There was still one place we needed to visit before we left Jerusalem and headed west to Tel Aviv. We decided that we don’t need no tour guides for this one (*snap* *snap*) and we were gonna DIY it. Ok, so it’s not the world’s biggest adventure, but getting to Bethlehem does require a little bit of logistical prep work. You see, Bethlehem is in the West Bank and is Palestinian owned, so you have to cross the infamous and very controversial wall to get there. The wall is a barrier between the West Bank and the rest of Israel, controlled by the Israeli military, and used to regulate and control the flow of people between the two areas. You need to pass through checkpoints if you want to cross, as if crossing the border into a new country. They sometimes check your papers when travelling into the West Bank, but they most definitely check them on the way out (into Israel).
The wall was built in 2000, after (yet another) phase of violence between the Palestinians and Israelis (the Second Intifada if you’re interested to learn more). Now, I’m not going to get into politics too much because that’s not what this blog is about, but whether you know a lot about Israel’s history, or nothing at all, everyone reading this will know that there has been a lot of violence between the Palestinians and the Israelis, basically for as long as most of us can remember. Speaking to some of my Israeli friends they would tell me how for a long time they were living in constant fear of finding themselves next to a suicide bomber, being taken hostage, shot, stabbed, and the list goes on… For the Israeli government, building the wall was a way to decrease the number of Palestinian terrorists entering Israel and in turn decrease violence. Many Israelis are extremely grateful for the decrease in violence they attribute to it.
However, for the Palestinians, the wall is a clear sign of segregation, as it restricts the travel of all Palestinians around Israel, not just the terrorists. Palestinians need to have a special ID card to be able to cross, and even then they have certain travel restrictions and can be denied crossing. There are times when crossing is common (e.g. in the morning for work) and so queues form and people sometimes need to wait hours to cross a wall that 20 years ago didn’t even exist as a border. Many Palestinians need to travel to mainland Israel for work, education, healthcare and more. We spoke to a Palestinian shop owner who said that he was waiting once in a queue for ages because the soldier at the checkpoint was too busy playing with his mobile phone. Apparently there are even horror stories of people who died waiting to cross over to a hospital. Obviously, the situation is a lot more complex, but for the sake of time we’ll continue with the story (feel free to speak to me if you’d like to learn more).
With our foreign passports and visas (thanks to Miss Littleboy), we didn’t have any issues getting across the border. What we did have issues with, is finding the right local bus to take us. Depending on the bus company, the bus would either take you directly to Bethlehem (Palestinian drivers), or would stop before the wall (Israeli/Jewish drivers), where you have to cross by foot and take another bus on the other side. Israelis are not allowed to enter most Palestinian areas of the West Bank (not all), and even with those that they are allowed to visit, they are not recommended to (again, due to violence). From speaking to my friends about it, there certainly doesn’t appear to be any who would chose to risk it.
We wondered around Jerusalem for a while trying to find the right bus stop. The bus stop leaves from East Jerusalem, sometimes known as Arab Jerusalem as it was the part of Jerusalem that was occupied by Jordan during the Arab Israeli war. Walking around you really get a sense of the ‘Arab’. Some parts of it feel like a totally different country. The language, the people, the clothes, the goods being sold; it was all very different from what we’d experienced in Israel so far.
We eventually boarded the Palestinian bus, which takes a slightly longer route but drives you direct to Bethlehem. We sat with our passports ready but we never got stopped and asked for them. I guess on the way in it’s more of a ‘check when they can be bothered’ approach.
Arriving in Bethlehem our first stop was the Church of the Nativity, the birthplace of Jesus. To get to the church you have to walk through the market in central Bethlehem which was an experience in itself. If East Jerusalem is Arab, this was Arab squared. Very crowded, loud and busy streets filled with people. Lots of gold shops and market stands with men desperately trying to flog their goods (the kind of place you avoid making eye contact so as not to get suckered into buying something). It felt a little bit like a Turkish souk but extended down winding streets of the old city.
We had quite a lot of random guys on the street say to us “welcome to Palestine”. Not sure if they were just being nice or trying to reinforce the message to the foreigners (probably a bit of both). With Bethlehem the most visited city in the West Bank, the Palestinians who live here have pretty much relied on tourists and pilgrims to bring the bread home for hundreds of years.
When we arrived at the Church there was already a queue outside the doors (the birthplace of Christ is a pretty strong claim to fame). There were loads of tourist groups; Russians, Asians, Mexicans…people had come from far and wide so the queue was pretty squishy, and the visitors very eager to get a piece of the action.
We queued for a while only to find ourselves in another room with a massive crowd of people. The crowd had gathered around a bunch of stairs leading down to a tiny little door. The tiny door led to the room with the manger where the magic supposedly had happened (Jesus was born).
Another loooooong wait. It was a very hot day and there was no aircon in the church, which meant we were waiting in a queue of very impatient and very sweaty people.
I looked at Steffi and Steffi looked at me. The BFF telepathy confirmed what we both were thinking that in this heat a nice G&T in the sun somewhere would be 100 times more pleasant an experience than being in such close proximity to so many sweaty and overexcited visitors. But we knew, if anything for the sake of our mothers, we had to do it.
Somehow by this point the “queue” had turned into a stampede of people trying to squeeze into this tiny door which would only fit one very small human being at a time. There was a lot of pushing and shoving, and everyone was getting stressed and mad. Stefania and I weren’t too fussed about the manger so we found the whole situation quite amusing.
As we approached the door we found ourselves sandwiched in the middle of a big tour group of giggly Filipinos. Obviously us being the charming girls that we are, we immediately made friends, and soon we were sharing fans and being sprayed with holy water. Don’t ask me why the Filipinos had some on them, but it definitely helped us cool down.
The atmosphere in our group distinctly changed, however, when a group of Russians entered the room and started nonchalantly trying to push through to the front of the queue.
Now my mother has a lot of Filipino friends and I know them to be very peaceful and sweet people. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Filipino pissed off, let alone mad. But here, ladies and gentlemen, in one of the holiest places on earth, we were gonna witness the wrath of the Filipino.
First they started nicely explaining to the intruders how you have to wait in line. The Russians responded with a typical “am I bovaaaard” approach, ignored them, and kept going.
Then the tone got slightly firmer and louder….and then louder….and louder….and eventually the (by this point very red-faced, hot and flustered) Filipinos started hurling abuse at the top of their lungs at the approaching Russians.
But Russians will be Russians, and when the Filipinos finally realised that all verbal communication was lost on them, serious action had to be taken. To stop the Russians in their tracks, the whole group started linking hands and bodies to form an impenetrable Filipino human chain.
Now the Russians were pissed off, but by this point the Filipinos didn’t care and they wouldn’t budge. The chain wasn’t broken until all Filipinos (including us two honorary ones) were ushered into the manger room with the Russians firmly left behind.
Apparently the tiny room to the manger (called the Door of Humility ironically enough) was made smaller by the Crusaders to make it difficult for invaders to enter. I don’t think they had aggressive Russian tourists in mine, but in this case it certainly worked in favour for our Filipinos friends.
By now the manger room had lost all holiness for me, and it was made even less holy by the fact we had about 10 seconds to take photos until we were ushered out by a very stern and angry looking bodyguard. Apparently he has been known to physically remove pilgrims who stay too long. Being carried out did sound more tempting then elbowing our way through the masses again, but we’d both had our fair share of run-ins with security (usually from very different kinds of establishments), and we knew better than to argue. We quietly made our exit.
The next stop was a little bit nicer of an experience as there were almost no tourists there (now that could be considered a Bethlehem miracle). We were at the Milk Grotto Chapel, supposedly the place where Mary and Joseph stopped to feed baby Jesus when escaping to Egypt.
The pure fact that there wasn’t anyone there apart from us and a praying nun, made it a much calmer and much nicer experience for us. We walked around, soaking in the tranquility, until we decided we had had our fair share of holy for this trip, and it was time to return to the city.
We spoke to a few locals on the way back to get their perceptions of the church experience and the Ruso-Filipino war that had broken out. One told us how at Christmas time he had witnessed two priests getting into a physical fight, and when fists weren’t enough, one of them grabbed an icon to whack the other around the head with. I mean seriously, even I couldn’t make this stuff up.
Another Palestinian business owner we spoke to told us about how the instability in the region affects his life and family. Most of his siblings had left to build a life in America, and he was left in Palestine running the family business. He, like many others, had considered leaving a hundred times, and he desperately wished for an agreement to be reached with Israel so that him and his family could live in peace.
It was a sobering experience, but none more so than the walk back to Israel. This time we were properly crossing the wall. Now Jesus is a pretty tough act to follow but Bethlehem’s second biggest claim to fame is Banksy.
Personally, I’ve never seen what all the fuss is about, but the Brit has put this particular part of the wall on the map. The artist claims to have been into walls “long before Donald Trump made them cool”.
The artist’s work in the region has received mixed reviews; some Palestinians believe it belittles their struggle, or makes the wall beautiful with art. However, many are also pro, as it undoubtedly brings more attention to the region, which equals tourists and in turn equals more money.
Banksy has also encouraged more street art, or wall art in the city. As we walked along the wall, we were treated to a gallery of interesting and sometimes beautiful graffiti. Most of the art is anti-violence, anti-wall, or just focused on “free Palestine” messaging, but there is also some random graffiti, with anti-Trump being a current hot topic.
We entered the checkpoint with our passports and visas in hand. We were behind a Palestinian lady travelling with three younger ladies (seemingly her daughters). They took out their ID cards but there appeared to be a problem. Now I don’t speak any of the local languages, but from the hand gestures and facial expressions, I could tell the officers were denying them access. The women look worried and confused and appeared to be pleading with the officers, who were having none of it, and were getting increasingly impatient with the women.
They looked past the women and gestured for us to come in front. When the young Israeli saw our passports his attitude changed completely. He asked me where my name is from and talked happily about how he’d like to go party in Belgrade.
We crossed the wall, leaving behind Bethlehem and our fellow travellers.
Growing up as a Serb in Britain, I’ve learnt not to trust the media at all, and not to take sides in any argument based on what I hear in the news. Politics aside, at the end of the day I’m sure both the Israelis and the Palestinians fundamentally want the same thing; peace, stability and a good life for themselves and their loved ones.
Unfortunately, with so much insecurity and unresolved political issues in the region, that’s something the people here may need to wait a while for. One thing’s for sure, as one of Banksy’s art pieces suggests, in modern day Bethlehem there’s still Peace on Earth*, but
*terms and conditions apply.
