A Tourist in Israel
The old Arab glared at me when I approached to take his photo near a park outside Bethlehem. His eyes were fierce but he did not shift his position, sitting cross legged on a blanket, with a small fire heating water for coffee. His lunch appeared to be wrapped in a scarf at his side. He looked like the subject of a National Geographic page. His keffiyah, checkered Arab headdress, and his crooked staff, with a herd of sheep down the hill in the background would make a picture postcard.
Our Israeli guide, who spoke fluent Arabic, said “You need to pay him if you want to take his picture. This is why he sits here all day. They have no money; he does this to buy food for his family.”
Curious, I asked him what else he knew about the fellow. He said he would comment further when we were back at the hotel in Jerusalem that evening. He seemed cautious and a bit embarrassed. This guide, a European Jew whose parents died in World War II, had already shown himself to be no Zionist. He had often expressed concern for the well-being of Palestinians at various locations along the tour, especially in Gaza, a grim, gritty, dusty slum of a place.
Meanwhile, I handed the old Arab a five dollar bill and he appeared a bit more agreeable, but still did not smile. A beggar for photo-money but not happy or proud about it. He reminded me of the kids all over Israel who would appear out of nowhere, hands out, asking for money. Bedouins, Palestinians, riding donkeys, scruffy thin-as-rope waifs, some smiling, others scowling but always looking for food or money.
Two young Israeli soldiers, who couldn’t have been older than 19 came by with their machine guns. They scowled at the old man; he poured himself some coffee in a tin cup and did not move.
Back at the hotel that evening, our guide shared a little background on the fierce elderly shepherd who sat in the countryside near Bethlehem. He knew the old man’s story well, because their sons had been friends.
“The man you photographed lived in East Jerusalem with his family until the Six Day War. Then they were forced to leave the city after Israel declared all of Jerusalem part of Israel.”
I asked “Was he a fighter for the Jordanians, or did his family cause trouble.”
He replied “No, he was a successful merchant and was apolitical. He wanted no trouble, but when he was ordered to pay a bribe to keep the family home, they found the requirement was too high and they could not afford it. So they moved with some others to the West Bank. “
“Why is he, a man in his 80’s out posing for photos now? They have no money?”
Our guide (who shall remain nameless) shook his head and said, “When the Army came some years ago and demanded their Identity papers, his son, who was the breadwinner, could not find his. They took him away to jail and no one has heard from him since. Unfortunately that happens more often than one would like to think. He was a good boy. He worked hard for his family.”
We sipped our wine, looked down at the old city, from the hotel terrace on the Mount of Olives, over the ancient, heavily vandalized Jewish cemetery, over the Garden of Gethsemane, past the Church of Mary Magdalene, and wondered, will Israel and her people—all her people—ever find peace?”
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