Thursday, October 31, 2013

All the Days of My Life continued. Going East





Going East – The Iranian Adventure


“I think it’s a great idea!” I exclaimed when Waldir showed me the letter from Pahlavi University in Shiraz, Iran, inviting him to come as a visiting professor, to help set up the Pharmacology Department in the new School of Veterinary Medicine.
“It will be a great adventure!” I argued, to his skepticism.  “I always wanted to know that part of the world…”
John backed me up.  He was always ready for new adventures.  Miriam wasn’t so sure.  She would miss all her good friends, her gymnastics, and she wasn’t thrilled to go on an adventure to a country she didn’t even know the language of.  Marcello could care less, one way or the other.  Our relatives in Brazil thought we had lost our minds.
     Auburn University approved Waldir’s leave request to go teach in Iran, and we made preparations.  I had to stay behind to finish up my B.A. and the kids’ school year. We rented out our house and I moved with the kids and our Weimaraner Rina to an apartment.  Waldir left, buoyed by my excitement.
That excitement was rather dampened by the mystery of the place we were headed to.  We had some good Iranian friends who assured us we’d love our stay there, but I knew I’d miss my newly found colleagues in the English Dept.  Under the mentorship of Mr. Roden, we had formed a Poetry Club.  We met every other week and brought at least one poem to share.  We also became the Publications Board of the new student literary magazine we were pushing the Department to sponsor – The Auburn Circle.   I was writing short stories and poems, as well as my columns for the Auburn Alumnews.
     I had told Waldir that I wanted to be an American citizen.  “I refuse to leave this country without the guarantee that – if something happens -- I would feel safe with this protection.”
     I applied for citizenship, and was proudly sworn in a ceremony in Montgomery, thus becoming an adopted Alabamian, and a proud citizen of the U.S.A., the land promised to me by God, a sign of my liberation and intellectual growth as a female person endowed now with the gift of liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
     The day finally came to pack our suitcases and say our goodbyes.  It was sad to part from Rina – Katharina Von Grauengeist – our regal and loving Weimaraner, but we had found a loving home for her with the people who had bred her mother in the first place.
The trip was indeed exciting, more so than we had bargained for.  My comment “I thought this was going to be an adventure but this is ridiculous!” became a motto around the house, as Miriam repeated it all the time, sarcastically.
     The great day of departure came, and we set out to Columbus, Georgia, to start our journey, helped by a bevy of our Brazilian friends.  We sat at the airport lounge, chatting away, and either forgot to keep an eye on the clock, or failed to hear the call for the flight to New York.  Our luggage went, and we missed the plane.  The airline, whose desk attendants had neglected to look for us four passengers that were missing, told us the only way was to catch another flight from Atlanta.  João Saibro, bless his heart, gathered us in his car and set out to drive us to Atlanta in order to try.  We raced against time, and would have made it, except for the road work, and the slow tractors we encountered along the way.  As it was, we missed our flight to New York there too, by a few minutes, as well as our PanAm flight to Rome.  We were finally rushed into a Delta-PanAm flight Atlanta-Washington-London where we’d be booked into an IranAir flight to Tehran.  By this time I was in a daze.  Our luggage was gone, so we had only our carry-ons, with minimal necessities.  In Washington covered with snow – to the kids’ delight – we bought a few things we needed, like an American flag, chewing gum, and liquor.
     I hadn’t slept for the last three days so I was truly exhausted.  As soon as we took off for London, I went to sleep, while the kids watched a movie, without the soundtrack, as it was too expensive to rent earphones for all three!
     We landed at Heathrow at 9:00 a.m. the next day.  England looked lusciously green from the air.  I had been so immersed in English Literature, history, and culture for the past months that I was actually thrilled to be in British soil.  “We’re really in Europe, children!  We made it!” I exclaimed to my exhausted children.
The first few hours at the airport were hectic.  We had been scheduled to fly to Tehran that same morning, but a mistake on our flight number put us among the crowds, waiting in nervous expectation, on standby, the whole afternoon.  We ate meat pies, yogurt, and cheese sandwiches, in expectation of hearing our names called.
     At the end of the day we were told that “we didn’t make it” and were supposed to be taken to a hotel near the airport.  We also heard the awful news that our missed flight from New York had been the target of a terrorist bomb in the Rome airport.  The PanAm desk crew being really nice to us guaranteed we’d be on a flight to Tehran the next morning.
     We were ushered to a shuttle that took us to the airport hotel, where we had our showers, our suppers, and went to bed on the luscious beds.  I asked the desk to wake us up early in the morning.  The phone rang dutifully at 6:30.  I answered and called out to the kids who groaned sleepily.  Our flight was scheduled for 10:30, so I thought we’d sleep a few more minutes.  I woke up suddenly and it was 9:30!  Oh well, I thought.  No need to rush now.  What will be will be.  I called room service for breakfast, and we rolled around the airport very late for our scheduled flight.  The desk folks were on a tizzy. 
     “Where have you all been?” they asked.  “The whole world is looking for you guys!”
     They gathered us together and rushed us through the corridors and to the IranAir airplane.
     “I won’t let you go now until I see you all sitting in your seats!” the nice Delta attendant told me.
     We finally arrived in Tehran.  Our first sight was of a crowd of wailing women, in long black veils, whose relatives had been killed or hurt in the bombing at the Rome airport.  I had goose bumps all over my skin.  Waldir wasn’t waiting for us.
     I had a new problem to solve:  Where to find my husband.  I hadn’t the slightest idea.  “Please, God, we need your help, now!”  I told the kids to pray, as we took a walk around the airport and then I saw a sign for Tourist Information, in English.  We headed there and I spoke to a very helpful young man about our plight.
     “Do you have any idea which hotel he could be in?” he asked.  I had no idea.  He asked what my husband was doing in Iran, and I told him about Pahlavi University in Shiraz.
     “Huh!” he said, and riffled through a thick phone book. “We’ll try this one.”
      We listened as he spoke in Persian to someone.  A few minutes later he handed me the phone:
     “I believe it’s your husband,” he said.
     “Waldir?” I asked, hopefully.
     “Oh my God!  Where in the world have you guys been?  I was desperate here!”
     “We’ve been all over,” I said.  “But we’re alive and well.  When can you come to get us?”
     “I’ll be right over!  Don’t move!”
      When I asked the young man how he had found the right person so quickly, he told me that the clue was Pahlavi University.  Its faculty always stayed at that particular hotel.  And he found someone to accompany us to the passenger pickup exit.
     After three long months, it was wonderful to sleep safely in Waldir’s arms.  Our ordeal finally did come crashing on me, but I was numbed to the horror of having been spared the terror at the Rome airport.  It all seemed like a dream.  It had been worse for Waldir.  Our names were still on the passenger list of the PanAm flight, but none knew of our whereabouts.  Our luggage arrived without us.  He could only pray and wish that we were alive and well.  He’d called everywhere, including the American and Brazilian Embassies.
Waldir seemed well, and excited about his new projects.  He liked the university and the people he worked with.  We spent a couple of days at the hotel and looked around Tehran.  It all looked very alien to me, but having had a head start, Waldir was full of enthusiasm for the place.  He showed off how he had learned to speak a little Farsi.  I just wanted to go home and get settled.
     Shiraz seemed a much nicer looking town than Tehran, and our apartment was in a nice part of town, near a beautiful rose garden – Bagheran – and the majestic Intercontinental Kourosh Hotel.  We lived upstairs and our landlord’s family lived downstairs.  They were Iranian Jews.  Our first weeks were idyllic.
Some of Waldir’s graduate students came to visit and gave us a mini tour of Shiraz, telling us about the Bazaar, the delicious wines (they brought us a couple of bottles) along with insights on the etiquette and religious customs.  Miriam and I were relieved that we didn’t need to wear a chador.
We went to visit the Shiraz International School where the kids would be enrolled and immediately the Principal asked me whether I’d be interested in working at the school.  I could be a substitute English teacher, or, they really needed to hire a librarian, and with my library skills, I’d be a perfect fit.  Eager to do anything not to be at home alone, I said I’d be thrilled.
      Meantime, I was recruited to teach English as a Foreign Language at the Iran-America Society, starting immediately.  I was on a roll!  The only drawback, insulting my budding feminist psyche, was when I was told I’d need written permission from my husband to work.
     “What?” I said to the Director.  “I am not Iranian!  I am an American citizen!”
     “It doesn’t matter,” he responded gleefully.  “It’s the law here.  And anyway, why would you want to work outside the home?  You have a good man, and three children to take care of…” he was enjoying my irritation.
     I had no choice but to comply, and after a couple of days of adjustment, came to enjoy teaching the class of mostly male students who were eager to learn the language.
     Church was another matter.  That first Sunday I was told where to go to church and I found the nice, big church building, not too far from our home.  Walking in right before Mass started, I admired the high nave, the Byzantine-Armenian look of the architecture, but as the liturgy progressed I found it a little strange.  But no problem, I thought.  The Eucharistic prayers were the same, and I went up for communion, under both species – bread and wine – which I loved.  The Mass over, I went to meet the priest, and was surprised when he introduced his wife!  That’s when I realized I was in an Anglican Church celebration. The Rev.Axtell was very nice and told me that the Catholic priest would come from Tehran and celebrate a Catholic Mass for us every other week.
     John and Marcello enjoyed the new school and made new friends.  Thirteen-year-old Miriam was the only one who was unhappy.   She did not like the place, the people, the strange language and customs.  She missed her friends, her Middle School, her neighborhood.  She wanted to go home.  We started considering sending her back to stay with our friends.
     The Axtells introduced us to the British community, mostly military Air Force advisors, and we went to eat hamburgers at the Commons where the kids could frolic in the playground and the pool, and watch movies.
     I did accept the position of school librarian and immediately I had a quite large budget to build the library from furniture to book orders.  I began to catalog the books already there and set up story hours for the lower grades as well as study and research hours for the high school kids.
     Time rushed by fast, and during spring break we got together with a British family who had bought an old two deck British bus and outfitted it for camping.  The two families set out on the road south to visit the countryside en-route to the Persian Gulf and Bandar Abbas.
     We visited Persepolis, where the Shah Pahlavi had been crowned, and marveled at the well preserved ruins of the ancient site.  John and I found out we had a new interest – Archaeology – and marveled at all the digging sites, collecting pottery shards and all kinds of marvelous relics.
     Driving through the desert toward the Gulf was an unforgettable experience;   dehydrating hot during the day, but rather cold during the night.  Barren hills, rocky roads, sand.  Once in a while sculptures carved into the rocks --  Kings in battle armor, mythic animals, horsemen.  Riding through the villages our bus would call the attention of bands of dusty kids who would run after us shouting “Hello!!!  How are you?  What time is it?”
     At one stop for bathroom break, we lost Marcello from view.  He was found when we heard some whimpering calls for help.  He was stuck on the barbed wire of a fence.
     We finally got close to Ahwaz where we saw the awesome flames of the gas and oil burn-off shooting up into the air.  Iranian families were camping and pic-nicking all over the place.  Across the water was the Shat-al-Arab from Kuwait and Iraq.  Petrol! Black gold, like the Beverly Hillbillies would call it, the source of Iran’s wealth, and the envy of the world.  The air was warmed by the flames, as we drove by the seaside, and could see across the Persian Gulf the lights of Kuwait City. 
     Colorful and exuberant, Ahwaz was a good break from the monotony of the rocky desert.  The river, the beautiful bridges, trees and greenery, and tasty food, as well as hospitable people made it one of our favorite cities in Iran.
     Driving back to Shiraz we stopped several times at archaeological digs around the countryside and had the opportunity to see how the painstaking work of recovering artifacts from the rubble was done.


Coping with homesickness and depression


Miriam was one unhappy child.  Surly and uncooperative, she was like a fish out of the water.  Nothing would cheer her up.  We were concerned.
One day one of Waldir’s students came over and presented her with a squirming brown bag.  Gingerly she opened it to find a tiny kitten that immediately scampered through the living room and hid under the sofa.  We named him Kourosh after Cyrus the Great.  Kourosh grew up into a stunning velvety white Persian, and brought great joy to the kids, especially Miriam.
I myself had my dark moments.  This is the entry in my journal, October 30, 1974:
Once again I am writing on my journal, perhaps in an effort to try to sort out my thoughts and feelings, and make some sense out the chaos I find in my soul.
We’ve been in Iran for more than ten months now. The greatest adventure that had thrilled me in the beginning has turned into the most harrowing of nightmares.  Like Frost’s transplanted peach tree, the environment is killing me, destroying my sensitivity, annihilating my creativity, to such an extent that I sometimes wonder about my sanity.  I can’t really understand the feeling.  I do try, but I am unable to pinpoint the root of the discontent.
Is it the awesomeness of nature around here – brutal, unconquerable environment defying the centuries of struggle for domination? 
Whatever it is, I find its presence in the air I breathe, in the dryness of the soil I tread – a dryness that permeates my soul, and numbs the depths of my psyche.  I feel like a grain of sand, whipped by the storm winds, who doesn’t know the meaning of its existence, or where it’s headed in the maelstrom of this chaos.  I feel the nausée of this alienation, this loss of touch with beauty, this confrontation with the nakedness of the reality around me.  I am afraid; I tremble in the most inward recesses of my soul.  I am totally lost in this desert, inside and outside, and this alien feeling oppresses me. 
I have gone through the dark night of the soul, many times, and I have suffered the agonies of rebirth, but nothing compares with this lonely voyage through nothingness.
Nothing is as brutal as this sense of evil, lurking in the shadows that envelope me.  Will I ever see again the rays of sunshine through the thickening darkness?
November 1st
All Saints Day  -- and the clouds are finally blowing away.  A while ago, as I went out to buy bread, the moon was high in the dark night.  The moonlight surrounded me, as if separated from the darkness – the moon alive in its beauty, its peacefulness.
Yesterday, as the depression that encroached on me had come to a critical climax, I had no escape but to fall on my knees, during some precious minutes I had to myself (they’d become rather scarce) and cry for help.  My prayer was as dry as my parched lips would allow.  The tears burned in my eyes, rather than fall.  But I begged my Lord to come to my help, and pull me out of the quagmire where I was slowly sinking.  What I had in my hands were the Penitential Psalms, and David’s cry for help, from the depths of his own despair, were my own most desperate cry.
“Do not take from me your Holy Spirit, Lord.  Be near me in this most trying period of my life! Let your Love be the balm, your Grace the living water to my parched soul!  Let me have the gift of faith once again, my Lord, that simple, childish faith that brought me to you, as a humble child.  Let your Love bring to my soul your heavenly Peace!  Lead me out of this valley of the shadow of death!”
And this morning at Mass, He was with me indeed.  Once again, praising God with his angels and his saints, the realization of his incommensurate love for us, for me, his most unworthy child, brought tears of joy to my eyes.  Not burning tears, though.  Sweet tears, the kind that assures me that not all is dead and lost within me as yet.
 
What should I say to my Beloved?
That I long for his divine presence?
That His love for me is more precious than this world’s finest array of treasures and worldly glories?
That my love for Him is the only guiding force that will bring me safely to everlasting peace and light?
I surrender into your arms, Beloved!  Let your Love heal the festering wounds of my soul.

November 3rd
Up and down my moods go.  I came home yesterday from work, stressed out and unhappy again, without any real explanation.
 
I spent a few hours trying to fix my guitar, badly mangled in the trip from hell.  I thought it could give me some pleasure, if we could sing together.  But poor thing, it also is broken, like me, like Colin Clout’s pipe.  No matter what I’d do to its strings, my fingers could not awake the magic chords, the beautiful music we would make together before.
 
Discouraged, I filled out the tub, and tried to relax in the warm water.  But as I lay there, all kinds of thoughts filled up my head.  I tried to feel the intensity of my dislike for this place, and it was awful.  I really thought I could have a nervous breakdown, if I didn’t watch out.  Wrapping myself in a towel, I stepped out of the tub and headed for the bedroom.  Under the blankets, just lying there, snuggled, I tried to pinpoint the reason for my distress.
 
I felt something in this place, something beyond alien, something deeper than mere hostility.  I had the awful sensation of being face to face with Evil itself; evil lurking everywhere – in the bare forbidding mountains that loom like walls of an impregnable fortress, shutting out the rest of the world, transcending comprehension.
 
It’s a terrible loneliness, mine!  I have none who’d understand my inner struggles.  If only I could reach you, my God, like I had before?  Do you catch my wavelength?  Are we in the same channel? What if you changed your plans and left us out here to our own devices, to wither away and die of loneliness?
 
Look at us – we’ll soon destroy each other, and our beautiful planet to boot, and then nothing will be left of your creation, and the civilizations we built, ruined, and rebuilt, only to crash again in ashes.  This place you deigned to come and visit, to show us how to live peacefully, it will be gone, Lord, and evil will prevail.  Nothing left but a dead planet, like many others, lifeless, circling aimlessly forever, through the indifferent universe.
 
Nobody cares, Lord.  Look at us!  We don’t even have a place to run away to anymore, a new world to start over.  It’s all taken, all spoiled, all finished.  I hope you don’t give up on us, entirely.  Remember your mercy, your promise to be with us to the end of the ages.
 
That night, a fierce sandstorm blew all night, terrifying, whistling and scraping against our windows with ferocity.  In the morning the landscape was covered in sand, like brown snow.
Stranded at home, sand bound, I wrote a poem to the mountains:

            Mountains
Encircling me, like prehistoric monsters head to tail.
Undulating torsos bare and dry
Ancient sentinels beneath the sky.

Rocks
                        Where even hardy furze does wither
            Bare hides buffeted by ice, and wind, and sand.
Trembling with the world’s first quickening
Burning, freezing, melting, and rebuilding.
Whole empires have treaded your barren dust
Their glories flickering once to die again
Ignis fatuus in the marsh of human splendor.

                        Awesome hills!
            I look at you and tremble
Mind twisting in pains of unknown fears
I want to reach to you with meager hands
To touch your coldest rocks and understand
The taunting enigma you’ve held
 In your ageless memory, so clear.

                        Sphynx-like
You claw with death-cold fangs
Spreading over me your towering precipices
You curse my arrogance, I know.
Greater men have hewn out of your barren rocks
Mighty cities, monuments to their own glory
that lie now in ruined shambles.

Mountains
reminding me
as spires touch the golden clouds
that eons ago you’d risen above the waters
covered by all that’s sweet and pleasant.
Cedars and pines,
grasses, verdant pastures by flowing rivers
where deer and lions roamed and birds nestled.

But now
Raped and razed,
burnt and despoiled
 you scorn my brazen dare.
Yet, mountains,
when the moonlight
bathes your naked sights
in bright veils of silver light
I will climb your highest heights.


A Summer to Remember—the adventure continued


Knowing that we had almost 3 months of vacation in the torrid Middle –East summer, Waldir decided that we’d go to Europe to buy a car in Munich.  And we had to go by bus, so we’d get to know the western part of Iran, ride through Turkey, and take the train from Istanbul to Munich.  It was well with us.  Thus, on that sweltering June morning, we were driven to the bus station and boarded the nicely air-conditioned Iranian autobus to Istanbul.  I settled the kids in and got my window seat from which I could contemplate the countryside.  Taking notes on my diary, my language waxed poetic:

We board the bus – Friends, Pepsis in order to stay hydrated, farewells; the tremor of a tear in the good-byes.
 
My window opens toward a wild landscape of mountains.  Awesome mountains, built layer upon layer, when the world was new, their naked saber teeth cutting ragged edges in the steel grey sky. These rocks were torn from the flaming womb of Earth when it was still being born in the cataclysmic birth pains of the universe. 
 
Like primeval beasts, they lie in petrified sleep through eons, their tough dorsal bones blanching in the searing sun – inclement, primeval sun scorching life out of trembling lizards, scurrying the veiled cavalier in a cloud of dust.
 
The passenger in front of me does not like mountains.  He’s drawn the curtain against the blazing landscape and turned up the volume of the piped in music where a female voice wailed.
I dozed off, and when I woke up, the sun sank slowly in a sea of golden dust.  Twilight smoothed down the lizard skin of mountains, as twilight brought out the freshness of dew, the peacefulness of falling dark, to shepherd hands parched by dust and heat, returning to shelter their restless sheep.
Only one little mountain hides the setting sun.  It wears its rays like a golden cape and stands there, like a holy mound, wrapped in gold, edged in onyx, ancient altar to unknown golden gods who once dwelt in this desert.
 
I ride into this velvety darkness in hope, for I had sat too long in the ashen dust of my desolation. 
Let me borrow a sprinkle of gold from the setting sun – I pray – a sliver of silver from the evening star.  Let me be bathed in cool moonlight wearing out the edges of my discontent.
 
We spent the night in Tabriz and set out the next morning, crossing into Turkey where sunflowers stood in perfect rows, sleepy golden heads bobbing in the morning’s breeze.  Awaking, they praise the sun god newly risen in their fields.  Straight they stand, clapping their leafy hands for joy.
Our road winds through multicolored mountains following now the trail of the sparkling stream, through valleys pregnant with grain.  Sheep huddle together under scrawny trees, a calf stumbles in the pasture, after its mother.  An old man leans wearily on his pitchfork, watching the bus roll by the golden piles of hay, while a woman tosses the golden threads up over their heads.
I pursue your rainbow mountains, golden country – what might lie beyond the crest of the next hill?

 


Istanbul -- and the bus ride from hell



Delicate and grey like ancient filigree,
she lifts a million minarets like thin hands of a multitude
reaching out, starved for truth’s manna.
Her tresses of golden hay are left behind,
twisting golden braids in the sunshine,
as she daintily lifts her sooty skirts
to poise a silver-slippered foot
on another continent.


We had made friends in the bus, a couple with two kids, and together we searched for a place to stay.  We planned to sightsee in the morning and buy our train tickets to Europe.  We ate a supper of kabobs at the teeming bright bazaar and visited the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia.
 
The next day, after a breakfast of sweet hot tea and delicious pastries, we made our way to the train station.  To our great dismay, no train tickets were available for at least four days.  As we stood there, trying to decide what to do, a well-dressed young man approached us, speaking almost perfect English.
 
“Are you going to Europe?” he inquired.  As we responded in the affirmative, he continued:

“And did you have problems getting train tickets?”  Waldir answered that yes, we’d have to wait four days.

“If you don’t want to wait, I have the solution for you,” he said.  “I happen to work for an autobus company that travels to Europe twice a week,” he said.

“The tickets are half the price of the train, and it’s a very comfortable, Mercedes-Benz air-conditioned coach.  You’ll have one stop on the way, and will arrive in Munich in less than 24 hours.”

We were rather skeptical, but the young man insisted that it was a great deal, the bus would leave the next morning from the bus station, and he guaranteed we’d have no problems.  In the end, we bought his tickets, paid half the fare, with the other half being due when we boarded.  They’d send a taxi to pick us up in the morning to take us to the bus station.
 
The next morning we were all packed and ready to go, waiting in the lobby by 10:00 a.m. as directed.  By 11:30 and no taxi, we were certain we had been duped and there’d be no bus to Europe.  Half an hour later a van pulled up and a bearded man came in looking for us.  That was our taxi.  We were driven through the back streets – where was the bus terminal? – and delivered to the basement of a house where several men sat, drinking chai and smoking pipes.  We were concerned, and asked the driver where had he driven us, where was the bus.  He said the bus would pull up soon.  This was better than the hectic bus terminal, we were told.
 
The kids were restless and we were concerned, but in another couple of hours the bus did pull up.  A Mercedes Benz indeed, but beat up, with cracked windshield, floor covered with spat-out pistachio shells, and no toilet.  We paid what we owed, simply because we wanted to get to Europe as soon as possible.
 
The seats were soon filled with the men – guest-workers obviously – bound for Germany.  The driver welcomed us in his broken English and Arabic, and assured us that we’d stop in a couple of hours for dinner.  It was getting late in the afternoon.  We started off in silence through the streets and onto the thoroughfare that I could see in the rather small tourist map I had bought in Istanbul.  I looked forward to crossing the beautiful bridge that linked the two horns of Turkey, but soon we exited and took another road.   All quiet on the bus.  Our kids had fallen asleep from tiredness, as it was getting darker outside.  I called the bus attendant.
 
“Where are we going?” I asked.  “Why are we out of the main highway?”

“We’re taking a shortcut,” he answered in pretty good English.   “To avoid the heavy trucks.  We’ll be stopping for supper soon.”

I leaned against Waldir’s shoulder and dozed off.   I woke up with the bounces of the bus on rough road.  It was darker outside, as I craned my neck to look at the landscape we were traveling by.  Poppy fields!  I turned to Waldir:
 
“We’re on a bumpy road, through poppy fields!” I said.

“Not good…” he responded.
 
“I need to go bathroom…” Miriam stated.
 
“Me too…” from Marcello.

“I’m hungry!” complained John.
 
“When are we stopping?”  I asked the attendant.
 
“Soon,” he answered.
 
After a few minutes we stopped in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the poppy fields.  The attendant and driver got out.  I looked out the window and saw a big pile of watermelons being loaded in the baggage compartment.
 
“Oh good,” I said to the kids.  “They’ll give us watermelon snacks!”
 
We bumped back to the road and sped on.  We finally arrived at the place where we should find something to eat.  No rest stop on the highway, but a rather small canteen, with long tables and benches.  The ‘restrooms’ were outside.  Miriam and I stepped gingerly into one -- the traditional smelly latrine on the ground, with places to put your feet and crouch down.  I knew Miriam hated those things, but she really had to go.  The toilet had no roof, and when I looked up I saw a pair of eyes out of a hooded head, looking down on us.  The bus attendant!

“Damn it!” I yelled.  “Get out, you son of the devil!”
 
When we were done I saw him sitting at one of the tables.
 
“You do that again and I’ll beat the hell out of you!” I yelled.

“Me?” he said, innocently.  “I didn’t do anything…”  I turned to the driver:
 
“He was spying on us in the restroom!”
 
The driver shook his head, pretending not to understand.
 
The fare was a thick stew of lamb and potatoes, or sandwiches of flat bread and sliced lamb.  I ate bread and hummus with hot tea.  I hated lamb.  The kids tried the sandwiches.  They were famished.

“Can we have some watermelon?” Marcello asked the driver.

“No watermelon...” he answered, surprised.
 
“So why did we get that big load of them?” I asked.
 
They looked at each other, puzzled.
 
“No watermelon, hanum.”
 
I was thirsty, but didn’t trust the water from the jugs, so I drank more chai.  The kids had their Pepsis.  It was going to be a long night, I thought.
 
Miriam wanted to sit next to her dad, so I traded seats with her – the aisle seat right behind the driver, obviously the only one driving for the whole trip.  I could see the lighted road in front of us, and we were the only vehicle on the road.  We kept going through the darkness until we finally got to an exit and were back on the main highway D2.  Company at last – trucks and cars zipped by us.  I tried to sleep, but had too much chai.  Passengers were asleep.  We drove on, and the traffic thinned out.  I kept my eyes on the driver.
 
“Lord!” I prayed.  “I guess we’re trapped on this bus from hell… Please keep us safe.  Send your holy angels to protect us! ”  I started praying the rosary, counting the beads on my fingers.
Whenever I’d see the driver dozing off I’d kick the panel between us.
 
“Stay awake!” I shouted angrily.  “I am watching you!  We were really tricked into taking this bus but we have kids here, and I want to arrive alive.  So you stay alert!”
 
“You must be Greek!” he said, irritated.
 
“I certainly am.  My name is Heleni.”  The Turks had just lost the Cyprus war…
 
He spat on the floor.
 
In the middle of the night we arrived at the border with Bulgaria.  I told Waldir I was going to say I needed to go to the restroom, and would go to the police and tell them to check the bus for drug trafficking.  He said we’d never get to Munich if I did that.  I said we could never get there alive, anyway.  Miriam and I made it to the restrooms, and then I walked to a window where a border patrol guard tried to understand what I wanted in German, French and English, to no avail.  He finally called in someone who could understand English.  I told him about my misgivings about the bus and the watermelon load.  Explained about how we were misled into buying their tickets; and that we had 5 kids on board who had no food, or water to drink.
 
Suddenly the bus passengers were told to disembark, and open all their luggage.  Bags strewn all over the ground were searched.  Everybody complied, and there was some concern. They didn’t search ours, though, but they checked all passports and travel documents. I really didn’t know the word for watermelon, and I couldn’t tell them to search the bus baggage compartment, as I watched the search helplessly.
 
They hadn’t seen me talking to the border guards, but Waldir was concerned about what would happen if they did find some contraband.  I’d hope they’d put us on another less dangerous bus.
After a while, the border patrol liberated us to go on, so we got back on our seats, and drove off  into the night, but this time the driver and his assistant were sobered and quiet.  I prayed, and kept watch, as we drove through Bulgaria.
 
We crossed into Yugoslavia in the wee hours of the morning.  We’d been traveling almost  24 hours without stopping.  I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I fought to stay awake.  As soon as we made it through the border, and this time we weren’t stopped or searched, one could see the relief on the demeanor of our driver and attendant.  Most of the passengers, who had been sleeping through it all, woke up and started chatting among themselves.
 
“We’ll stop soon for a big breakfast!”  the driver announced, cheerfully.
                                        
We did so, at a roadside restaurant that seemed more civilized, with tables, and servers, and plenty of good food.  We’d clambered out of the bus, exhausted and bleary-eyed, but the smell of coffee and nice pastries, milk and orange juice for the kids, and the enthusiasm of the crew of two, gave us hope that we’d finally arrive alive in German territory.  All I could see was that we seemed to be at a nice tourist area, near a lake.  I couldn’t tell the name of the town.
 
After our repast we got back in the bus and cruised through Yugoslavia as fast as we could.  Belgrade and Zagreb flew by and we crossed into Austria as in a dream.  When we made it to Innsbruck  I told Waldir that -- God be praised – we’d make it to Munich in a couple of hours.
 
We expected to be taken to the bus terminal in Munich, but no, knowing the address of our hotel, our relieved driver dropped us off at an intersection and pointed us in the direction of the hotel.  We had to drag our luggage a couple of blocks, but we found it.  We had been traveling, nonstop, for 36 hours.
 
I have only a foggy memory of that evening, but in the morning of the next day I asked for directions to the nearest police station.  I had a complete description of the bus, their license plate, the names of the driver and attendant and the details of the trip, including the watermelon load.  A very nice and polite young woman detective greeted us and I asked if she understood English.  She asked if I spoke German.  I told her about my meager vocabulary acquired in college classes.  She said to try.  So I proceeded to describe our ordeal as well as I could.  When I had finished, she talked back to us in perfect English!  At my surprise, she just said that I did well, and I just needed to practice more, while in Germany.
 
“You are very lucky,” she said.  “We are very aware of these traffickers, of humans and drugs.  Under the cover of the gast-werkers, they bring loads of opium and other drugs into Europe.  It’s to their advantage to have innocent passengers like you all, especially with kids.  You were very brave to keep a record of everything, this will help us to try and hunt them down.”
 
She kindly gave us some information about the best places to go look for a car to buy, and wished us a nice stay in Europe and a much nicer trip back to Iran.
 
The very next day we bought a car, from a very nice young couple – a VW Squareback – exactly what we needed.  Then we proceeded to a sports store and bought a tent and all the camping equipment we needed and we were free to go into our next adventure – the trip back to Iran – but not before we toured as many places as we could on our way.
 


Traipsing through Germany, Austria, and East Europe

 The German campgrounds were wonderful as we settled in Munich’s Kampingplatz Thalkirchen by the Isar River  and toured the Zoo, the Deutsches Museum, Marienplatz, and all the beautiful churches we came across.  Dachau was sobering, as the kids learned about the horrors of  the Holocaust, but it was wonderful to be back in civilization even as we made our way through the Black Forest to Nuremberg, since I wanted to go to Chekoslovakia to show Marcello where his ancestors came from.  We tried to cross the border at Torflohe but were greeted by border patrol guards with machine guns who, after searching our passports,  were thrilled to see Brazilians, because of soccer and Pelé, but not pleased that we did not have visas.
 
“Need visa,” the nicest one told us.  “No visa, no Chekoslovakia.  You go to Vienna, get visa, then come back.”
 
So we drove south again.  It was late, and raining, and we tried to find a Gasthaus somewhere down the road.  We saw a nice one, a Heidi gingerbread kind, and went up to find out if they had room.  They did, but when we said we had three kids, the rotund owner, decked in Schwarz Wald costume, told us “kein Kindern!”  He had a brand new Gasthaus, and kids were trouble, and destructive.  He would not believe our kids were older and well behaved.  We left, disappointed.  Since it was getting dark, we came upon a rather nice rest stop and I suggested we just stop there and sleep in the car.  The rain had stopped, so John and Marcello took out their sleeping bags and settled on the grassy knoll.    We were tired enough that we didn’t mind the car seats.  Miriam curled up in the back.
We woke up in the morning with the noise of garrulous old ladies who had come out of a tourist van and were peering at us, while commenting, amusedly:
 
“Look!  Isn’t it wonderful?  That’s how the Germans travel!  Look at those cute boys sleeping on the grass, in their bags!”
 
We pretended not to notice that they were all Americans.  Thankful that we had no rain, we set off for Vienna, Austria, through the breathtaking beauty of the Bayerische Wald and the Danube  River valley, hoping that we’d make it to the Czech Embassy before the weekend.  We did, and turned in our passports, but were told that we had to return on Monday to pick up our visas.  Thus we had time to explore Vienna on the weekend.  We had no problem finding a campground, right across the Danube. We wandered around the Innere Stadt, enjoying the music in the Parks, the art in the Museum, the delicious food, pastries, and hot chocolate, connecting the dots to the things we had learned about the history, and the famous artists, writers, and composers we loved.  I promptly fell in love with Vienna; Miriam with the Austrian good-looking boys.
 
Early that Monday we got our visas and set off to Prague.  This time we had no problems at the border, except for having our car and luggage thoroughly searched.  Perhaps most for curiosity, as one of the female border patrol handled some of Miriam’s belongings, admiringly,  such as her round radio hanging from a chain.
 
The countryside of rolling hills and verdant pastures was unremarkable, as we drove by quaint villages past Brno and on to Prague.  It was early afternoon when we parked downtown and looked around, marveling at the golden town, rather deserted.  I wondered at the lack of stores, even for souvenirs, the only displays at the windows being of food.  We were experiencing the way of life in a Communist country.  We finally found a tourist information booth where we got maps, postcards, and directions to a good place to go with the kids.  We were told to drive to Vysehrad  where we could visit the castle and stroll in the park.  It was indeed a good choice, as the kids loved the castle, whose medieval owners were avid hunters and the whole place was covered with hunting trophies.  We feasted on bratwurst hotdogs, beer and sodas.
 
After watching the sunset light up the golden city like a gigantic castle, we drove off  to camp by the Vitava River.  We pitched our tent at the recommended site, and were pleased by the cleanliness of everything in the campsite, such as restrooms, and the communal kitchen where we could cook our soup.
 
“So Marcello, you can be proud of where your grandparents came from.  Perhaps when you grow up you can come and stay for a few days and tour the countryside,” I said to my adopted son.
 
He was too tired and sleepy, as he nestled next to me.
 
We sat down with our maps the next morning and took stock of our vacation days.  It was almost the end of August and we needed to be back in Iran by September.  We drove south again to Vienna, Zagreb, Belgrade and Sofia.
 
We enjoyed driving through Bulgaria’s countryside, the roads flanked by fruit orchards.  We could just pick tasty apples off the ground by the roadside.  We found a campground, rustic, but clean.  I only had some trouble finding some milk for the kids.  Although we’d seen plenty of cows, there were no food stores.  I finally found a small one, down the road.  I went in and tried to explain what I needed, in German, French, and English.  The woman behind the counter could not understand.  I finally fished a pen and paper from my purse and drew a cow with udders dripping.
 
“Ahhh…” she said, and went in the back, returning with a bottle of milk, which, back at the campsite, the kids rated as the best tasting one they had drunk in a long time.
 
We soon crossed into Turkey on the way to Ankara.  We had been warned of the perils of the Turkish roads, where droves of kids roamed by the roadside, begging for cigarettes.  If the tourists didn’t comply, you’d run the risk of having your windshield cracked by thrown rocks.  We noticed that the British Land Rovers were all well protected by wire mesh on the windows, but our VW was unprotected.  We were also warned not to stop except in urban centers or gas stations.
 
We bought lots of cigarettes and John and Marcello were given the job of throwing them out the window to the kids.  John had the brilliant idea of packing the cigarettes with the heads of matches so they’d flare up when lighted…  Hopefully nobody got seriously burnt!  I just hoped some of the kids would lose interest in cigarettes.
 
The road to Iran had been recently resurfaced, so we had no road hazards.  We made it to Tabriz in a couple of days, traveling all day and taking turns driving.  We had made it, safely and economically within our budget.
 
Back to Shiraz I resumed my job as the International School’s librarian, enrolled in the Master’s degree program at Pahlavi University in English Literature and Linguistics, and continued to teach English at the Iran-America Society in the evening.  No chance for depression or homesickness.  The kids were doing relatively well in school.  Miriam had made new friends and stopped talking about going back to Auburn.  Marcello was his hyperactive self, riding his bike all over the neighborhood, and learning Farsi quickly with the Persian kids.
 
John was a little bored at school, so we enrolled him on Mr. Axtell’s tutoring program to work on his British O-levels.  He learned all there was to be known about Britain’s history, as well as advanced Algebra.  
 
Waldir was doing well, beloved by his students, and going places now that we had a car.
As for church, we suddenly were deluged with 300 Catholic families from Baltimore, Maryland, who had come to work for the new Westinghouse and Bell Helicopter plants.  In a few weeks we had rented an apartment to serve as our new community church, and brought in a resident priest who celebrated liturgies and provided spiritual direction.  We started CCD classes for the kids, preparation for First Communion and Confirmation.
 
Westinghouse provided a Community Center where the kids could go watch TV, movies, play sports, and swim.  As a home away from home, Shiraz could not have been better.
 
My interest in Middle East history and Archaeology grew as I was fond of going to lectures at the University and forays to archaeology digs in the areas.  I also enjoyed reading the Sufi poets and philosophers, especially Hafiz and Saadi, held as saints by the Persians, and whose beautiful garden tombs were sacred sites where one could stroll and meditate.
 
The only area I avoided dealing with was Islam.  Reading the Koran did nothing for me, and thus I avoided getting into the tenets of Mohammed’s religion.  Jesus, the Son of God, continued to be all I desired and wanted to know about.  But I did get very interested in Judaism and Israel.  A holy desire to go visit the Holy Land grew in my heart, and when Spring break came around, I proposed that we travel to Israel.  Waldir could not go because of his research projects, Miriam was scared because of the wars and terrorism, Marcello was too young to care, but John, my faithful travel companion, said he’d certainly go.
 
To leave Iran with my child I had to have my husband’s full blessing, with all kinds of protocols and paperwork,  but we got it all done, and thus began one of the most spectacular and inspiring voyage of our lives.
 



 ISRAEL – Past and Present – in Less than 5 Dollars a Day



 

 It had been a long, cold winter, the second of our stay in Iran, and I still felt like Robert Frost’s transplanted peach tree – unable to grow any roots in that barren soil.  For fourteen-year-old John, the chance of a vacation in Israel was like a reprieve from that self-inflicted exile, and a reward for his good work in school.

After getting through El-Al’s strict security, we settled exhausted in our seats, and gave a sigh of relief as we taxied off.  It didn’t take long, or so it seemed, for the 747 to start descending serenely through the wisps of cloud,  the captain’s voice informing us that we would be landing in Tel-Aviv in about ten minutes.  The passengers craned their necks, eagerly, toward the windows, tugging at seat belts, to catch a glimpse of the city below.  Suddenly, the soft music coming through the intercom turned into the rousing chords of Hava Nagilla.  Soon everyone joined in, singing and clapping as the patches of green fields sped by below, and we approached Ben Gurion Airport.  We too joined in the joyous Hallelujahs and it was like coming home again – the emotion of our companions was contagious!  Tel-Aviv shone in the sun, flanked by green fields on one side, and the deep blue of the Mediterranean on the other.
 
At the airport we had a little trouble shaking off the over-eager taxi drivers who wanted to take us to the Hilton.  They had trouble being convinced that we weren’t rich Iranians, or American tourists, that my “fur” coat was really fake, and that all we wanted was to go to our cheap hotel, away from the glitter of downtown.  We finally chose a condescending driver (or he did find us) and with the help of Tourist Information we found one hotel that wasn’t over-priced.
 
We settled in with reams of leaflets and brochures from Tourist Information, but in a couple of hours we had decided that hotels and tours weren’t  freeing enough for us, and if we really wanted to see as much of the country as possible in fifteen days, we would have to rent a car.  That would take about one third of our budget I explained to John, so would we be able to survive on the rest?  We’d have to give up good meals in restaurants, sleeping in soft hotel beds, and other amenities, really roughing it.  We considered the matter carefully as we strolled next morning through Tel-Aviv’s downtown area, and got acquainted with its people.
 
Our first impression was not of a nation just out of a crushing attack at the Golan Heights, or stooping under a long drawn out war with its neighbors.  We saw the joy of freedom and the pride of achievement in the eyes and the expression of everyone we met.  “How do you like Israel?” and behind the stereotypical question, we could read the comments:  “Isn’t this wonderful?  See what we have accomplished?” as we strolled through streets lined with sidewalk cafés, where young and old people sat and talked loudly.  European-style stores and boutiques opened their doors, offering all sorts of merchandise – mostly Israeli-made
 
We climbed to the top floor of Shalom Tower for a splendid view of the city, aware now of the threat that hung in the air – terrorist attacks – when our bags and packages were searched by security guards posted at the entrance of every shopping mall, and public place.  People had grown accustomed to this, and were very conscientious about their security.
 
By nightfall we had decided to take our chances and rent a car.  The man from Hertz – having the most competitive prices and economical cars – put me in the driver’s seat of a brand-new Ford Cortina, assembled in Israel, and we took off under the bright blue sky of that Sunday morning, breathing air salty with sea-smell, to discover the glories of the past and the achievements of the present, feeling elated by the adventure we had embarked in.

Riding Out in Faith

We backtracked first to old Jaffa, ancient Egyptian and Canaanite port-city from which Jonah had sailed for his encounter with the whale.  Here too Jesus’ first disciples, Peter and Andrew were called to leave their fishing boats and follow him.  There, at lunch, we ate our first falafel, which is to Israelis what hamburger was to us.  Fried cakes – made of mashed chickpeas, mixed with chopped onions, garlic, parsley, coriander, salt, and pepper –  stuffed into a flat, round roll;  chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, pickles, and sometimes even coleslaw, give the finishing touches.  Pour hot tahini sauce over the whole thing, and you’ve got a meal tastier than a taco and more nutritious than a Big Mac for less than one dollar.
 
The highway connecting Tel-Aviv to Haifa runs parallel to the Mediterranean through modern towns like Netanya, basking in the sun of what is called the Israeli Riviera.  In the middle of March we could already go for a swim along stretches of white sandy beaches, bordering fancy neighborhoods.
From there on, the countryside becomes hilly and increasingly green, covered with forests.  We reached Haifa late in the afternoon, after visiting Mount Carmel, where the prophet Elijah lived in a cave still preserved under the dome of a beautiful church dedicated to Our Lady.  We wanted to make it to Akko (the famous Acco of the Crusaders) before dark, but we had to linger for a while in the restful Persian gardens of the Bahai Temple.  The aroma of pine, salvia, thyme, and jasmine wafted up in the crisp afternoon breeze, and blended with the laughter of a wedding party on the lawn.  We reached Akko at sunset, and -- strolling by the ancient battlements in the seashore -- we dreamed of knights and ladies fair, in pursuit of the Holy Grail.  We tried not to think of the bloody battles and the casualties on both sides.
 
We bought some dark bread, milk, peanut butter, oranges, and a can of tuna, and drove up the mountain in search of a place to spend the night.  It is a busy road, the one connecting Haifa to Kuneitra on the Golan Heights, and military trucks and tanks chugged continuously up and down the steep, winding hill.  We made it to the observation point atop the mountain at sunset, and gasped at the magnificent view below us of Akko and Haifa, 24 kilometers away.  The city shone brightly, cradled in the bay, the sunset enveloping everything in golden hues.
 
This was a nice rest stop, with restrooms and a grassy area, a perfect spot to spend the night, so after our frugal dinner, we crawled inside our sleeping bags and tried to rest our now weary bones, tired but satisfied – it had been a perfect first day, and we had spent less than 5 dollars! 
 
The heavy traffic kept me awake for a while, but soon exhaustion overcame the noise and I fell asleep, watching the stars shining through the windshield.  Suddenly I woke up with someone tapping on the side window.  I sat up, cracked the window, and saw a male soldier standing with a couple of other comrades, looking in.  He inquired what we were doing parked there, in Hebrew.  I asked if he spoke English.  He said he did, so I said that we were resting, sleeping, before going on our journey.
 
“American?” he asked.  I said yes, and he conferred with his comrades.
 
“But this is an uncomfortable, dangerous place for a woman to be sleeping!” he commented.
 
“It’s OK,” I said.  “I’m not alone.  My son is sleeping in the back seat.”  I didn’t mention that the son was 14 years old.  He looked in the back, at the still sleeping John.
 
“We’re still concerned with your safety,” he said.  “If you’d like, I can take you guys to my mother’s house, just down the road, and she’d be glad to put you up for the night…”
 
“Thank you so much, but we’ll be all right.  We’re used to traveling like this, and we want to go on to Jerusalem really early in the morning.”
 
“All right, then, but be very careful.  Do not open your door to anyone, and if you feel threatened, honk your horn, put your warning lights on, and yell for help.  The soldiers in the road will come to the rescue.”
 
I thanked him, they left, and I went back to sleep.  Birds woke me up at the first light of dawn.  I got up, stretched my cramped legs, and looked around.  We were high indeed –1,500 feet above sea level, according to a poster, and we could see as far as Tel-Aviv.  The plain of Zebulon stretched for miles below us, as far as the eye could see.  We were in the Galilean hills, covered with forests and blooming with all kinds of wild flowers.
 
At the picnic table, still moist with dew, we ate some of our bread with the milk, said our morning prayer, ate an orange each, and before 5 a.m. we started out, hoping to see a lot of the northern countryside that second day.  The cruel reality of war was inevitable, contrasting with the peacefulness of those hills.  All along the road we would see groups of soldiers, in full military gear, carrying machine guns, heavy rifles.  And the charred remains of tanks and trucks reminded us that not too long ago a full-scale war had raged in those hills.  We found it strange that the soldiers were asking for rides from the civilian drivers coming down the road.  One billboard on the right-of-way read:  “Driver, have you given a soldier a lift today? ”  We obliged, and soon had a carload of weary soldiers riding with us in their heavy boots and their automatic weapons.  John was thrilled, and chatted with the ones who could speak English.
 

Hazor and the Kibbutz experience


Our soldiers were on their way to the Golan Heights; security had been increased along the border with Syria.  Passover was coming, and the Israelis knew only too well that a time for rejoicing is also a time for watching; they kept us up on the latest news, and again reminded us to be careful, always on the alert for terrorists.  We arrived in Hazor, one of the oldest Canaanite towns, before 7 a.m.  Hazor had been at one time the capital of the Canaanite kingdom and later King Solomon’s royal city.  Perhaps the most interesting feature of the remains of that city is the underground water system. 

We descended 130 feet below sea-level to a tunnel that led to the water source outside the city walls.  In times of siege, those water systems meant the survival of the city’s inhabitants. 
Contrasting with the ruins in the National Park, Tel-Hatzor is the new, modern museum, built with the patronage of an American Jewish couple -- Ayala and Sam Zacks in 1966.   The exhibits show findings uncovered during the Tel-Hatzor’s archaeological excavations of the 1950s.  
As we waited for the museum to open, the caretaker asked me something in Hebrew.  When I stated my ignorance of the language, he rebuked me in perfect English:
 
“For shame! Don’t you say your prayers?  Every Jew who says his prayers will know enough Hebrew to get along in his own country!”
 
“I don’t doubt it.  Trouble is – I’m not Jewish.”
 
 He was surprised:  “You look Jewish…”
 
“I am starting to feel like a Jew!”  Perhaps centuries ago in Portugal, one of my ancestors was forced into conversion to Christianity, or perhaps did it willingly.  It’s known that names of trees and animals were used as last names to baptize these new converts.  My maiden name is one of those:  Pinheiro or, pine tree.”
 
“Poor Jewish people!” he sighed as he shook his head sadly.  “Persecuted, tortured, murdered, converted, slaughtered, and denied a homeland…”
 
He recommended that we have breakfast at the Kibbutz Ayelet Hashahar, and sold us a card that entitled us to visit every State, National Park, and Monument in Israel.  It cost us fifty cents.  Without the card we had already paid that much in entrance fees!  When we finished looking at the exhibits -- finds from the site and explanation of its history, as well as a model of ancient Tel-Hatzor, we did as he’d told us and headed for the kibbutz.  We were starved by then.
 
I had heard of kibbutzim before, but thought of them in terms of the 1950s shabby farms with makeshift buildings, put up in haste to house the returning Jews who had to live there and rough it, farming the land.  We drove up to the guest house, through wheat and corn fields, and vegetable plots, all emerald green.  The work day was already in progress.  Crops were being dusted by airplanes, cows milked in brand-new, shining-with-stainless-steel stalls, and more ground was being prepared for planting by modern tractors.  The guest house was an impressive building, with picture windows all around, surrounded by well-kept gardens blooming with exquisite plants and flowers. We walked into the immense dining hall.  Tables were littered with the debris of breakfast.  Young men and women laughed and sang, as they cleaned up.  We found a clean table, and soon they began bringing the food:  olives, pickles, fresh vegetable salad, smoked salmon, rolls, fresh butter, jellies, yogurt, cheeses, coffee, tea, and milk, scrambled eggs, all fresh and delicious.  We stared at the profusion with disbelief, as through my mind ran the words of the prophets about how God would bring them back to a land flowing with milk and honey, where they would eat and be satisfied.  So we ate as much as our hollow stomachs would support, and I was amazed when the man at the cash register told me two dollars for both of us.
 

Galilean Spring



It was with a spirit of reverence, awe, and wonder that we took the road south, toward the Sea of Galilee.  This was now for us holy ground; we couldn’t stop thinking that we were now following in Jesus’ footsteps.  We came upon the Mount of Beatitudes first – a beautiful church commanding a view of the plains and lake – its blueness enveloped still in the morning mists.  By the lakeshore there is a place called Tabgha, with a simple Franciscan church covering the rock where Jesus is said to have stood after his resurrection, and where he fed a multitude with a basketful of bread and fish.  The ancient Byzantine mosaic floor in the chapel depicts the two fishes and five loaves.  The mystical peacefulness of the place took hold of us.  We were absolutely alone, and speechless with emotion.  We could almost hear the voice of Rabbi Yeshua calling the poor, the peace-makers, the merciful -- blessed.  Pointing to all those beautiful flowers that even now bloomed all over the tender green grass to remind us how God provides for his creation and his little ones
 
We arrived in Nazareth in the middle of the afternoon, and suddenly everything changed.  This now was Palestine.  The faces in the street, the peacefulness of the fields, and even the civilized rush of Tel-Aviv and Haifa changed to the loudness of voices speaking a different language;  brown-skinned children ran barefoot through dusty streets amidst donkeys, chickens, and sheep; men wearing caftans and headdress; veiled women – it was like being back in Iran.  We rushed through the Church of the
Annunciation where a guide tried to convince us to go eat shish kabob with him. 
 
Instead, we visited Mary’s well and climbed one of the hills to see that breathtaking view on our own.  The city lay cradled in the hills, the plain of Esdraelon stretching all the way to Mount Tabor, before our eyes.  Just like in the Bible.  Woolly sheep munched on the soft new grass, sprinkled with flowers.  We thought of the young Miriam of Nazareth, standing on the hillside, tending the sheep, as the sun sank in the horizon, startled at an angel appearing before her with a greeting – Hail Mary, full of grace!  Back in town we also thought of a young child running barefoot through the dusty alleys, laughing and shouting like the town’s children.
 
By this time we had already filled our gas tank twice, each fill-up taking a considerable bite from our budget.  Of all the nations enduring the hardship of the Arab oil embargo, Israel was, of course, suffering the most.  One dealer told us that all the oil pumped out of the Sinai wells was being sent to Europe – Israel needed the money badly.  So the people just had to walk more;  with the price of gas at two dollars a liter, most people had no choice.  Thus I was becoming a little concerned about our fast-shrinking traveler’s checkbook.  Our stomachs grumbled for a full meal, and I was beginning to long for a hot bath and a good night’s sleep on a comfortable bed.  In this not so bright a mood we drove south of Nazareth, toward Beit-Shean.




Youth-Hosteling

It was then that we decided to try the Youth hostels.  The woman at the Ministry of Tourism in Tel-Aviv had told us about them, but I was reluctant to try.  I knew that in the U.S. and Europe only students under 25 years old could stay in hostels.  Although I was a student, with a university card, I was certainly way past the age limit.  But then it was getting dark, and we were hungry, and the area was getting less populated – this was the Jordan Valley, lusciously green and amazingly beautiful in early spring.  We were also close to the Jordanian border, where trouble frequently occurred.  We followed the signs for the Maayan Harod Hostel, and finally got there just before dark.  It was in a national park, one of King Herod’s resorts, where he and his court came to relax in pools heated by hot mineral springs. 

 Now a band of noisy young people – obviously some school on holiday – romped on the grassy slopes and splashed in the pools.  We finally found the hostel’s guardian.  He was a tough-looking fellow, who spoke only Hebrew and French, and the first thing I noticed was the .45 he wore conspicuously at his belt.  When we inquired if we could spend the night at the hostel, he simply asked for our passports, handed us a key and some bedclothes, and pointed to a low building near the park’s entrance.  The room was furnished with eight bunkbeds.  We made ours and walked over to the dining hall, as instructed.  Dinner – all we could eat of a hearty stew made of fresh root vegetables and tasty chunks of meat, served with all the brown whole wheat bread we could eat, plus orange juice to drink, cost $4 for both of us, and the price of the beds -- $5 – included breakfast the next day.  Not bad, for we were truly famished – all we had eaten all day was some fruit bought at the Nazareth’s bazaar.  On the way to the dining hall we noticed the first signs of the strictly enforced security we would find from then on.  All the workers wore guns, and signs warned guests to beware of any packages left unattended, suspicious or not.
 
After nice hot showers, we crashed on our bunkbeds and slept soundly until the bright sun shining through the windows woke us up.  After a hearty breakfast the next morning, we left for Beit-Shean, a city that has been inhabited for over 6,000 years.  Here the bodies of King Saul and his sons had hung from the walls.  The magnificent remains of the Roman theatre must be one of the best preserved in the world.  Beit-Shean was once wealthy Scythopolis, on the trade route of the East, one of the ten cities of the Decapolis.  We climbed the mountain-like mound, or tel, to see the ruins of the Canaanite and Israelite town at the top.  The view was breathtaking – if one still had breath to be taken after the climb.  Sprinkled with yellow flowers, the grassy slopes fell precipitously toward the valley, as the cool rapids below cascaded down toward the Jordan.  The only incongruous sight was the ever-present machine guns of the soldiers.
 
Meggido rises spectacularly out of the plain of Esdraelon.  An archaeological wonder – twenty different historical periods, from 4,000 B.C. to 400 B.C., were brought to light during the Rockefeller Foundation financed excavations, between 1925 and 1939.  Being situated in a strategic position, astride the great road from Egypt to Syria and Mesopotamia, it was the scene of mighty battles throughout history, right up to the First World War.  According to the prophecies in Revelation, it is here that the great final battle of Armageddon (a corruption of the Hebrew Har and Megiddo) will take place.  With the overwhelming sense that I was touching and trampling on the history of humanity, I limped on my now blistered feet through the magnificent halls of King Solomon’s fortified chariot-city and the remains of Hyksos and the Canaanite cities.
 

The Good Samaritan Rerun

And then we had to drive through Samaria – where one felt a lot less secure than in the Israeli-settled part of the country.  Where indeed, from time immemorial, the Jews traveling to Jerusalem had been fearful for their lives.  I remembered the story of James and John asking Jesus to send fire down from heaven to consume the inhospitable Samaritans; and the heartwarming episode of Jesus talking to a Samaritan woman, asking her for a drink from the well; and here we strangely and marvelously relived the parable of the Good Samaritan.
 
We stopped at Sebaste for a quick lunch, and then kept driving on down to Nablus, ancient capital of Samaria, where I planned to find an emergency clinic to get treatment for some badly infected blisters which by that time had left me almost unable to walk.  At the gas station where we filled up, I got directions to the local hospital, but somehow I missed it at the top of a long hill.  Feverish and in pain, I tried to ask for directions, but nobody understood  English, French, or German.  Even my reduced Hebrew vocabulary found no response.  I turned around and said to John:
 
“This is not good.  We really need help.  Only the Lord can help us here.  Let’s return to the gas station.  Pray!”
 
At that moment, a gentleman came across the road.  I must have looked at him piteously, because he walked up to my window and asked, in perfect English:
 
“May I help you?”
 
I sighed with relief and explained my situation, how I had gotten in the present condition, and he was immediately sympathetic and kindly offered to ride with us to the hospital’s emergency room where he’d try to find one of the doctors who was his friend.  The doctor came out immediately, and looked at my infected and badly swollen foot.  My Good Samaritan, Mr. Marbruk, and the doctor, got me to lie down on a stretcher, and the two of them disappeared for what seemed long minutes.  I looked at John, worried, but then they came back and Mr. Mabruk explained that this was a Friday, a holy day, and with the exception of real emergencies, everything was locked down, and they were having trouble finding some anesthetic for my foot.  I affirmed that I was in such pain, that whatever they had to do to clean the blisters would not cause any greater suffering.  The doctor started the procedure then, while Mr. Marbruk stayed at my side, and held my hand, throughout the whole ordeal of having the festering blisters lanced, cleaned, and dressed.
 
Because I was a tourist, I didn’t have to pay anything, not even for the antibiotics, and Mr. Marbruk insisted that we drive to his house and rest before we went on our way.  There I met his lovely wife and daughters, who settled us in comfortable chairs in their beautiful garden where we were served tea, and cake, cookies, nuts, orange juice, and all sorts of sweets.  We chatted about our adventurous trek through the country, the women astounded at my courage to be driving alone with a teenager, and about Arab-Israeli relations, and the history of Nablus.
 
“We do our best to co-exist with the Israeli occupiers,” Mr. Marbruk told us.  “If we are civil toward one another we have no problems.  But then there are the troublemakers.”
 
Mrs. Marbruk insisted that we spend the night with them, but I explained that I was anxious to get to Jerusalem, where I dreamed of arriving on Palm Sunday.  We thanked them profusely, promising to write, as Mr. Marbruk warned me about the dangers of stopping on the road, and not to trust hotels in the region, to try and get as close to Jerusalem as possible.
 
“If you do have to stop, look for a police station.  Stay in your car.”  We all hugged and kissed, and we departed.  I was more than a little choked up, as I asked John if he understood what Jesus, with the Marbruks help, had done for us.
 
“Healed your foot?”
 
“Well, not yet.  Do you remember the parable of the Good Samaritan?”
 
“Yep.  Well, I guess we were the actors in this one?”
 
“You bet.  Above all God wants to remind us not to discriminate against people, whether they are Jewish, Palestinian, Christian, Moslem, black or white.  We are all travelers on the road and we should always look after each other, as the Marbruks did for us.”
 
“Amen!” he said, smiling. “But we can discriminate against bad people, like the ones that didn’t help in the story?”
 
“Maybe…but even them might have had a reason not to stop and help.  Maybe they were too busy, or overzealous not to break any rules.”

"But love is the greatest rule, right?"

"You're a wise young man, son!"
 
We had about three hours of daylight left, and with luck we would have made it to Jerusalem, but the road was curvy and busy, my foot throbbed, and a light rain began to fall.  We arrived in Ramallah at night, and I told John that I could go no further.  I still had a fever, and my head hurt.  But where could we stay?  There were no hostels.  We came upon the local police station.  There were two military trucks full of soldiers and machine guns, and even a tank in front of it.  I asked if anyone spoke English.  One of the soldiers came forward.  He had a New York accent.
 
“Is there a place around here we can spend the night?” I asked.
 
“Are you tourists?”
 
“Yeah…” I answered.
 
He scratched his head.  "Well, there’s a hotel downtown, if you want to take the chances…”

“What do you mean -- take the chances?”
 
“This is a troublesome area, bad things happen around here all the time.  You know – bombs,
hostages, things like that.”
 
“Oh wow! Any other suggestions?”
 
“I suggest you go on to Jerusalem.  On the other hand, stay around, I’ll be off duty at midnight, we’ll go into town, eat a shish kabob, have a few drinks, and talk until morning.”
 
“What fun! But I really cannot.”  I showed him my bandaged foot and explained my health problem, and how I didn’t feel very well.  I said I’d rather park the car and sleep in it.  He then escorted me inside where he introduced me to the Palestinian officer in charge of the station, who also spoke English well.  I asked permission to park in the parking lot and spend the night there.  He found it very strange that I’d want to do that, when there was a very good hotel downtown.
 
“The trouble is, we don’t have too much money.  I’d rather sleep in the car and go to Jerusalem early in the morning,” I explained.
 
He showed concern for my hurt foot.  I suppose I looked rather tired and bedraggled.  I assured him that I’d be all right.
 
“You shouldn’t trust these Israeli soldiers.  They’re no good.  Just no good.”
 
“I’ll lock the doors.”

He thought for a while, and then went to speak with the police chief.  He bade me to sit down, and disappeared across the street.  After a while he returned.
 
“Turn your car around, and park in front of the station.  Then you guys come with me.  I found you a place to spend the night where you can be more comfortable.”
 
He took us to a house across the street.  We climbed the wooden staircase to the top floor, where a young man met us.  They talked in Arabic, and then we were shown into a room with two beds.  The place looked like a rooming house, or a pension.  In the living room a TV was showing a western movie.
 
“Is it good?” the captain asked about the room.
 
“It’s great, but how much will it cost?”
 
“Don’t worry about that,” he said, and I saw him slip the young man some money.
 
“Please let me pay you back,” I asked, when John and Yasser, the young man, had gone down to get our belongings.
 
“Listen – Ramallah is my country.  I am proud to have you here as my guests.  When you get to Jerusalem tomorrow, say a prayer for me, for all of us here.  Do you want anything to eat?  Some tea?”
 
“Tea would be great.” I had tears in my eyes.
 
When the boys came back, he helped carry our sleeping bags and clothes inside the room and told Yasser to bring us tea, milk, anything we might want.  Then he wished us good-night, and warned:

“Lock your door before you go to sleep.”
 
He left, and soon Yasser brought the little cups of tea on a tray. We ate jelly, peanut butter, and crackers we had brought from Iran, and stretched our sleeping bags on top of the not-so-clean bedding.  We fell into a deep sleep in no time.
 
Yasser took some time to ask us about America in the morning.  Like so many young men in that part of the world, he dreamed of one day going to America to study, or to work and get rich.  He told us his father had emigrated to Brazil, and being the oldest, he had to take care of his mother and sisters.  He gave me his father’s address in Brazil, and asked me to write to him and tell him that I had met his son, and that all was well with them, and to come home – everyone missed him.  He also told me that although things in Palestine were better than before, it was very sad that they didn’t have a country of their own anymore, and were instead the “slaves” of the Israelis.
 
We had more tea and cookies, and said goodbye to our new friend.  Yasser said we didn’t have to pay anything; the captain had paid for it all. At the station, the captain had gone off-duty, but I left my address and a message of thanks for my Good Samaritan.  I also humbly thanked God for this most wonderful experience of his love and care.  My foot was healing, I had no fever, nor pain, and I had now this most sacred memory to treasure.  Up to that point, my interest and pursuit was basically scientific – archaeology and the history of the places we had visited.  But now a new dimension had been unfolded for me.  This was God’s country, Jesus’ people, whose stories he had told his disciples, teaching us how we must love and care for one another, selflessly.  And here God was showing us how He could take care of our needs through the kindness of strangers.  As I started down the road under the now clear blue sky, I shared my thoughts with my son, and we prayed the Lord’s Prayer, full of gratitude, and peace.
 

The Jericho Guide

The road from Ramallah to Jericho waves through the terraced Judean hills.  Here one reels back to biblical times.  People dressed in robes and brightly striped headdresses, sedately guide their mule-pulled plows. Barelegged children ride donkeys in the dusty roads, alongside long-skirted women carrying water jugs and firewood on their heads.
 
Ageless Jericho is an oasis amidst the barren hills.  Believed to be the oldest city in the world, it was Joshua’s first conquest in the land of Canaan after crossing the desert from Egypt.  To Jericho Joshua sent his spies who came back loaded with produce from the land that flowed with milk and honey.
When we went to visit the walls that had fallen at the sound of the Hebrew trumpets, we made another interesting acquaintance.  He was a small, withered old man, full of vigor and vivacity.  He came to offer his services as a guide.
 
“You American? Speak English?” he asked. 
 
“Yes…” I answered.
 
“Me guide.  Me show you all Jericho.  Me show you beautiful synagogue nobody knows about.”
 
“Well, thank you, that’d be lovely, but we can do it on our own.  We don’t have much time,” I answered, knowing there would be a price for his services.
 
“Me guide here for sixty year.  Me boy when start guiding.  German peoples, French peoples, all come here and me guide them.  Me learn French, German, English, Hebrew, from guiding peoples.”
He followed us into the compound, talking incessantly.
 
“German, French, American, British peoples pay me seven, eight, ten dollars for guiding.  Me very good guide.  Me know all about Jericho.”
 
“Is that so?  Well, thank you very much, but we can’t possibly pay you.  We just have to do it on our own.  The Bible is our guide.”
 
That didn’t discourage him, for he followed us on, explaining about the buildings, about how one could tell the difference between a Canaanite and a Israelite building by the way the stones were laid on top of each other.  He also pointed out how the Crusaders built theirs, borrowing stones, pieces of columns, and whatever they’d found lying around.
 
“Listen, Mr. Ahmed, don’t you think that you may be missing some tourists that can pay you for your services? We’re just poor students.  We just really cannot afford to pay a guide!”
 
He shrugged and kept on telling us the history of each wall, each foundation.  Then he showed us to the top of a hill, from where we could see the actual city of Jericho, with its wall that had fallen at the sound of the Hebrew trumpets.
 
“Jericho is valley full of flowers, date trees, almond trees.  All drinks from spring.  People drink from spring, animals drink from spring, trees and flowers drink from spring.  Whole Jericho drinks from spring.”  He gave us a drink from the spring.
 
We were stuck with him.  Noticing my hurt foot and how I was limping, he cut a tough branch from an almond tree and fashioned a cane for me.  Then he guided us to see the synagogues and Sheik Hisham’s Palace – a marvel of Islamic architecture destroyed by an earthquake long ago.  Then he invited us to eat breakfast at a small Arabic restaurant.
 
“You eat now true Arabic breakfast,” he said, showing us how to eat the chick-pea paste with the flat bread, while sipping cardamom tea from tiny cups.
 
“This is real good food for you.  Chick-peas with lemon and olive oil good for you.  You going to Dead Sea?  Dead Sea good for you.  You go there, get on water, foot be good as new again.  Salt good for hurt foot.”
 
And he’d look around, proud to be in such good speaking terms with his American tourists.  He wanted to take us somewhere else, but I absolutely refused, saying we had to return the car in Jerusalem the next morning.  I paid for the breakfast, and gave him a couple of dollars after all, thanking him so much for his kindness.
 
“You go to Jerusalem, return car, then come back to Jericho tomorrow, with bus.  Car  too expensive, anyway.  Bus cheaper.  Me take you in my car to Dead Sea.  You come tomorrow, OK? ”
 
“Sure!” I answered, to get rid of him.  I gave him a hug, though.  “We’ll be right here.”

 

Tempted at the Mount

At the Mount of Temptation I couldn’t resist climbing to the summit where an old Greek Orthodox monastery stands, perched on the rocks.  Of the community that once amounted to more than one hundred men, five monks are left; living up there, in the middle of the wilderness, with hardly any human contact – the monastery is almost completely inaccessible, except for those with strong legs and a lot of determination.  But the view from the top is fantastic.  Here Jesus had spent forty days and forty nights, fasting and praying.  Here those men – dedicated to prayer and worship, live in sacrifice and self-denial.  We were shown around by the white-bearded monk, who gave us to drink from the spring flowing from the rocks.  He told us that someone from the village would bring them food once a week.  They baked their own bread.
 
Then we climbed down, the warm sun making sweat roll down our faces.  We got to our car and had an unpleasant surprise – I had locked the car keys in!
 
“Oh my God!”  I said to John. “What are we going to do?  We’re miles away from civilization, and the monks have no phone!”
 
“It’s hot!  We’ll die from thirst!  How could you do this, Mom?  Do we have to wait for a week for someone to come to the rescue?”
 
I had left the windows cracked because of the heat, but I had nothing in my bag to help in any way.  I lifted up my eyes to heaven and prayed:
 
“Lord Jesus, you were tempted here, and Satan told you to leap down from this mountain, that the angels would hold you up.  We need an angel now, Lord.  Deliver us from this mess, please!”
 
John had walked to the wire fence at the foot of the walking path.  I followed him, and he said to look for a loose piece of metal.  I walked a few feet and found one.  John bent it back and forth until it broke off.  But it was only a 3 inch piece of wire.
 
“Look in your bag,” he said.  “See if you have a piece of string.”  I had dental floss.
 
That future mechanical engineer made a hook at both ends of the wire, broke off a length of dental floss, and we walked back to the car.
 
“Pray hard!” he said, as he dangled his apparatus from the crack on the window and swung it back and forth.  I was on the second Hail Mary when the hook caught on the closed peg and the door miraculously was opened.
 
“Baruch ha-shem!” I exclaimed, as I hugged and kissed my resourceful son.  “Thank you, Jesus and John!”

 

Driving through the desert to the Dead Sea

Coming down from the Judean hills to the Dead Sea is a truly unforgettable experience.  The surroundings change completely from verdant oasis to a salt desert.  In one of the many caves around the Qumran area, a shepherd found the invaluable Dead Sea scrolls.  We descended 1,300 feet below sea level, the lowest place on the planet, and suddenly the sea appeared out of the brown earth, sparkling like a precious sapphire in the sun.  Salt sculptures were an interesting attraction along the shore, reminding us of what had happened to one over-curious and disobedient woman – Lot’s wife.
Its surface smooth as polished glass, the sea sparkled with myriad specks of light.  We stood there, mesmerized.  At the resort town of Ein-Gedi, we stopped to try the amazing experience of swimming in that strangest pool.  All one has to do is sit and lie back, and the magical waters that have the feel of heavy cream, hug you, cradle you in their arms, and make you float, without any effort.  And after getting out, one has to march immediately to the showers provided on the beach, otherwise one turns into a salt sculpture immediately.
 
It was a beautiful moonlit night, and we decided to sleep on the beach, under the stars.  Other people were doing the same, and we joined two Hebrew University students from France, who had a guitar.  We sang folk songs into the night, and went to sleep when the moon set in the horizon.  I woke up at dawn and just sat in utter awe, watching the east light up in different shades of pink and orange, until the sun came up in glory.  We had a long way to go, so we started early.  It was a hot day, and the desert sun was burning, even in the early morning.
 
After eating breakfast at the modern cafeteria, while watching Henry Kissinger’s helicopter take off, we drove down again, toward the Negev desert.  The heat increased as we went further south. And suddenly Masada loomed before us, a massive rocky fortress, impressive and disturbing.   My knowledge of its history was sketchy, so John read to me from the tourist book, while I drove to the parking lot at its base.  Contrary to the Mount of Temptation, this modern tourist facility had an escalator to facilitate the climb to its top. 
 
Masada – King Herod’s fortress and refuge during wars – had been the last stand of Israelites against the Roman army invaders after the fall of Jerusalem.  It was a somber review of the abandoned quarters where men, women, and children chose to die, rather than surrender and be killed by the Romans.  We came down again with a heavy heart.
 
On the way to Avdat, we hit a sandstorm.  Heaven and earth were enveloped in dust – greyish like moon dust – and suddenly we found ourselves riding a cloud of sand, the high winds whipping it against the sides of the car.  I had no idea where the road was, and could see nothing around us.  But I had learned in Iran that you do not stop in a sand storm, or you might be buried, or blown away, like in a tornado.  We kept rolling, blindly on, and then it was over.
 
 John looked at the map and told me to make a left turn into a side road and suddenly, like on a movie, we found ourselves in a breathtaking oasis in the middle of that desert. Stream of limpid water flowed from the rocks, verdant grass full of blooming exotic flowers, palm trees, almond trees, and the sweet perfume of lilies of the valley.  We stretched our cramped limbs, drank from the fountain, dusted ourselves and the car off, and lay out in the warm sun, contentedly.  We were utterly alone in Paradise.
 
We had a few hours of daylight left and several miles to ride back to Ber-Sheeva and Ashkelon. That would bring us back full circle, and we decided we’d better save more time for Jerusalem, instead of driving all the way to Eilat.  We found a campground by the beach, rented a cabin for the night, and dined on olives, cold baked beans, bread, nuts and wonderful Jaffa oranges.  In the coolness of the night, looking at myriad stars under the darkened sky, we slept under the shadow of the wings of Almighty God, who had kept us safe and totally overflowing with thankful hearts.
 
In the morning we sat at the breakfast table and talked about how absolutely overwhelmed we were by the beauty of the country, the diversity of its landscape, the kindness of its people, the energy, happiness and enthusiasm of its settlers.  And we understood why this people had remained loyal and kept their faith, against all odds;  against oppression, enslavement, persecution, exile, rejection, un-relented hatred, and the final solution slaughter of the Holocaust.  They were God’s chosen people then, and were God’s people now, again a remnant, but a faithful remnant, that had come through fire and water, from the edges of total extermination, back to this Promised Land.  If we indeed had, in our chromosomes, a link to family ties with this people, we would gladly assume our heritage and be proud of it.

 

Yerushalaym my love






 
Thankful to go to Jerusalem, at last, at such an auspicious time – the Jewish Passover and the Christian Easter coincided exactly that Holy Year – made this a very special spiritual pilgrimage for us Catholics.  And, above all, there was peace in the land.
 
Bethlehem was disappointing.  In its eagerness to protect the holy places, the Greek Orthodox Church has covered them with cold marble bathed in incense fumes forever.  One can’t really associate the mausoleum-like Church of the Nativity with the place where Baby Jesus was laid in a manger.  The fact that the Basilica is the oldest in all Christendom may account for its being built like a fortress, in defense of the holy places from the hands of the infidel.  It’s a relief to walk out to Shepherds’ Field and breathe the pure air, sweet with the memories of Ruth and Boaz, of the little shepherd boy David, and of angels singing their song of peace to humans besieged by war and slaughter throughout the ages.
 
Passing on the shadow of Rachel’s Tomb and through the Valley of Hinnom, we came to Mount Sion and Jerusalem’s walls.  Crowds of people  – tourists, natives, pilgrims – filled the streets and the square in front of the Jaffa Gate.  We drove around, trying to find the Youth Hostel where we hoped to find room.  Fortunately, I was accepted – on my old Auburn University ID card – which the warden preferred to my most recent graduate student ID from Pahlavi University.  Thus a very expensive short stay in Jerusalem turned into an exciting week of sightseeing for about $20, including
breakfast, for the two of us.
 
We had one more day of rent in the car, so we drove off the next morning to see another one of King Herod’s fortresses – the Herodion – and the surrealistically beautiful Beth-Guvrin caves, the filming site of the Jesus Christ Superstar movie.  The man-made caves resulted from years of cutting blocks of limestone for building purposes.  It’s a beautiful, peaceful place:  fields sprinkled with red poppies, daisies, wild irises, and numerous other flowers and shrubs – God’s own little garden.
Back in Jerusalem, we set out to visit this sacred city – adorned as a bride, shining in the sun as carved in jasper and onyx –as we reverently approached it from Mount Sion.  And then we entered the city walls through the Jaffa Gate, and instantly wished we could stay there forever.
 
There is a mystical enchantment about this walled piece of holy ground that takes hold of one’s soul.  Here Moslems, Jews, and Christians of every denomination have lived in friendly cooperation, even in the midst of Israel’s worst times.  And now, when the holy city had gone back to the descendants of King David, this sense of unity, of the disappearance of barriers of language, costumes, and prejudices is truly amazing, at least as we talked to the local people.  Whether one worships at the Basilica of the Holy Sepulcher, at the Dome of the Rock, or at the Wailing Wall, one feels God’s presence most intensely, as one feels the suffering, the contradictions, the faith and hope of mankind.
We walked through the streets teeming with people, speaking loudly in every language of the world, selling their wares, souvenirs and other relics.  We bought gifts to take back home, and a new pair of sandals for my achy feet; large pilgrim crosses for our necks, rosaries, among other things.  Then we ate our falafels, and bought supplies to take to the hostel for snacks.  Filled with joy and expectation, we walked around like we belonged to the place. 

John insisted that he wanted to pray at the Wailing Wall.  It'd be like a Bar-mitzvah for that 14 year old, so I bought him a yarmulke and watched from the women's side as he placed his special note on the rocky wall.  I did not care to go inside the Dome of the Rock.  To me it is the abomination on the sacred Temple mount, I said to John.  I knew that all around its wall there'd be inscriptions about Allah being one and having no son.  I wanted nothing to do with it.
 
We entered the coolness of the Dormition Abbey instead, and followed a group of tourists being guided around down to the crypt where the body of Mary, the holy Mother of Jesus, was laid down by the caring hands of her Son’s disciples and apostles.  The air was cool, and perfumed by incense and flowers.  In semi-darkness, the only light being the oil lamps by the slab of stone where they had laid her lifeless-looking body, I knelt at a pew in silence and awe, as the words of a prayer failed me.  I remembered the story I had read, as a teenager, about how the disciples who had protected Mary while she lived, as the very presence of their Rabboni’s flesh and blood among them, had covered her body with roses, and not knowing if she was really dead, as she appeared to be only asleep, left her that night, in sorrow. 

At that time I still struggled with the Protestant prejudices about Catholic near adoration of the Mother of our Savior, but my love and appreciation for her brave YES to the announcing angel of the Lord, for her fortitude through the many trials that commitment had brought to her life, for her courageous last stand at the cross when she cradled in her arms the body of the Son she knew was hers and God’s, and for her final joy when she embraced his resurrected body, convinced me that she was indeed a treasure for Jesus and his followers, for me, her daughter, who now knelt at this place and asked her to give me a sign that she was indeed alive and at work, body, soul and spirit, Queen of Heaven, and Mother of us all who believed.
 
I remembered how the disciples had returned the next day and found that her body was gone, and only the roses remained.  Nowhere in Christendom would the bones of Miriam of Nazareth be found, even as she was already venerated as the Most Holy Mother of God.
 
My folded hands rested on top of the pew I was kneeling at, and I felt something under my hand.  Beads.  Olive wood carved little rosary, the small kind one held around one’s fingers.  A  gift?  Something forgotten by a careless pilgrim?  A sign!  My fingers curled around it and I held it to my lips.  Ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum! Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb -- Jesus!  Holy Mother of God, pray for me a sinner, now and at the hour of my death.  Amen!
 
It was a most holy week indeed.  On Thursday we visited the Upper Room, that cenacle where Jesus ate his last Passover with his disciples, and where he consecrated the bread and wine as His own body and blood to be poured out for our salvation.  Then we followed the crowds to the Mount of Olives and Gethsemane, where we prayed through the night at the Church of All Nations.  The Church of Saint Peter in Gallicantu reminded us of Jesus’s suffering as he was arrested and brought to the High Priest, thrown down to the pit where prisoners were kept till they could be sentenced.  There Peter, the rock where Jesus built his Church, denied three times that he knew him.
 
On Friday we went to the Antonia, the Roman fortress where Jesus was tortured and flagellated, condemned to be crucified by Pontius Pilate, to placate the fury of the reigning High Priest.  And in sad remembrance, we followed the Stations of the Cross all along the Via Dolorosa, pilgrims from all over the world taking turns to bear the heavy cross, while singing and praying with tears of sorrow
for our sins.
 
After that we relived the tragic hours at Calvary, the descent from the cross, the burial at the Holy Sepulchre.  It was late when we sadly walked back to the hostel, in silence, under the brightness of a full moon.  We had nothing to eat that day.
 
Saturday was a day of rest.  Being the Jewish Passover, all stores, restaurants and businesses were closed.  After our frugal breakfast of Matzo and tea, I told John I was going to go back to the Garden Tomb and pray.  John said he was tired and was going to go back to bed and rest the rest of the morning.  We had been told that there’d be no dinner that evening, and the hostel would be closed until sundown.  We could stay in, but if we’d go out, we could not return.  John said he’d meet me at Holy Sepulchre by noon, so we could find something to eat.
 
 

Encounter with Mary and the Lost Child


At noon I was there, faithfully waiting for him.  The bells tolled at midday, thirty past and then 1:00 o’clock.  No sign of John.  I walked around the neighborhood’s empty streets, looking for him.  No John.  By three o’clock I became concerned, and walked back to the hostel.  All doors and windows, closed.  I knocked and knocked at the door.  Nobody opened it.
 
Panicked now, I went back to the places we had been the day before, in case he had forgotten where to meet me.  No signs of him.  Thoughts were flying through my head – kidnapped, held as hostage, disappeared.  And how would I ever call my husband and tell him I had lost our son, left him alone and vulnerable, not protected him?  I entered a small Franciscan chapel and fell on my knees before Mary’s statue, holding the lifeless body of her son.
 
“Mother,” I prayed.  “You know my anguish.  You also lost your twelve year old son, and looked for him all over Jerusalem!  Please help me find John… I promise to be a better mother and never, ever, leave him on his own again!  Forgive my carelessness!”  At that moment the church’s bell struck six o’clock, the Angelus, and I remembered the door of the hostel would be open and I could go back for help, for direction on what to do.
 
I ran back to the hostel.  The door was indeed open, and I heard voices.  As I walked in the dining room, a few of the hostel’s youngsters were sitting at the table, talking and laughing, munching on matzot.  John was among them.  I ran in and hugged him tight, weeping.
 
“What’s the matter, Mom?” he asked, surprised.
 
“Where have you been?  I was looking for you all over Jerusalem!”
 
“I am sorry, Mother. I slept most of the day… Got up just a few minutes ago… why do you worry so much? I was just here talking to my friends…”
 
Thank you, Lord, I thought to myself.  One more little reminder of how we can be part of your own Story…how believable it all can be!
 
Early on Sunday morning all Jerusalem’s bells pealed for joy.  Hallelujah!  Christ is Risen!
High Mass at the empty Tomb was celebrated by the Vatican’s Envoy, with the mighty sound of the organ and the choir singing Alleluias at the top of their voices, sending shivers through our bodies.  The only regret was that our time was up, and we should leave the next day.
 
That same night we boarded the bus to Tel-Aviv.  It had been a most inspiring, most wonderful experience!  We had just enough money to get back to Shiraz, and we had to spend the night sitting in the airport’s lounge where we had lots of company – youngsters and their families lying around the floor – while we comforted our hungry stomachs with the matzos from the box the hostel’s hosts had provided us with, as we thought of the meal we would have on the airplane – even though it would be only El-Al’s matzos…
 
And as our plane flew over the city in the morning, I looked out toward Jerusalem with longing, and repeated in my heart the words of the psalmist:
 
If I ever forget you, Jerusalem, let my right hand be withered
If I don’t make Jerusalem my highest joy.
Peace be within your walls, in your streets -- peace!  Shalom, Yerushalayim…






 TO BE CONTINUED