"This is the good place for the photograph."
We're on the hill opposite the Temple Mount, and we stare across at sunlight glistening on the dome, on the white buildings easing up the hill to the horizon.
James unwinds the straps of his camera equipment once more before Sol says, "This is the last stop. You are on the Christian tour, so we end the tour where Jesus ends his. Then I drive you to the hotel for the good lunch and one final cup of good Bedouin coffee."
So we walk once more up the gravel paths of the Mount of Olives, once more face the sacred hill that harbors the sacred rock.
"Judas comes from that gate into the garden where he is betraying Jesus. Then they bring Jesus to the judging and to death, as you know already." He swings his hand once again toward the city wall. "And now you are seeing everything. You have the good tour, yes?"
We chorus our assent before Elizabeth says, "I do wish Bethlehem had been less dirty and less tacky."
"Remember, it is after all the Arab town, with much poverty and much tradition. The Arab has maybe more restrictions than even the Israeli, and he must stop work to bow to Mecca five times a day."
A stream of tourists winds up the path to the church, and in the silence after they pass us, I press the wad of shekels into Sol's hand. "We wanted you to have these."
He doesn't unfold bills. "Now that you fmish your tour, you see why Arabs and Jews don't give up Jerusalem to the other. You see why nobody can do nothing."
Rory looks around the hill. "Is it all right if we take an olive branch?"
Sol looks chagrined at the non-sequitur, but then he shrugs. "Nobody is using the olives from these trees right now."
Rory steps over a low fence and ducks under the nearest tree. When he comes back, he holds out leafy olive twigs to Elizabeth, Megan, and me. "I didn't see it before, but did you notice how the roots of the tree grew right through the stone?"
I look at him. The young may not know history, but somehow they understand from the heart.
I nod as I take the branch. "Maybe that's the answer, Sol."
He raises questioning eyebrows. Look at this branch. You said the sacred stone under that spotted dome can't be divided, can't be split between Israelis and Arabs, but earthquakes and olive trees part stones all the time. Why can't we just trust nature? You said yourself the carob shows that the sweet can follow the bitter."
He shoves the colorful shekels into his shirt pocket and gazes toward the gold dome. "This is different," he says.
We're on the hill opposite the Temple Mount, and we stare across at sunlight glistening on the dome, on the white buildings easing up the hill to the horizon.
James unwinds the straps of his camera equipment once more before Sol says, "This is the last stop. You are on the Christian tour, so we end the tour where Jesus ends his. Then I drive you to the hotel for the good lunch and one final cup of good Bedouin coffee."
So we walk once more up the gravel paths of the Mount of Olives, once more face the sacred hill that harbors the sacred rock.
"Judas comes from that gate into the garden where he is betraying Jesus. Then they bring Jesus to the judging and to death, as you know already." He swings his hand once again toward the city wall. "And now you are seeing everything. You have the good tour, yes?"
We chorus our assent before Elizabeth says, "I do wish Bethlehem had been less dirty and less tacky."
"Remember, it is after all the Arab town, with much poverty and much tradition. The Arab has maybe more restrictions than even the Israeli, and he must stop work to bow to Mecca five times a day."
A stream of tourists winds up the path to the church, and in the silence after they pass us, I press the wad of shekels into Sol's hand. "We wanted you to have these."
He doesn't unfold bills. "Now that you fmish your tour, you see why Arabs and Jews don't give up Jerusalem to the other. You see why nobody can do nothing."
Rory looks around the hill. "Is it all right if we take an olive branch?"
Sol looks chagrined at the non-sequitur, but then he shrugs. "Nobody is using the olives from these trees right now."
Rory steps over a low fence and ducks under the nearest tree. When he comes back, he holds out leafy olive twigs to Elizabeth, Megan, and me. "I didn't see it before, but did you notice how the roots of the tree grew right through the stone?"
I look at him. The young may not know history, but somehow they understand from the heart.
I nod as I take the branch. "Maybe that's the answer, Sol."
He raises questioning eyebrows. Look at this branch. You said the sacred stone under that spotted dome can't be divided, can't be split between Israelis and Arabs, but earthquakes and olive trees part stones all the time. Why can't we just trust nature? You said yourself the carob shows that the sweet can follow the bitter."
He shoves the colorful shekels into his shirt pocket and gazes toward the gold dome. "This is different," he says.
