December 26th, 2013
...ספירה לאחור לסילבסטר
عشية عيد الميلاد في بيت لحم
This was the third Christmas I've spent in the Holy Land and a week before the big day, I firmly decided that I could not miss out on Bethlehem this year. At this point in my life, my future is far too hazy to put off anything till "next year". Originally planned with a single companion, the outing soon included four. We boarded a no.21 Palestinian bus at 7:00pm on a starry Christmas Eve.
I'm homesick on Christmas. Though raised as a Jew in an intentionally Jewish home, Christmas was a really big deal. Cause, well, my mom's not Jewish, and Christmas is just about the most important time of the year for her. I'll forever admire her perseverance in keeping the magic alive for us littluns' despite the fact that she basically gave up all the rest of her Christian identity... for us. To explain the significance of the holiday to my fellow Jews (religious and secular), I ask them to imagine moving to a place where Pesach is forever zapped out of existence with not a single friend or family member around to understand. The response is usually a concerned murmur and furrowed brow, to Israelis, it is pretty much an unfathomable concept.
Around 2008, I began my plunge into observant (Orthodox) Judaism. Why? It's a long story. And I'm not gonna tell it to you (don't ask me either unless you are physically sitting down with me and I really seem receptive and patient. I promise I'm not resentful or angry, just so fuckin' tired). This resulted in a kosher l'mehadrin conversion over a year ago. cha-ching √ Again,
המון קרה בנתיים
but for perspective, six months ago I wouldn't have dreamed of wearing pants in public, four and a half months ago I went as far as to kasher my disgruntled ex-boyfriend's father's kelim, while two weeks later, in complete emotional and spiritual devastation, I turned on my computer on Rosh Hashana to call my parents marking a break(through) to a new era of Jewish observance. Jesus Mary and Joseph, wtf (?!)
Let's get back to this story.
The bus made it's way down the steep Beit Jala streets lined with Ottoman era buildings. They were bejeweled with cheery Christmas lights and began to warm me up. For the last four months I've been mildly depressed due to heart-break and bull shit and am working very hard at life, freedom and the pursuit of happiness. Going to Bethlehem was part of this over-arching kavana to get back my spirit. We disembarked from the bus in Bethlehem and down we went upon cobble stone streets . The crowds got bigger, the faces happier and the lights even brighter as we approached Manger Square.
Then we arrived. The square was filled with people dressed in their Christmas finest. There was a stage in front of the Church of the Nativity with a choir from Korea performing, beside them a magnificent Christmas tree. Steam from numerous sahlab, corn and peanut stands simmered up into the cold air and I fell into this old-fashioned Christmas love daze. I called my mom knowing she was the only person in the world who could possibly understand the magic of this moment topped with the immensity of my identity confusion. Together we cried on the phone, completely overwhelmed with Christmas spirit and longing for each other. My friends hugged me. I knew that they totally didn't understand, but they do love me and have shefa chesed. They do understand missing family. And so the hug felt good.
Being five people in a crowd the first thing we did was split up. Now down to three, we wandered into a tourist center. I had been to Bethlehem before and have traveled quite a bit around the Occupied Territories and thus should be prepared for what kinds of things are be found in Palestinian tourist shops. However, a evil little postcard was like a needle to my holiday-inspired inflated heart: Santa Claus nailed to a crucifix, hanging above a Christmas tree decked in skulls. Behind the scene, the Israeli Security fence with a big Star of David etched upon it. Not even the pope holds that archaic affiliation of Jews as Jesus murderers. Disgusting.
I walked out of that shop and readjusted my eyes. I suddenly saw that maybe more than half of Manger Square was populated by aggressive, preditorial Arab men and boys. I could not take four steps without being stared down, cat-called, hissed, lip licked, or simply hassled for name where you from married very niiiice! One thing I hate about living in the Middle East is how often I am totally dehumanized and turned into a object to be won, or worse case scenario, stolen. Gender and sexuality are topics that I almost never tire of and at one point in the evening, I found a safe corner to watch the scene.
Chaïm Soutine (1893-1943) is known for his expressionist paintings of meat and women.
WWII is an assumed theme throughout his art
What I saw were disenfranchised, mostly impoverished, sexually-inhibited individuals. With all the energy and ambition of any other young male of our species, these guys have no where to go, nothing really they can do, and can look forward to probably being forcefully body-searched, having their property taken from them and/or arrested in the near future by their occupiers with little hope for a fair trial. I, the small blonde girl, am almost the only way they can show their dominance. And it just really sucks.
So while I was calmly trying to handle an ensuing family identity, cultural, political and gender/sexuality crises, I proposed to my friends that we sit down at a cozy restaurant in the Square and enjoy desserts and/or tea (depending on kashrut restrictions). It was then that one of my friends let me know that this was crossing a line and that she would not be comfortable sitting at a non-kosher restaurant. I was stricken with a combination of embarrassment, sympathy and frustration.
How could I have possibly put my fellow Jew in this sort of situation? I, of all people, should know better. I must seem like such a bad influence to these nice religious seminary students.
Actually, I really don't give a shit anymore.
But I do love and respect my friends so I swallowed my selfish twinge of disappointment for the greater comfort and happiness of my companions. I came to Bethlehem to celebrate Christmas, and watching all of the families sitting warm and happy in the restaurant, enjoying their holiday dinners as we walked away broke my heart a little. My companions had come to enjoy spectating an international event and I was finding that hard to chew on.
I don't believe Jesus was the messiah and certainly not the "son of Gd", and I don't look at the Gospel as scripture. To this I feel confident and clear. I wouldn't pray in a church even though I go to churches and feel quite spiritual there. Especially the Catholic ones. Jesus was a stellar human being, and there is a lot of wisdom to integrate from the New Testament. The teachings of the Christian mystics is a topic I've always be interested in exploring more of. Yet, I took on the custom of being careful not to ever lean inside of a church (in the case that I may accidentally bow) and to enter backwards through the door. Just a little reminder, ya know? Underneath it all, I really don't give a shit. So let us now add religion* to the list at the opening of the last paragraph.
Christmas in Palestine tastes like sahlab and turkish delight. It is not overrun with traumatizing capitalist ventures like in North America, although European pagan and folkloric symbols such as ole Saint Nick with his reindeer and elves and an illuminated evergreen have certainly conquered the Christian Middle East. I wore my Norwegian style wool sweater that my Nana Jo knit (see Sweater poem bellow) for affect and strolled about on that starry night in leather Clark's, corduroy paints and a Puget Sound Volleyball track bag. Pretty hipster, no?
One of my friends ended up crashing at my place and just before millions would be going to midnight mass, we sat down with popcorn and hot chocolate and started watching "A Christmas Story" (1983). We fell asleep with salty fingers cuddled next to my tiny space heater.
First thing the next morning was an appointment with my therapist.
