Interlude, Pt. 2: Where the whole mess began

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From the Arab bus station in East Jerusalem, just off Damascus Gate, I hop on bus number 21 to Bethlehem. My guidebook revealed to me that this way, I won't have to pass an Israeli checkpoint. It will make me feel a bit more subversive. It's also cheaper, for I won't have to take a taxi after the checkpoint to the centre of Bethlehem.

I sit down next to an Arab boy, and ask him: "Is it ok?" and he answers "It's ok". He thinks for a moment, watching me from the corner of his eye, then finally asks, albeit a bit haltingly: "How are you?" -"I'm good", I reply with a big smile, "Thank you. And how are you?" He smiles in acknowledgment. "Where you go?" -"Bethlehem. What about you?" "Hebron."

After about 45 minutes, we're there, and I walk to the centre of town. The low-key feeling I get of the place disappears when I arrive at neat Manger Square with its white churches, souvenir shops and eateries. Everything looks spic and span. There's a posh, modern 'Peace Centre', basically a glorified visitor's centre. One of the ladies inside asks me where I'm from, and, having hardly answered her question, a flurry of fast German is unleashed on me, surprisingly devoid of the usual Arab sociolect tendencies that are especially prevalent on the streets of Berlin. She wouldn't feel out of place working in a bank or a post office in Germany. I get some advice on what to see and do in Bethlehem, and she also lets me know that to go back to Jerusalem, I have to pass the checkpoint. We chat for a while about the downsides and benefits of living in Germany. Turns out she used to live in Düsseldorf, but had to go back when her residence permit ran out. She says it doesn't matter, she's happy to be back in her country with her family, as that's where she belongs.

I enter the Church of the Nativity through the backbreakingly low Door of Humility, being humbled instantly. The church was built in AD 326 by Roman Emperor Constantine, supposedly on the spot where Jesus was born. It is the oldest continuously operating church in the world. I am quite amazed by the red-and-white limestone columns lining the nave, and duly impressed by the stunning original 4th-century floor mosaic.

When I'm about to descend to the Grotto of the Nativity, I'm blocked by a long line of Russians walking up the narrow stairway. After maybe five minutes of waiting, I have enough and push my way down. Another very long line of Russians is waiting for their turn to kneel down and put their heads on the 14-pointed silver star marking the exact spot where Jesus was pressed out. Why 14 points? Not the slightest idea. Taking the picture of the star is no easy undertaking, as the Russians are quite disciplined in their transition from waiting patiently to kneeling down swiftly and putting their forehead onto the star, and there is no break between two people. I start wondering whether the queue extends all the way to St. Petersburg. When finally, after 73 or 96 worshippers, an argument or a discussion (it's always so hard to tell with Russian) about something erupts, I seize the chance and take the photo.

I eat lunch in a nice, surprisingly relatively posh eatery that serves home-cooked Palestinian fare. I eat masabacha, which is chickpeas floating in warm hummus mixed with tahina, with pita bread and a few falafel balls, the latter of which are the best ones I've ever eaten. Very crispy outside and just right on the inside, smooth and extremely tasty. I wash it all down with mint tea and continue the sightseeing, full and satisfied.

I visit the Milk Grotto, where Mary and Joseph supposedly stopped to feed baby Jesus on their flight to Egypt. Despite the nice little story, and the belief that mothers who touch the white rock inside the chapel will thus fill up their mammaries with milk, the small church is rather underwhelming and unspecial. Maybe I should stop visiting every little shit-site bearing the most remote connection to Jesus or Mary.

During my obligatory visit to the local souq, a local man starts chatting to me in very basic English. I feel bad for only knowing a couple of words of Arabic, as it would make the whole experience much more interesting had I made an effort to learn a bit more. He asks me where I'm from, how I like Bethlehem, stuff like that. When the conversation ends, he doesn't want to sell me anything or ask me for money. He just wanted to chat out of genuine interest. That makes it already more pleasant than anything I experienced in Morocco.

In the early afternoon, I walk the 4km to the checkpoint. About 10 minutes before I arrive there, the infamous Security/Segregation/Apartheid Wall (choose whichever you think fits best) starts, and I'm quite amazed at the height of it, and the effect the graffiti has on the grey, ugly slabs of concrete. I remember reading that when English superstar graffiti artist Banksy travelled there to put some pieces on the wall, a local Palestinian man told him (something along the lines of): "You make this wall beautiful". Banksy felt flattered and thanked the man, but he said: "We don't want this wall to be beautiful. We hate this wall. Go home!"

When I arrive at the checkpoint, the policewoman checking the cars looks at me weirdly. I want to take out my passport, but she tells me not to bother, and that I have to go to the other checkpoint, the one for pedestrians, and that this one is only for cars. I walk back, turn around the corner, walk a bit more, and finally I arrive at the right checkpoint. Some taxi drivers offer their services, ignoring the fact that I'm about to leave the West Bank. One tells me he can take me to see the famous graffiti of 'Benski', but I decline.

I am more amused than intimidated by the entrance and exit tunnels that look a bit like they are meant to direct cattle to the slaughterhouse. I walk through the one towards the exit. Inside, I have to show my passport, wait around with some Philippine UN-workers until the light at the gate turns green, show my passport again, put my bag through a baggage screener, walk through another gate, show my passport again, walk through another gate, then I'm back in Israel.
To me, it wasn't that bad or dehumanizing, but I can imagine that for Palestinian Arabs without Israeli passports, who commute to work to Jerusalem every day and probably have to go through intense searches and questioning every time, most likely it is a lot worse.

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