I arrived at Jerusalem’s central bus station about 10 after 2, to catch the 2:45, the next to last bus to Beit Shean on a Friday afternoon before inter-city Egged buses stop traveling for the Shabbat. The bus station has passed its peak of busy-ness by this hour and it is peopled mostly by youngsters, those under 25, and me an old fart. No Hebrew Haaretz in the book store, so I bought the English version and sit and watch the rushing kids. My calm is in contrast to yesterday’s mad rush to reach Beit Shemesh. (Two of my three sisters live in or near Beit Sh’ cities; one lives near Beit Shean and one lives in Beit Shemesh and I often switch the names unwittingly.) I sit, read, watch the crowds and eat a tomato. The air quality sucks in the building- all those buses and opening doors to their fumes. So when I finally board the bus around 2:30 and breathe its air conditioning, I breathe easy. When the bus exits the building with its artificial indoor lights and enters Jerusalem and its Middle Eastern sun, my heart leaps, alive again.
He who was raised reading about Abraham, Jeremiah, Moses and Jesus and remains unaffected by the Jerusalem to Jericho journey– which, yes, travels through occupied territory– must be an atheist or hard hearted. Not me. It sends me. It amazes me some times to focus on the primary Guinness Book of Records specialty of Israel and Palestine- the lowest spot on earth. (Not a metaphor!) The trek from Moriah, the temple mount in Jerusalem, down to that lowest spot, through the mountainous desert with thorns, Bedouins and their goats tossed in. Modern city planners 21st century environmentally insensitive bureaucrats making mincemeat crushing Bedouins: politics invades my thoughts, but floats away as quickly. Monotheism was born in the desert and mountains, with their thorns and lightning, their singularities. Not in the jungle with its multiplicity of plants and animals. I think these thoughts instead.
Imagine going down the mountains to the Jordan River from Jerusalem, letting the spirit run right through you and preaching with your voice box bellowing “Return to God, o’ Israel!”
“When God returns our return, it is like sudden torrents in the Southern Negev desert. They who sow with tears, will reap with joy.” The “return” of the Baptist yields to the “return” of the Psalmist (Chapter 126) and an old religious tune comes to mind. But I reject the promise of emotional tears as the Egged bus accelerates and wrenches my sensitive stomach.
That Psalm was “supposed” to be the Israeli anthem, if not for “Hatikva”, I’ve read recently in discussions about changing the anthem. That Psalm precedes the Grace after a Meal on Sabbath and holidays. On weekdays it is the mournful “on the rivers of Babylon” that is sung instead. (Psalms 137) How can one divorce Zionism from Judaism, when these Psalms accompany every meal? And by Zionism I do not mean the Zionism as practiced, but I do mean, Zion as central to Jewish thought and longing, not just a symbol, but an actual place. But I have seen the actual place and for hundreds of years those who sang those Psalms never had seen the actual place.
And another Zionist thought pops up: When the Romans ethnically cleansed the Jews from Jerusalem, is than not an exile? How can you close off Jerusalem from people and not call it an exile? (A thought that cuts both ways.)
After approaching the Dead Sea (and the ecological crisis it is being subjected to by thirsty Israel), our bus turns left and heads north and the heat of the Jordan Valley challenges the bus’s air conditioning to a wrestling match for the rest of the trip. It had taken me a few minutes once I had been on the bus, while it was still in the terminal, to figure out where to sit- afternoon, heading north, the sun rises over Jordan and sets over California, so I sat on the right side of the bus to minimize exposure to the painful sun.
I can’t read on a moving bus without inducing nausea so I stare out the window.
The Palestinian town of al-Awja and its Arabic signs awakens thoughts of that language. I won’t get fully up to speed in Arabic (or my highest Arabic proficiency of 2 years ago) in my remaining 6 weeks here. In New York City, where I live most of the year, it is Yiddish I enjoy studying rather than Arabic. Although soon practicality will probably force me to study Spanish instead. But Arabic is a Jerusalem language longing for me and not a New York longing.
The mere fact of traveling on an Egged bus through the West Bank quite probably violates the Geneva Convention. It is (aside from East Jerusalem and Highway 443) one of the few exceptions I make regarding “incursions” into occupied territory. But whereas Highway 443 is mere expedience, the trip of this bus is not just a time saver, but also a distinct topographical experience.
Across the barbed wire fences a few kilometers away are Jordanian cities. But first come the bridges between the West Bank and Jordan. Jeser (Arabic) and Gesher (Hebrew) are the same word. Have they renamed the Allenby Bridge for King Hussein? The bombed but barely functional Allenby Bridge and Palestinians heading to Jordan across it in the aftermath of the ’67 war: That photo image towards the back of the Life Magazine special edition on the Six Day War, and the accompanying caption was the first time I really heard about the Palestinian refugee problem, when I was almost 12.
When the bus crosses the check point back into Israel proper I call my brother-in-law that I am almost there. When I get off the bus, less than two miles short of Beit She’an, by the Kibbutz Junction, the furnacelike heat of the Jordan Valley hits me. I start the trek to the kibbutz on foot, but after a few minutes my brother-in-law picks me up in an air conditioned car and my social self is called back into action.
“He who was raised reading about Abraham, Jeremiah, Moses and Jesus and remains unaffected by the Jerusalem to Jericho journey– which, yes, travels through occupied territory– must be an atheist or hard hearted.”
And what a better world it would be if there were more atheist and hard-hearted, and fewer people who have your reaction to a piece of land because it appeared in bronze-era myths. How much blood is soaked into that ground over which your bus runs for no other reason than because of the damned religions??
It’s very interesting that this piece, written by a Zionist, comes the day after Mondoweiss gets attacked for being anti-Semitic. So interesting that it almost doesn’t look like a coincidence.
Great post, Yonah, a refreshing perspective here (and compliments to the editors).
Yonah, after Beit Shemesh and Beit Shean, I’d like to invite you to another BS town: Beer Sheva. The MW editors can provide my personal email address.