, fearful that I, too, might not be allowed in! What is your destination? Jerusalem. Where will you be staying? At the American School of Oriental Research (ASOR), in the Old City. For how long? Three days. For what reason are you visiting Israel? We're tourists. What were you doing in Jordan? We're on an archaeology dig. We got some time off. Do you want your passport stamped? No, thank you; we will be returning to Jordan. Had we had them stamped, we would not have been allowed to reenter Jordan, nor would we have ever been allowed into Syria (who still refuses to recognize Israel as a nation, and while we weren't certain our travels would ever lead us there, we were hopeful, and one never knows anyway what the future holds in store), and so, instead, we opted to have a single piece of paper stamped and slipped in between the pages of our passports. This, I felt regret over, as mine eventually got lost, and to this day, after many trips to Israel, I still have no actual "proof" that I have ever been there except for pictures I have taken and souvenirs I have purchased. (I have never entered from there, but have always crossed over into Israel from Jordan, and have always left by way of Jordan or Eilat, Egypt.)

    Surprisingly (at least to some), was that the Israeli and Palestinian flags were both flying high at the border crossing, which indicated that some headway was being made in regards to their peace treaties, though much remained unsettled (as it still does today!). Peace talks had begun in 1991 in Oslo, and in 1993 Israel and the PLO had announced their agreement to negotiate Palestinian autonomy in the West Bank and the Jericho area, as well as the Gaza Strip, though still by 1994 Israel had yet to fully pull out of all of these territories. Because of all the changes and unrest (there were still plenty of uprisings and terrorist attacks), crossing at the Allenby Bridge into Palestinian territory was a little more "adventurous." Of course we had to leave our Jordanian transportation, cross the border on a shuttle bus, and then make new arrangements to continue on the Israeli trek of our journey. All of our luggage, as well as our persons, had to be inspected by armed customs officers, and then, of course, both transit and bank fees had to be paid. (This is the hardest, most expensive, and scariest country I have ever entered or exited.) Thankfully, a sherut (shared) taxi was sitting there waiting for visitors who hadn't made prior transportation arrangements, though the driver would not make the trip with only the two of us, so we had to wait until there were at least three more people needing a taxi. Before we departed we all had to be clear on and agree to the fare, then wait as the luggage was loaded up, after which we each climbed in, and off we went, a couple of hours later. Finally, we were on our way to Jerusalem, where unbeknownst to me, troops were preparing to storm Gaza. But at that point, I was just glad to be away from where I was!

60s and 70s News Events

      When I entered college at age 25 as a single mom, I wasn't sure about what kind of future I would have; I just knew that I wasn't crazy about the path I was on. Having grown up in the 60s and early 70s in a small town in Appalachia meant that I had never seen the women around me, the mothers of my friends, work at careers. The majority of women had jobs at home as wives and mothers, so consequently I never heard the women around me talk much about anything other than their children, their husbands, housecleaning, cooking, gardening, sewing, shopping, decorating, or what was going on in the community or at church. Of course because of the political times we were living in, conversations at home every now and then would be dotted with comments about what was happening around the world as it had been seen on the local or national news. It was the time of the British invasion, the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and of Presidents Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon; and it was also the time of Golda Meir, the 4th Prime Minister of Israel, and the first woman I had ever heard of  who had any substantial voice on the political world stage (besides Queen Elizabeth II who acted more as a figure head). Golda Meir entered the living rooms of almost every American on a nightly basis, as she was of great interest to the United States, endeavoring to cement relations with our country and obtain economic aid for Israel. I was young, but I knew that a lot of people in the United States were pro-Israeli, and thus were watching and waiting to see what might happen with this fairly new country that had been formed out of Palestinian, Jordanian, and Syrian territories. The Kingdom of Jordan had been created in 1947, after Britain gave up its mandate to rule Palestine after WWII, while Israel was created in 1948, after large numbers of Jews had fled from Europe to Palestine in order to escape the Nazis, eventually creating a conflict that resulted in the first Arab-Israeli war that began as soon as the last British troops pulled out (though they didn't leave Jordan until 1957). A decade and a half later, and with trouble and fighting continuing, the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) and its more militant cousin, the Palestinian National Liberation Movement (or, the Al-Fatah) both formed in 1964.  In 1967 Jordan experienced devastation after the Six-Day War between Israel and Arab armies, during which time thousands of Palestinian refugees flocked into Jordan, accepting King Hussein's offer of Jordanian citizenship. In 1969 Yasser Arafat got elected PLO chairman, and in 1974, after terrorist attacks on Israel by the PLO, and after King Hussein clamped down on their growing power, King Hussein finally recognized the PLO as the sole representative of the Palestinian people.

Besides Vietnam, this region of the world took front and center on the evening news when I was in my formative years. Grownups I knew seemed to be much more compassionate towards the plight of the new Israelis, while they loathed Yasser Arafat, and felt thankful for King Hussein's peaceful inclinations. Something I wasn't aware of, but would learn about much later, was that during this time Jordanian women hadn't as yet been given the right to vote, while Golda Meir, an Israeli woman, was speaking for an entire nation, carrying on discussions with these strong male world leaders in a political climate that seemed as tempestuous and scary to my young mind as did the Vietnam War. Ironically, during this same time there was another woman on the political scene, Gloria Steinem (of German and Jewish descent), who talked about a Women's Liberation Movement. After graduating college with a degree in government, she established herself as a freelance writer, not wanting to follow the long established path of women--that of marriage and motherhood--and then joined other feminists speaking out about issues far too radical and close to home for comfort to most conservative,Christian, middle class Americans, and so who, unlike Golda Meir, was not supported in my parents' house, or by most people I knew. I overheard something about women burning their bras, and that was it. Thus it was that I remained fairly ignorant of the ever expanding choices becoming available to women in America, as the voice of Golda Meir quietly died out in 1974 when she was forced to step down from office to be replaced by a man.
     At home in WV, I was transitioning from my freshman year in high school to my sophomore year, and I cared more about dating boys and growing into larger sized bras than what was happening on any political front, whether it was at home or abroad. I was collecting teen idol magazines, dreaming about who I might marry someday, and reading fewer and fewer adventure stories. In fact, my reading eventually turned into more of an addiction to the Romance novel, preferring "adventures" where the female "heroine" finds herself (usually due to a flaw in her own character) overpowered by some strong, ravishingly handsome male abductor who steals her away from her normal yet "boring" life. Over time she begins to fall in love with him until she's finally willing to accept her fate and live alongside him a much less traditional life, if not in a less traditional role. The stories always ended with the heroine in the arms of her lover, and one had only to assume that they lived together "happily ever after" until they died.  Oh, how so very much I wanted that to happen to me! During the years I was hooked on reading these novels I hardly watched any television, let alone any world news, though I did set my alarm to get up early enough so that I could witness Diana marry Prince Charles in England. Thank goodness, by the time I was twenty-five (and after several broken hearts, a failed marriage, and one child), I got the opportunity to go to college, where I began a process of education (mostly under the tutelage of female professors) that would open my eyes to the history and plight of women in the United States, all the while discovering that women had indeed been participants on the world stage, actively defying convention both publically and privately! I also began seeing how they had been challenging the status quo all around the world using their voices and their pens! Now, in 1994, here I was walking the streets and countrysides of Jordan, learning to care about a place in the world that had seemed barren at best, and problematic and troublesome at worst, and I suddenly wanted to understand this nation's political history. I wanted to hear the Arab side of the story. Both the men's and the women's. Unfortunately, on this trip I would not hear from any women, although a seed had been planted in me that would, in another decade, find its way into the light.