7/13/07
Today was our first real field trip. Visual Geography. We started at Seven Arches Overlook (just over where Schindler is buried,) went up to the Augusta Victoria Hospital and Church, we ate lunch at another overlook on the other side of the city, went to Nabi Samwil (tomb of the prophet Samuel,) and then went back to the center to look at each of the model cities of Jerusalem during various periods. From 8:00 am to 4:00 pm. Sack lunch. Bus ride. Windy. Cloudless Sky. Sunny. Hot (except for early morning when the breeze was brisk and cold—I loved it).
Ate lunch with four returned sister missionaries, all of whom were discussing their missions, how they felt there and coming home, training others, whitewashing, etc. Really cool. One of them wants to be a Midwife. Another of the four has lived outside for 9 months of her life backpacking with troubled youth. They’re all so awesome.
The buses are comfy—for buses. I wore my SPF 50; we’ll see if it works. I love my Indiana Jones hat—it’s brilliant. Especially the fact that the body of the hat is netting—lets the breeze circulate. SO great. We all know why archaeologists wear the darn things, but now I’ve experienced it first hand. I also endorse the “Camelbak.” Best purchase I’ve made for this trip, and the best invention of the latter 20th century. No, really. Brilliant. Stows everything I need easily, has earphone holes for my headset, carries water so I don’t have to and all the while provides easy access to water “without my even having to touch it.” …the pack that is… I do have to bite and suck on the straw-apparatus-thing. Holds all my books, extra batteries, camera, lunch, etc. It’s fabulous.
As for what we did…
SEVEN ARCHES OVERLOOK: Facing the west and the golden gate, looking over the old city, we sat in the shade in a stone amphitheater and discussed the lay of the land. Elevation: 2560 ft (Kidron Valley below sits at 700ft), shaded, brisk breeze, 8:10am, Most of the girls were cold and had goosebumps… I thought it was blissful. Most of the boys did too.
We discussed the fact that all Jerusalem Limestone oxidizes over time—the white stones transform to a golden hue, and when the sunlight hits it, well you can imagine. This is why the city is often called, “Jerusalem of Gold.”
AUGUSTA VICTORIA Complex:
The Augusta Victoria Complex was commissioned by the Kaiser, and named after his wife. There is a hospital, a church, a Lutheran-Arabic kindergarten, and a few other things in the “complex,” one of many church areas commissioned by the Kaiser in the Holy Land. Like the Crusaders, he wanted the Protestant church to have a representation in the Holy Land, but rather than massacring innocents he built hospitals, schools, and churches. Set on Mt. Scopus (directly behind the Jerusalem Center,) the complex has extensive grounds and exquisite architecture.
It is German. Very very German. I thus might have the teensiest bias, but this Church instantly won my heart. Totally and one-hundred percent my favorite place to be in Jerusalem (outside the homey feeling of the center…) (since I’ve been here.) Certainly my favorite cathedral-ish church.
So unlike the Church of the Holy Sepulchure, and in such a good way. It was bright, open, and classic—solid, but with grace. A large organ. Stained glass windows on the sides. Domed sections of roof in cross-shape. Black and white stone floor. Arches everywhere. Mosaics set into the ceiling and upper walls. The architecture, vibrant and contrasting colors of the stone and walls, the mosaics and murals, the intricate carvings of stone archways, the still calm and quite beauty that did not call attention to itself—the building speaks for itself. And unlike the other shrine-like Christian places in the city, the Augusta Victoria felt more like an LDS chapel—centered on worship, not show. High on the walls above the forward apex of the church there are three depicted scenes from Christ’s life—the nativity to the left, the crucifixion to the right, and the ascension in the center (the latter shows him flanked by two angels fashioned to look like Moses and Elijah).
The ceiling is… ohhh. Look at the picture. It’s crooked, faded, and doesn’t do it justice, but I was rushed. I didn’t even take any pictures of the chapel apex—ANY—because we had our tour, and we needed my hymn book for trying out the acoustics, and because I’d already organized a group to go back. Hee hee. A Chur-mahn lady gave us the historical tour, explaining a few details about why the Kaiser took such an interest, how the building came to be, and all about the artwork (not in, but) on the building—including explanations of what artwork was depicted, which apostles are where, where Solomon, Daniel, and Elijah’s representations are, as well as why key figures from the Crusades were present. I was tearing up when she mentioned that the nativity-crucifixion-ascension murals were replicas of the originals in Germany…that are no longer there, having been destroyed in WWII. She described this church as a preservation of German history in addition to its other purposes.
After the tour she told us to sing if we’d like to. And we did. After I Believe in Christ, and I Know that My Redeemer Lives, I made everyone sing Silent Nacht—I mean, night. The familiar German melody carried particular resonance throughout the hall. Next I sang a duet (only two of us knew the tune) of “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” with James Archibald, another good singer here at the center. We selected this piece, as you may have guessed, because it was written by Martin Luther. Very applicable. My family was on my mind as I sang and sang and sang. I cannot wait to sing there again! The lovely place is already a part of my heart. I love it dearly. I cannot wait to return. Luckily a few other singers want to go back with me, including Greg (who did know A Mighty Fortress, but was not present at that time,) James, and Lauran (an alto who was in Women’s Chorus with me).
The Augusta Victoria Bell Tower has an elevation of 2810 ft. About 220ft higher than the ground. Looking out the East Face we saw Jordan and the Dead Sea (a ways off.) Out the other sides we saw the Jordan River and the Separation wall, Jericho, the Judean Plains and more. Up so high there was a breeze swirling around us and the two large bells. Now I wonder if and when they ring them. I should have asked. I’ll be sure to the next time I go. I know it sounds strange that while I’m in a land where the Muslim call to prayer is sung and broadcast over the landscape multiple times a day I wish I could hear bells… but I do. Bells are a balm for the soul. I know too that I should be reveling in the foreign cultures here—lapping up the experience—and I have found a place for me to be. A Niche. And the center is home. No! The center is like a home. The best replacement there is to be had—better than even an apartment building in Provo. And while the great and grand opportunities are here for now, mine for the taking, never to be had again—this place is still another land far away from home.
In the musical Beauty and the Beast, when Belle first realizes that she will be staying with the Beast in his palace, she sings these words:
“Is this home? Is this where I must learn to be happy? Never dreamed that a home could be dark and cold. I was told everyday in my childhood, ‘even as we grow old, home will be where the heart is.’ Never were words more true. My heart’s far far away…home is too.”
And that is quite the way I feel. And like Belle I surmise I shall grow to find this land most pleasant—a joy. To quote another of my favorite movies…”I’m told that in twenty years I’ll look back on these times with fondness and nostalgia. …I hope so. (phrased with bitter sarcasm).” Quite frankly that’s how I feel. I know I’m supposed to desperately love where I am. And I do. Just not enough for me to want to stay. I love the people, but not the land. I want to see more, do more, be more—HERE. And I must. And I will. Cheerfully and without complaint. But I cannot force myself to feel in love with my location. I love it’s history… but “it is not now that strength which in the old days moved earth and heaven,” as Longfellow put it. I find it all every fascinating. But it isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve also found that my old hopes, dreams, and demons have followed me here. Here! Here to a place I am altogether less equipped to deal with them than before. Here where I have no defense, no hope of falsifying happiness.
Oh, blah! Drig, drag, and bellowhurst I’m talking like a nimsy. Goodness knows how bored you must have been with that woe is me tirade. I’m sure you all think I’m pathetic to boot. I just need to pull up my britches, find something to be thankful for, and stop listening to that voice in my head that tells me how I feel. My personal feelings don’t matter anyway, right? Right.
HAAS PROMENADE OVERLOOK:
We ate lunch here. It was sunny and hot. I ate lunch with four returned sister missionaries and they shared with me bits about their experiences…very nice. We had to pay a shequel to use the bathroom—and the doors had giant strawberry stickers on them. One of my friends snidely asked if they were scratch and sniff—and I instantly decided that they were snozberries. And they are. See enclosed picture. It’s a crooked picture. You can take cool pictures when they’re crooked—but not when it’s of a bathroom stall. Bathroom stalls will never be artsy… and I made the picture look retarted. Anyway.
DEIR ELYAS MONASTERY:
We didn’t go inside. It was basically a place close enough to Bethlehem for us to see the lay of the land without actually going someplace dangerous. It was cool. I took some great roadside pictures.
NEBI SAMWIL:
Tomb of the prophet Samuel. Archaeological digs. I took a good picture of the tower—it’s actually a minaret. It’s a tower where Muslims broadcast the “call to prayer.” Anyway, we stood on the roof and looked out over the plains to the separation wall, looked to the south east and saw a large of jewish village. Looking across the other side of the roof we saw hundreds of arab villages. We saw the land where during the battle Joshua prayed and the sun stopped---very cool to see. Oh yeah. Observing the landscape, high ground, etc. Most exciting. We talked to some Israeli’s on the roof—from Romania, Russia, and all around. They were very cordial and talkative. Everyone speaks English here, so it’s easy to talk to just about everyone.
Then we drove home. I fell asleep on the bus. So did a lot of people. We got back to the center at about 3:00pm.
CENTER MAPS:
Outside the seventh floor of the center there are model maps of Jerusalem throughout time. First temple period, Herodian and time of Christ, Roman occupation, Temple destruction/Byzantine, etc. You can see how the city shifts on the landscape, where and how the temple looked and was located, where the city walls were and were built…like that. Bro. Ludlow gave us the run down on the various occupations, how the city and temple changed, etc.
We finished at about 3:40pm. Very fun. And now you know about it. Yay. …Toodles!
Sunday, September 16
Wednesday, September 12
Masaa’ AL. Khayr!
[Mah-sah ahl (fleghm)-hair]
Which means, in Arabic: Good Afternoon!
“It’s a season of firsts…(think JERSEY BOYS and insert music for “December 1963” here…)” We students had a mountain of homework yesterday. The first of many. I did most of it…. And then I fell asleep. At nine o’clock. EARLY. That was okay, because I woke up early and for the first time—I wasn’t tired at all. Yay! I threw my hair up into a ponytail for the first time (it was great. Five people said they hadn’t recognized me—including one that I’ve spent hours with. Hmm. Guess I always have my hair down.) I sprinted up two floors to the oasis (the name of our cafeteria) and for the first time I ate cold cereal instead of cream of wheat. For the first time I had all of my classes in one day. We had “linen exchange” for the first time. We have our first cleaning check tomorrow, so I washed the bathroom for the first time. The Oasis served “lasagna” for the first time. I did my first batch of laundry. We have our first forum speaker tonight.
Pony tail: all three of my roommates want to get their hair cut—none of them got their hair cut before they came. “What was I thinking?!” McCall said. Honestly, I don’t know. Staying in a foreign country for four months… you’d think you’d wonder about how you’d cut your hair satisfactorily. Guess it was just me.
Cereal: Usually the center has granola and corn flakes. Today they also had some random chocolate flaky—thing and cookie crisp. I ate cookie crisp. It was…edible. Barely. Fortified flavorless dissolvable silt. Tomorrow I go back to cream of wheat.
Classes: fun. long. some are boring. blah. (at least only one was boring today.)
Linen exchange: I asked Sister Lee, the lady in charge, how she wanted us to handle it. She said to designate one person per room to bring everything up and get new things. I took our whole room’s stuff upstairs. I was the only one who did. Luckily I was early in the line so I was done fast—and then I carried four sets of sheets and towels back down to my room… while everyone else clogged the line and hallway by filing in one at a time. Made me happy when Sis. Lee gleefully told everyone to do it like room #408 had done it. Tee hee. My idea to ask. Yes! (Sis Lee is also the lady in charge of cleaning checks. I’ve been blatantly asking questions about getting extra cleaning supplies and garbage bags, where I can find a vacuum, and etc… so that she knows I’m trying. That’s right. I’m trying to influence my way into getting preferrential treatment. Maybe it will work. Ah well. If it doesn’t at least I know who to direct all of my questions to.) At this point I walked back out into the hallway, down the stairs, and past the entire line of singletons that “oooh”-ed at me when I walked past with a huge pile for the entire apt. Hahaha. Next time I won’t be the only one that will do that. Guaranteed.
My roommates were all obligingly doing laundry downstairs, so I took advantage of their absence to do a little service—I turned Buble on as loud as my laptop will play it and I made everybody’s bed. Yay. Win-Win situation; I feel better about myself and they don’t have to make their beds. And I listened to Michael Buble. Schweet. Let’s just hope and pray that my roommates will help me clean so that our apt. passes the cleaning check with flying colors. If we keep our rooms clean all semester we get a $150 deposit return. And I want the money! That would pay for my books! And so help me my room will be clean if I have to scrub it all on my own. PRAY that it goes off okay. I want that cash. There’s super hard water here so there is mineral build-up that won’t ever ever ever come off… and the center doesn’t carry lime-away… so I guess we’re stuck with the build-up. It’s even coating the sink counter. … nasty. It won’t scrub off. Permanent water spots. And I was attacking it—believe me, it won’t come off.
“Lasagna”: is in quotations because it was like no lasagna I’ve ever had. Ohhhh boy. Take seven cups of squeaky squash and eggplant, 2 pounds of mystery meat… ONE layer of noodles, and sprinkle cheese over the top. Ouila! Greenish brown slop that looked tentative, smelled great, and wasn’t. I would have eaten something else but I didn’t. I ate as much as I could stand and then ate a roll, potatoes, and bell peppers. I have developed a fondness for bell peppers, as they are usually the only fresh vegetables available that aren’t tainted by vinegar or summat. I miss baby carrots and broccoli. There was steamed broccoli once last week… I’m waiting for it to come around again. Until then… peppers it is.
Laundry: My roommates came back from doing their laundry after lunch, two of the three complaining that the machines had stained their clothes. One had blue streaks all over her white things… either from a bleeding dye or from the powdered soap crystals. The other had a myserious orange stain that looked just like the one my shampoo had made as it leeched onto my skirt durin transit in my suitcase. Only her mysterious stain is permanent. Mine came out after EXTENSIVE pre-treatments. Hard to pre-treat stuff without liquid detergent and ammonia (my preferred stain remover) but I handled it. Took a long time though. ANYWAY… I was cautious about using the machines for the first time. I sorted my laundry before going down, (throwing a really OLD blue towel in with the white stuff so the load would be big enough to use) and then I found newish looking machines and dissolved the grainy soap in the water before dumping my stuff in… and I didn’t get any blue spots. And the orange shampoo stain completely came out of my skirt. I know you don’t care about any of these details…sorry. I got carried away with how proud I was that my laundry turned out better than expected. Anyway. While my laundry was going I ironed some blouses and then played ping pong with Brandon…for over an hour. We never kept score. It was like the Sandlot—just kept going and going and going. Brandon is hilarious—we were quoting movies while we were playing… most notably Star Wars and LOTR. He can do ALL the orc voices (including a freakily exact replication of “just a bit off the flank” and “they’re fresh”), and he can do the Orucai as well. Kinda creepy. I say kinda because it used to freak my out but now it just funny. Anyway, we played ping pong for over an hour and then realized we had class in five minutes… I left my laundry in the dryer (where I will pick it up ten minutes from now as soon as this class is over…ahem. I’m still taking good notes…no reason to give me that look…) and we ran up four flights of stairs and into class. Where I’ve been typing ever since.
Soon it’s time for dinner and to go pick up my stuff. See ya!
--Rachel
Which means, in Arabic: Good Afternoon!
“It’s a season of firsts…(think JERSEY BOYS and insert music for “December 1963” here…)” We students had a mountain of homework yesterday. The first of many. I did most of it…. And then I fell asleep. At nine o’clock. EARLY. That was okay, because I woke up early and for the first time—I wasn’t tired at all. Yay! I threw my hair up into a ponytail for the first time (it was great. Five people said they hadn’t recognized me—including one that I’ve spent hours with. Hmm. Guess I always have my hair down.) I sprinted up two floors to the oasis (the name of our cafeteria) and for the first time I ate cold cereal instead of cream of wheat. For the first time I had all of my classes in one day. We had “linen exchange” for the first time. We have our first cleaning check tomorrow, so I washed the bathroom for the first time. The Oasis served “lasagna” for the first time. I did my first batch of laundry. We have our first forum speaker tonight.
Pony tail: all three of my roommates want to get their hair cut—none of them got their hair cut before they came. “What was I thinking?!” McCall said. Honestly, I don’t know. Staying in a foreign country for four months… you’d think you’d wonder about how you’d cut your hair satisfactorily. Guess it was just me.
Cereal: Usually the center has granola and corn flakes. Today they also had some random chocolate flaky—thing and cookie crisp. I ate cookie crisp. It was…edible. Barely. Fortified flavorless dissolvable silt. Tomorrow I go back to cream of wheat.
Classes: fun. long. some are boring. blah. (at least only one was boring today.)
Linen exchange: I asked Sister Lee, the lady in charge, how she wanted us to handle it. She said to designate one person per room to bring everything up and get new things. I took our whole room’s stuff upstairs. I was the only one who did. Luckily I was early in the line so I was done fast—and then I carried four sets of sheets and towels back down to my room… while everyone else clogged the line and hallway by filing in one at a time. Made me happy when Sis. Lee gleefully told everyone to do it like room #408 had done it. Tee hee. My idea to ask. Yes! (Sis Lee is also the lady in charge of cleaning checks. I’ve been blatantly asking questions about getting extra cleaning supplies and garbage bags, where I can find a vacuum, and etc… so that she knows I’m trying. That’s right. I’m trying to influence my way into getting preferrential treatment. Maybe it will work. Ah well. If it doesn’t at least I know who to direct all of my questions to.) At this point I walked back out into the hallway, down the stairs, and past the entire line of singletons that “oooh”-ed at me when I walked past with a huge pile for the entire apt. Hahaha. Next time I won’t be the only one that will do that. Guaranteed.
My roommates were all obligingly doing laundry downstairs, so I took advantage of their absence to do a little service—I turned Buble on as loud as my laptop will play it and I made everybody’s bed. Yay. Win-Win situation; I feel better about myself and they don’t have to make their beds. And I listened to Michael Buble. Schweet. Let’s just hope and pray that my roommates will help me clean so that our apt. passes the cleaning check with flying colors. If we keep our rooms clean all semester we get a $150 deposit return. And I want the money! That would pay for my books! And so help me my room will be clean if I have to scrub it all on my own. PRAY that it goes off okay. I want that cash. There’s super hard water here so there is mineral build-up that won’t ever ever ever come off… and the center doesn’t carry lime-away… so I guess we’re stuck with the build-up. It’s even coating the sink counter. … nasty. It won’t scrub off. Permanent water spots. And I was attacking it—believe me, it won’t come off.
“Lasagna”: is in quotations because it was like no lasagna I’ve ever had. Ohhhh boy. Take seven cups of squeaky squash and eggplant, 2 pounds of mystery meat… ONE layer of noodles, and sprinkle cheese over the top. Ouila! Greenish brown slop that looked tentative, smelled great, and wasn’t. I would have eaten something else but I didn’t. I ate as much as I could stand and then ate a roll, potatoes, and bell peppers. I have developed a fondness for bell peppers, as they are usually the only fresh vegetables available that aren’t tainted by vinegar or summat. I miss baby carrots and broccoli. There was steamed broccoli once last week… I’m waiting for it to come around again. Until then… peppers it is.
Laundry: My roommates came back from doing their laundry after lunch, two of the three complaining that the machines had stained their clothes. One had blue streaks all over her white things… either from a bleeding dye or from the powdered soap crystals. The other had a myserious orange stain that looked just like the one my shampoo had made as it leeched onto my skirt durin transit in my suitcase. Only her mysterious stain is permanent. Mine came out after EXTENSIVE pre-treatments. Hard to pre-treat stuff without liquid detergent and ammonia (my preferred stain remover) but I handled it. Took a long time though. ANYWAY… I was cautious about using the machines for the first time. I sorted my laundry before going down, (throwing a really OLD blue towel in with the white stuff so the load would be big enough to use) and then I found newish looking machines and dissolved the grainy soap in the water before dumping my stuff in… and I didn’t get any blue spots. And the orange shampoo stain completely came out of my skirt. I know you don’t care about any of these details…sorry. I got carried away with how proud I was that my laundry turned out better than expected. Anyway. While my laundry was going I ironed some blouses and then played ping pong with Brandon…for over an hour. We never kept score. It was like the Sandlot—just kept going and going and going. Brandon is hilarious—we were quoting movies while we were playing… most notably Star Wars and LOTR. He can do ALL the orc voices (including a freakily exact replication of “just a bit off the flank” and “they’re fresh”), and he can do the Orucai as well. Kinda creepy. I say kinda because it used to freak my out but now it just funny. Anyway, we played ping pong for over an hour and then realized we had class in five minutes… I left my laundry in the dryer (where I will pick it up ten minutes from now as soon as this class is over…ahem. I’m still taking good notes…no reason to give me that look…) and we ran up four flights of stairs and into class. Where I’ve been typing ever since.
Soon it’s time for dinner and to go pick up my stuff. See ya!
--Rachel
Sunday, September 9
Armenian Quarter
After breakfast I went to Old Testament early to finish off my homework assignment. –Reading chapter headings of psalms, 12 terms in the bible dictionary (I’ve told everyone about Bro. Ludlow calling it the sealed portion of the bible), a psalm, and a hand out— then class started. Our class has committees in charge of devotionals, greeting and hospitality, first aid, music, and more—both in class and outside on field trips. I asked to be in the devotional group. Devotionals are in charge of thoughts, prayers, and bible scene reenactments on field trips. Hooray for assigning prayers and thoughts, but zippideedoodah for bible scene reenactments! Schweet! Anyway, every group has a “patriarch” or “matriarch” that will make sure we don’t lose anyone anywhere. Then when Bro. Ludlow calls for attendance on the buses he’ll call for each group’s hail in order. Every group has a name—we were told to pick the name of a bible character that inspires the tone and feeling of our group… like Caleb, Daniel, Sarah, Joshua… you get the idea? Well, I pulled out the name I immediately thought of and suddenly I had named the group. We are the “boanerges” group. That’s right. We’re the “son’s of thunder.” I’m a genius. I feel rather special… I wanted to be of some use anyway.
It is quite easy to feel swept away by the brilliance and quality of students here. Such talent, such vibrance, such intelligence and spirit. But we aren’t competing. Greg described it best. He said ‘it isn’t push and shove. We’re riding the collective momentum and riding together. Together we progress faster than we would alone.’ And we are! We are among the bestest of the best, united, and it is something we will never know again. Fascinating.
After OT we had Archaeology… and I was bored. Same old same old. Introducing people to Khirbets and Tels. Yadda yadda yadda. I felt like the kid on Princess Bride saying, “when does it get good?” But it will soon. Then our Palestinian Perspective teacher arrived from Bethlehem. (Yes, my teacher lives in Bethlehem. His email address is something @bethlehem.edu. Crazy!) Adnan Musallam. He’s an arab with dual citizenship with the US. I woke up. Fast. He demands respect, and he deserves it. Not something I can say of everyone. In brief, our discussion was about sterotypes of both American and the Near East. Why, where, and what they are, and how they became such. We discussed a lot of things, including the emigration of jews throughout the world, zionism, etc. and how it affected the arab nations. Three of the 80 students here had taken Dr. Shull’s class Winter semester on the “Israeli/Palestinian conflict” and I’ll just say knowing about zionism and the Pale of settlement and pograms makes understanding Adnan a lot easier. We have a total jump on things. Phew! I’m so glad I’m not lost in the academics. Yet. He’s assigned us a 2’ square map of the Arab nations. From Iran and Turkey to the Atlantic. Including the Mediterranean and Caspian seas. Geopolitical and topographical. A lot of work. Yes. Uh huh.
Then Emma, Tim, Greg, Brandon, and myself went on an excursion to the Armenian Quarter of the old city. I wanted to stay and do homework but I’m so glad that I didn’t. I heard that the students hadn’t seen the Armenian quarter until the last day of free time and than then they had wished they’d seen more of it. I understand why. It is very much unlike the rest of the city. It’s peaceful. Cleaner. More residential. And… QUIET. The churches are quiet. The streets remind me of alleyways in Italy. Bright stone, lots of green plants, and it was picturesque! SO picturesque. And when I say that I mean beautiful sconces and lamposts, dozens of overhead archways, window boxes, no litter, and Israeli flags hanging from windows. Gorgeous. Heather would have a hay day here with her camera. Like Fenway park… this place has photo ops around every turn. The prettiest part of the city for sure. Why is is that we Fall semester students came here on our fourth day in town and not on the last day of the term? Aha! Greg. That’s how. He served his mission in Armenia and is passionate about Armenian and the Armenian people, of course. So glad we’re friends with him! He’s invaluable. We went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchure and he was translating the Armenian sections for us. The runes, I mean—not the language. I say runes because it looks like Elvish from LOTR. Awesome. Greg is amazing! After we got back to the center he and Brandon and I ended up going into a classroom and singing hymns. He’s memorized which number goes with each hymn. You say 278 and he’ll tell you what it is. Crazy. Anyway… he brought the music to “the holy city” with him. You know, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem! Lift up your voice and sing! Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to our king…” that song? Yeah. He pounded out all the chords. And I got to sing it here! Just like I wanted to! I stood, singing about the holy city while I stared at it. Whew.
Greg asked what I wanted to sing next, and I kept asking for his favorite hymns. For All the Saints—you should have heard the chords he was using—and then of course, Hymn 41—the Mildenstein favorite…Let Zion in Her Beauty Rise. Then Praise to the Lord the Almighty. He even started to transpose off the top of his head… bumped the last verse up a step or two. Oh so much fun. Blissful. I love it. It is now a habit. We all love it. We’ve asked another girl, Lauran (who was in Women’s Chorus with me) to come and sing with us next time. She’s a second alto, so we’ll be a complete set. Brandon’s got a great bass voice. (and if anyone here knew I was writing about them I’d be so embarrassed… ah well. They’re all so amazing and we have so much in common! Lauran and Greg both have the Court Jester memorized. Hee hee!) I can’t wait to sing with them inside a cathedral.
More about Church of the Holy Sepulchure. It’s gy-nor-mous. Biggest church I’ve ever seen. Oldest church I’ve ever seen. Been around since the fourth century. OLD. Oh-ho-ho-hold. Way old. And huge. I don’t know how they did it. Enough for 10 cathedrals altogether. Read the wikipedia page on it. See the pictures—especially the one of the “immovable ladder.” I’m not allowed to post pictures while I’m here at the center because it will clog the internet connection. Anyway, the ladder is on the outside and has been since 1894. Over a century! And all because the different sects can’t agree on anything being changed and taken down. Everyone has to agree before any changes are made, and since they never do nothing gets done. Anywho. I have homework. Lots of it.
Ta Ta for now.
It is quite easy to feel swept away by the brilliance and quality of students here. Such talent, such vibrance, such intelligence and spirit. But we aren’t competing. Greg described it best. He said ‘it isn’t push and shove. We’re riding the collective momentum and riding together. Together we progress faster than we would alone.’ And we are! We are among the bestest of the best, united, and it is something we will never know again. Fascinating.
After OT we had Archaeology… and I was bored. Same old same old. Introducing people to Khirbets and Tels. Yadda yadda yadda. I felt like the kid on Princess Bride saying, “when does it get good?” But it will soon. Then our Palestinian Perspective teacher arrived from Bethlehem. (Yes, my teacher lives in Bethlehem. His email address is something @bethlehem.edu. Crazy!) Adnan Musallam. He’s an arab with dual citizenship with the US. I woke up. Fast. He demands respect, and he deserves it. Not something I can say of everyone. In brief, our discussion was about sterotypes of both American and the Near East. Why, where, and what they are, and how they became such. We discussed a lot of things, including the emigration of jews throughout the world, zionism, etc. and how it affected the arab nations. Three of the 80 students here had taken Dr. Shull’s class Winter semester on the “Israeli/Palestinian conflict” and I’ll just say knowing about zionism and the Pale of settlement and pograms makes understanding Adnan a lot easier. We have a total jump on things. Phew! I’m so glad I’m not lost in the academics. Yet. He’s assigned us a 2’ square map of the Arab nations. From Iran and Turkey to the Atlantic. Including the Mediterranean and Caspian seas. Geopolitical and topographical. A lot of work. Yes. Uh huh.
Then Emma, Tim, Greg, Brandon, and myself went on an excursion to the Armenian Quarter of the old city. I wanted to stay and do homework but I’m so glad that I didn’t. I heard that the students hadn’t seen the Armenian quarter until the last day of free time and than then they had wished they’d seen more of it. I understand why. It is very much unlike the rest of the city. It’s peaceful. Cleaner. More residential. And… QUIET. The churches are quiet. The streets remind me of alleyways in Italy. Bright stone, lots of green plants, and it was picturesque! SO picturesque. And when I say that I mean beautiful sconces and lamposts, dozens of overhead archways, window boxes, no litter, and Israeli flags hanging from windows. Gorgeous. Heather would have a hay day here with her camera. Like Fenway park… this place has photo ops around every turn. The prettiest part of the city for sure. Why is is that we Fall semester students came here on our fourth day in town and not on the last day of the term? Aha! Greg. That’s how. He served his mission in Armenia and is passionate about Armenian and the Armenian people, of course. So glad we’re friends with him! He’s invaluable. We went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchure and he was translating the Armenian sections for us. The runes, I mean—not the language. I say runes because it looks like Elvish from LOTR. Awesome. Greg is amazing! After we got back to the center he and Brandon and I ended up going into a classroom and singing hymns. He’s memorized which number goes with each hymn. You say 278 and he’ll tell you what it is. Crazy. Anyway… he brought the music to “the holy city” with him. You know, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem! Lift up your voice and sing! Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to our king…” that song? Yeah. He pounded out all the chords. And I got to sing it here! Just like I wanted to! I stood, singing about the holy city while I stared at it. Whew.
Greg asked what I wanted to sing next, and I kept asking for his favorite hymns. For All the Saints—you should have heard the chords he was using—and then of course, Hymn 41—the Mildenstein favorite…Let Zion in Her Beauty Rise. Then Praise to the Lord the Almighty. He even started to transpose off the top of his head… bumped the last verse up a step or two. Oh so much fun. Blissful. I love it. It is now a habit. We all love it. We’ve asked another girl, Lauran (who was in Women’s Chorus with me) to come and sing with us next time. She’s a second alto, so we’ll be a complete set. Brandon’s got a great bass voice. (and if anyone here knew I was writing about them I’d be so embarrassed… ah well. They’re all so amazing and we have so much in common! Lauran and Greg both have the Court Jester memorized. Hee hee!) I can’t wait to sing with them inside a cathedral.
More about Church of the Holy Sepulchure. It’s gy-nor-mous. Biggest church I’ve ever seen. Oldest church I’ve ever seen. Been around since the fourth century. OLD. Oh-ho-ho-hold. Way old. And huge. I don’t know how they did it. Enough for 10 cathedrals altogether. Read the wikipedia page on it. See the pictures—especially the one of the “immovable ladder.” I’m not allowed to post pictures while I’m here at the center because it will clog the internet connection. Anyway, the ladder is on the outside and has been since 1894. Over a century! And all because the different sects can’t agree on anything being changed and taken down. Everyone has to agree before any changes are made, and since they never do nothing gets done. Anywho. I have homework. Lots of it.
Ta Ta for now.
Saturday, September 8
Epiphany At The Western Wall
How do I feel being here? I can tell you what makes it so special to my heart. It isn’t what I thought it would be. Oh no. It isn’t the history. And it isn’t the sacred sites. Absalom’s tomb takes my breath away, the Orson Hyde memorial garden is quite something, walking on Jericho road is marvelous, and western wall was… a wall—a very old wall, but not holy or consecrated. I felt like an outsider—a tourist—a mere observer there yesterday at Friday’s sundown, the beginning of Sabbath. I should explain this experience from the top so you will better understand.
I left the center in a huddle of students. I walked down Jericho road, through the kidron valley and up to Mount Moriah. I walked along the Via Delarosa, past “King Faisal street,” the Austrian hospice, and the streets of the Old City… past St. Anne’s Cathedral, and over the great stones from the Roman occupation period (raised from 20ft below to the current street level). I walked under canopies and through the streets empty of street vendors when it had been so vibrant and bustling only a day before. Two men in full orthodox dress—long black satin coats and all pelted past us, running through the streets to be on time. I passed signs written in Hebrew/Arabic/English. I walked through metal detectors while my fanny pack was searched by Israeli soldiers. I loved it all. Then I walked into the temple complex. I was staring at the western wall. Crowds of men and their sons: very old and very young, curled locks, prayer shawls, head to toe in black robes or suits, hats of all sorts. Yamakas and great thick fur hats, they bring their culture with them through the ages—from Poland and Lithuania, Russia and Spain. They’ve come to their holiest of sites. I watched as with fervent reverence they stood silently, lips working fast in prayer. I loved it. I saw handfuls of tourists in varying degrees of modesty, watching with interest as I did. I saw a a crowd of young men across the square in white shirts holding hands, singing at the top of their lungs holding hands in a circle and dancing. Laughing with joy they formed a wall, stopped and sang in chorus. They moved in a wall, converging the space—singing with spirit and joy. I loved it. They moved into the men’s section of the wall’s partition, staying near the back, shouting, singing and dancing together in song. I watched a small bent woman back away from the wall, her eyes closed, her daughter as her guide so she would not run into anyone as she did not turn her back.
I moved among the women’s section, watching with wide eyes a display of devotion and reverence beyond compare. I walked among the women. When a space is filled with only women the atmosphere changes perceptibly. It was here too. A sense of knowing each other by association of sisterhood. I watched a girl no older than myself in chairs against the wall, head bowed, both hands pressed against the wall for more than fifteen minutes. She never moved. I loved her. I watched a European Jewish woman with a nose ring sway back and forth, book in hand, softly murmuring a song of prayer—a tune. I watched huddles of BYU girls observing the scene in varying shades of emotion.
I saw hundreds of slips of paper at the base of the wall, and scores of others tucked into crevices of stone. It was fascinating. I was very still inside, but so very alive, so aware. I didn’t want to intrude… I felt like I shouldn’t. Wouldn’t I offend them? But then I remembered, I’m an Israelite too. These are women, like me. And could I say years from now that I had stood two feet away but not touched the wall? When a woman in front of me moved I took her place at the wall, touching it, and—like her—pressing my fingers lightly to my lips. I backed away a few paces, turned around, and walked back to the center of the women’s enclosure. I stood with my hand over my heart, by other across my waist, in strong emotion. I felt an awe for these people. And while I recognized the wall as their holy ground… it was little more than a wall. I decided to pray.
My eyes open, I prayed in my mind, “Holy Father, bless these people. Bless their families and their children. Bless their land. Make it fruitful. Grant them peace. Bless them. Let them prosper. Help them.” And my heart began to swell in my breast as I thought, “let them know. Help them know the great things thou hast done for their fathers. Let them know of the covenants, that they might know thou hast always been there and hast not forsaken them. Let them know that Jesus is the Christ! Anointed one, savior and king! Let them know.”
I loved them.
Rivulets of tears flooded my face as I remembered the title page of the book of Mormon I had studied earlier that day. That the purpose of the book is to know “the great things done for their fathers,” “that they may know the covenants,” and that “they are not cast off forever,” knowing that the great God does know and care for them and always has. Further it is to the convincing of jew and gentile that JESUS IS THE CHRIST. I prayed for them; and I loved them. Filled with a love for these fine people—what I wanted most and more than all was for them to know! For them to know as I do.
I stood twenty feet from the western wall and was awash in appreciation and deep love for the restoration! All I could think of was those people and the book of Mormon. I so desperately want them to know! And as I thought these things my heart glowed in the assurance that they will know. Someday they will know. I thought more of Joseph Smith, the book of Mormon, and the treasure that I have. That we have!
I knew before I came that the greatest challenge of this trip would be as I came to love the people—to truly see them as my sisters and brothers and to pass them by! Unable to tell them my secret. Unwilling to disrupt their devotion, but with a heart full of emotion and despair. Oh, how can we do this? Mankind is our business! “How can I walk through crowds of my fellow beings with my eyes turned down?” How can I not share the glorious truths? It will break my heart! And yet, it is not their time. And it would cause more harm than good. Oh if I could but share with you my love and respect for these people! How they are and what they are and who they are and why they are. I have yet to know all, but I have seen enough. I love them.
The wall may have been little more than a wall, but now it is for me a symbol of the jewish faith and the hallmark memory of how I suddenly understood the purpose of the Book of Mormon. How I stood and watched and saw with new eyes the magnitude of the restoration. What it has done and what it can do. I loved it. I thought of the restored gospel from the first vision--Joseph Smith, and then of President Hinckley. I wanted to rejoice in the words, “I thank thee O God for a prophet!” To shout Hosanna to God and the Lamb! I thought of temples and modern revelation. I knew that God lives and directs this, his living church. I thought of what I am a part of, my privilege, and my blessing. I stood and bore testimony to a friend next to me of what I felt then in my heart. How I wanted them to know.
Things are as they are and will remain so until they are designed to change. Until then, I will continue to walk back home. Home to the center. Home to the world. I want to tell all I can. I want to shout it from the rooftops that all may know there is a God! Jesus Christ, the light of the world! And someday all will know. And we will all be united. Truly He has done great things for all the House of Israel.
And so now you see… it is not the sites. It is not the history. It is the people that have made this special and important. It is them that will draw me back and hold me here. It is love for them. Respect for them. Joy in them. Hope for them. Kinship with them. I love them. It hadn’t really hit me until then—but they have awakened me to a small understanding of why I am here. What I will do here. What has been done and what will be. And I can’t wait for more.
COMING SOON: a brief story on my flight over, the airport, and the arrival.
I left the center in a huddle of students. I walked down Jericho road, through the kidron valley and up to Mount Moriah. I walked along the Via Delarosa, past “King Faisal street,” the Austrian hospice, and the streets of the Old City… past St. Anne’s Cathedral, and over the great stones from the Roman occupation period (raised from 20ft below to the current street level). I walked under canopies and through the streets empty of street vendors when it had been so vibrant and bustling only a day before. Two men in full orthodox dress—long black satin coats and all pelted past us, running through the streets to be on time. I passed signs written in Hebrew/Arabic/English. I walked through metal detectors while my fanny pack was searched by Israeli soldiers. I loved it all. Then I walked into the temple complex. I was staring at the western wall. Crowds of men and their sons: very old and very young, curled locks, prayer shawls, head to toe in black robes or suits, hats of all sorts. Yamakas and great thick fur hats, they bring their culture with them through the ages—from Poland and Lithuania, Russia and Spain. They’ve come to their holiest of sites. I watched as with fervent reverence they stood silently, lips working fast in prayer. I loved it. I saw handfuls of tourists in varying degrees of modesty, watching with interest as I did. I saw a a crowd of young men across the square in white shirts holding hands, singing at the top of their lungs holding hands in a circle and dancing. Laughing with joy they formed a wall, stopped and sang in chorus. They moved in a wall, converging the space—singing with spirit and joy. I loved it. They moved into the men’s section of the wall’s partition, staying near the back, shouting, singing and dancing together in song. I watched a small bent woman back away from the wall, her eyes closed, her daughter as her guide so she would not run into anyone as she did not turn her back.
I moved among the women’s section, watching with wide eyes a display of devotion and reverence beyond compare. I walked among the women. When a space is filled with only women the atmosphere changes perceptibly. It was here too. A sense of knowing each other by association of sisterhood. I watched a girl no older than myself in chairs against the wall, head bowed, both hands pressed against the wall for more than fifteen minutes. She never moved. I loved her. I watched a European Jewish woman with a nose ring sway back and forth, book in hand, softly murmuring a song of prayer—a tune. I watched huddles of BYU girls observing the scene in varying shades of emotion.
I saw hundreds of slips of paper at the base of the wall, and scores of others tucked into crevices of stone. It was fascinating. I was very still inside, but so very alive, so aware. I didn’t want to intrude… I felt like I shouldn’t. Wouldn’t I offend them? But then I remembered, I’m an Israelite too. These are women, like me. And could I say years from now that I had stood two feet away but not touched the wall? When a woman in front of me moved I took her place at the wall, touching it, and—like her—pressing my fingers lightly to my lips. I backed away a few paces, turned around, and walked back to the center of the women’s enclosure. I stood with my hand over my heart, by other across my waist, in strong emotion. I felt an awe for these people. And while I recognized the wall as their holy ground… it was little more than a wall. I decided to pray.
My eyes open, I prayed in my mind, “Holy Father, bless these people. Bless their families and their children. Bless their land. Make it fruitful. Grant them peace. Bless them. Let them prosper. Help them.” And my heart began to swell in my breast as I thought, “let them know. Help them know the great things thou hast done for their fathers. Let them know of the covenants, that they might know thou hast always been there and hast not forsaken them. Let them know that Jesus is the Christ! Anointed one, savior and king! Let them know.”
I loved them.
Rivulets of tears flooded my face as I remembered the title page of the book of Mormon I had studied earlier that day. That the purpose of the book is to know “the great things done for their fathers,” “that they may know the covenants,” and that “they are not cast off forever,” knowing that the great God does know and care for them and always has. Further it is to the convincing of jew and gentile that JESUS IS THE CHRIST. I prayed for them; and I loved them. Filled with a love for these fine people—what I wanted most and more than all was for them to know! For them to know as I do.
I stood twenty feet from the western wall and was awash in appreciation and deep love for the restoration! All I could think of was those people and the book of Mormon. I so desperately want them to know! And as I thought these things my heart glowed in the assurance that they will know. Someday they will know. I thought more of Joseph Smith, the book of Mormon, and the treasure that I have. That we have!
I knew before I came that the greatest challenge of this trip would be as I came to love the people—to truly see them as my sisters and brothers and to pass them by! Unable to tell them my secret. Unwilling to disrupt their devotion, but with a heart full of emotion and despair. Oh, how can we do this? Mankind is our business! “How can I walk through crowds of my fellow beings with my eyes turned down?” How can I not share the glorious truths? It will break my heart! And yet, it is not their time. And it would cause more harm than good. Oh if I could but share with you my love and respect for these people! How they are and what they are and who they are and why they are. I have yet to know all, but I have seen enough. I love them.
The wall may have been little more than a wall, but now it is for me a symbol of the jewish faith and the hallmark memory of how I suddenly understood the purpose of the Book of Mormon. How I stood and watched and saw with new eyes the magnitude of the restoration. What it has done and what it can do. I loved it. I thought of the restored gospel from the first vision--Joseph Smith, and then of President Hinckley. I wanted to rejoice in the words, “I thank thee O God for a prophet!” To shout Hosanna to God and the Lamb! I thought of temples and modern revelation. I knew that God lives and directs this, his living church. I thought of what I am a part of, my privilege, and my blessing. I stood and bore testimony to a friend next to me of what I felt then in my heart. How I wanted them to know.
Things are as they are and will remain so until they are designed to change. Until then, I will continue to walk back home. Home to the center. Home to the world. I want to tell all I can. I want to shout it from the rooftops that all may know there is a God! Jesus Christ, the light of the world! And someday all will know. And we will all be united. Truly He has done great things for all the House of Israel.
And so now you see… it is not the sites. It is not the history. It is the people that have made this special and important. It is them that will draw me back and hold me here. It is love for them. Respect for them. Joy in them. Hope for them. Kinship with them. I love them. It hadn’t really hit me until then—but they have awakened me to a small understanding of why I am here. What I will do here. What has been done and what will be. And I can’t wait for more.
COMING SOON: a brief story on my flight over, the airport, and the arrival.
A Description
Jerusalem building codes have one main rule—that any structure in the city be constructed of Jerusalem limestone. Even the gas stations are made of stone. Bro. Ludlow tells me that many times the stone for the building is taken from the earth beneath the building site when they excavate the foundation. They take stone from directly underneath where the building sits. When I first arrived and saw the sun setting on the city it reminded me of the way Boromir spoke so passionately of his home, “the white city,” in Fellowship of the Rings. “Have you ever seen it? The white city?” he asks Aragorn. “We will return to the sounding of trumpets calling us home. The Lords of Gondor return!” He finishes with pride. He loved his white city. Jerusalem is like that. The light reflects off the stone and transforms the whole of it into a reflection of light or a net of dark shadows. It conjures many thoughts of metaphors… light and darkness, good and evil, conflict and peace, corruption and incorruption.
The light here is different too. I have heard the climate described as intense, and that the sunlight hits you and wipes you out with it’s heat. It is hot… but I’ve been “baked” by sunlight FAR more intensely. The light in my hometown (Provo, UT) has a golden hue. Everything it touches becomes more vibrant. Here the light is white. (a sister here getting her masters at HebrewU said in her Shabbath (Shaw-baht) talk today that Jerusalem light makes everything more vibrant… and I’m going to have to disagree with her on that one. The light is different, but it isn’t all that scorching, and it isn’t all that hot. It tends to bleach everything out--white light and all that.
I have also heard it said that it is dry. Psh! It’s humid! Not much, but my friend Greg who is from Salt Lake and I agree… the air is sticky. Brandon, my friend from east TX complains that his lips are cracking and that his skin is peeling from the “dry dry dry dry dry atmosphere.” Ha! That’s what I say to that! I won’t ever need the lotion that I brought. The air here is humid. That’s right. Believe it or not. Brandon says that Greg and I are just too used to negative 40% humidity and that we’re nuts for thinking Israel is humid. I gave him that. And Jerusalem might not be Florida, but there is more moisture in the air here than there is in Provo.
I’m trying to identify the local botany and animal life. There is a sort of evergreen cedar-ish like tree that produces the most peculiar pods. Green and brown spotted with pentagon wedges… like a walnut sized soccer ball with raised pods for patches. There are strange birds here. Well, no. I should rather say that they are variations of the ones I am used to. I have only seen three types of birds. There are doves—but instead of gray they are brown with a spot of red on its beak. The finches look similar enough, though their brown feathers are more mottled in color; much less defined than the distinctly spotted ones from Utah. A skinny sort of crow is here too—in droves, just like crows travel. Too small for ravens and too big for magpies and not quite burly enough for crows, but definitely in the crow family, I reckon they are rooks. (There are two other types that I can’t recall…) In any case, like magpies they are not solid black. Imagine a crow with a faded, dingy kercheif around its neck. That’s what these birds are like. They walk like crows—that awkward pigeon neck bobbing waddle. But again, like magpies, they use their wings intermittently and soar! One neatly hovered outside the auditorium during sacrament meeting. It rode updrafts in patterns quite efficiently. Such graceful birds—but not clean and neat or pretty, as magpies seem. These birds are filthy. Not majestic in the least, they seem to be the beggars of the crow family. Fascinating things. I miss birds. I hope there are seagulls at the seas I’ll get to see. I miss my jays, sparrows, finches, robins, and gulls. I miss the hawks circling over the park as I made my way home from school. I have seen two dogs (one looked more like a miniature wolf than a dog. The size of a terrier with the mane and muzzle of a fierce beast… incongruous.) The city has dozens of cats of all ages, but all are trim in size. I watched one nearly make off with a dove in the garden of Gethsemene, but the bird got away. I’ve watched an eight year old palestinian boy ride a donkey; he swiped at it with a leafy switch, smiling at us as he said in perfect English, “hello Mormon.”
The children here are really something. Many adults have closed, fierce expressions. The children are often wary, but still stare at us—some kindly, some as if they are trying to understand what we’re doing and thinking, and others with bright smiles and mischieviousness. They are nearly always unaccompanied. They wander the streets in groups. The size of my nieces and nephews Emma, Sam, and Patience. Very young children on their own—or I should say very young BOYS on their own. I’ve only seen one girl on her own and she was standing in front of her home. Palestinian chilren in particular seem un-chaperoned and un-supervised. Brazen as brass they’ll walk straight past you, or right up to you. Sure, some hold wind chimes in your face and say, “five shekel,” but most just say “hi!” enthusiastically.
A few of us were walking back up the Kidron valley to the center this afternoon, passing through the Palestinian quarter of the city. A young boy of about eight or nine walking in the opposite direction stopped us and said, “Welcome.” I looked more closely at him. No one else had said it, and certainly not like that. He looked straight in my eyes, and I looked in his—and knew he was very intelligent. Very aware. And it was apparent. As if he had knew about us secretly. I hesitate to call him a child. He seemed so adult. In the instant our eyes met, his face was impassive but his eyes warm, as he said again, “Welcome. Welcome to Jerusalem.” It moved me. I speedily replied, “thank you,” as emphatically as I could, but he had already turned and moved on his way. I was moved. And then I walked home, thinking about what I had seen and what I had learned.
The light here is different too. I have heard the climate described as intense, and that the sunlight hits you and wipes you out with it’s heat. It is hot… but I’ve been “baked” by sunlight FAR more intensely. The light in my hometown (Provo, UT) has a golden hue. Everything it touches becomes more vibrant. Here the light is white. (a sister here getting her masters at HebrewU said in her Shabbath (Shaw-baht) talk today that Jerusalem light makes everything more vibrant… and I’m going to have to disagree with her on that one. The light is different, but it isn’t all that scorching, and it isn’t all that hot. It tends to bleach everything out--white light and all that.
I have also heard it said that it is dry. Psh! It’s humid! Not much, but my friend Greg who is from Salt Lake and I agree… the air is sticky. Brandon, my friend from east TX complains that his lips are cracking and that his skin is peeling from the “dry dry dry dry dry atmosphere.” Ha! That’s what I say to that! I won’t ever need the lotion that I brought. The air here is humid. That’s right. Believe it or not. Brandon says that Greg and I are just too used to negative 40% humidity and that we’re nuts for thinking Israel is humid. I gave him that. And Jerusalem might not be Florida, but there is more moisture in the air here than there is in Provo.
I’m trying to identify the local botany and animal life. There is a sort of evergreen cedar-ish like tree that produces the most peculiar pods. Green and brown spotted with pentagon wedges… like a walnut sized soccer ball with raised pods for patches. There are strange birds here. Well, no. I should rather say that they are variations of the ones I am used to. I have only seen three types of birds. There are doves—but instead of gray they are brown with a spot of red on its beak. The finches look similar enough, though their brown feathers are more mottled in color; much less defined than the distinctly spotted ones from Utah. A skinny sort of crow is here too—in droves, just like crows travel. Too small for ravens and too big for magpies and not quite burly enough for crows, but definitely in the crow family, I reckon they are rooks. (There are two other types that I can’t recall…) In any case, like magpies they are not solid black. Imagine a crow with a faded, dingy kercheif around its neck. That’s what these birds are like. They walk like crows—that awkward pigeon neck bobbing waddle. But again, like magpies, they use their wings intermittently and soar! One neatly hovered outside the auditorium during sacrament meeting. It rode updrafts in patterns quite efficiently. Such graceful birds—but not clean and neat or pretty, as magpies seem. These birds are filthy. Not majestic in the least, they seem to be the beggars of the crow family. Fascinating things. I miss birds. I hope there are seagulls at the seas I’ll get to see. I miss my jays, sparrows, finches, robins, and gulls. I miss the hawks circling over the park as I made my way home from school. I have seen two dogs (one looked more like a miniature wolf than a dog. The size of a terrier with the mane and muzzle of a fierce beast… incongruous.) The city has dozens of cats of all ages, but all are trim in size. I watched one nearly make off with a dove in the garden of Gethsemene, but the bird got away. I’ve watched an eight year old palestinian boy ride a donkey; he swiped at it with a leafy switch, smiling at us as he said in perfect English, “hello Mormon.”
The children here are really something. Many adults have closed, fierce expressions. The children are often wary, but still stare at us—some kindly, some as if they are trying to understand what we’re doing and thinking, and others with bright smiles and mischieviousness. They are nearly always unaccompanied. They wander the streets in groups. The size of my nieces and nephews Emma, Sam, and Patience. Very young children on their own—or I should say very young BOYS on their own. I’ve only seen one girl on her own and she was standing in front of her home. Palestinian chilren in particular seem un-chaperoned and un-supervised. Brazen as brass they’ll walk straight past you, or right up to you. Sure, some hold wind chimes in your face and say, “five shekel,” but most just say “hi!” enthusiastically.
A few of us were walking back up the Kidron valley to the center this afternoon, passing through the Palestinian quarter of the city. A young boy of about eight or nine walking in the opposite direction stopped us and said, “Welcome.” I looked more closely at him. No one else had said it, and certainly not like that. He looked straight in my eyes, and I looked in his—and knew he was very intelligent. Very aware. And it was apparent. As if he had knew about us secretly. I hesitate to call him a child. He seemed so adult. In the instant our eyes met, his face was impassive but his eyes warm, as he said again, “Welcome. Welcome to Jerusalem.” It moved me. I speedily replied, “thank you,” as emphatically as I could, but he had already turned and moved on his way. I was moved. And then I walked home, thinking about what I had seen and what I had learned.
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