Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine) Part 6

Right now, I'm not sure what to call it, because I've never felt this way before. It's almost like a duty, and yet again, it may be more like something that I very much enjoy doing. Just as you witnessed yesterday, I would do battle with the whole world if it meant protecting Schamah and her mother. And yet, that is much, much too little; that's a long, long way from the right thing to do. I still want to think about this some more. When I've found the answer, I'll tell you. Now, may I leave you again? There's something very necessary that I must do. Remember what I said about going to the Lions, to the Elephants, to the Hippos, to the Whales, and to Abd en

"Does he know that you went to visit us?"

"I don't intend to tell him. As you know, he has such an extraordinary affection for you; if he learned that I planned to come here, you would be stuck with him for the entire day. Well then, may Allah protect you; I'm going now." He finished his cup of coffee, shook our hands, opened the door, went outside, and stood still. For a moment, he pondered, came inside again, then firmly closed the door behind him. It seemed as if he had some great secret that he wanted to entrust to us: "I simply must ask you a question.

Don't you find this ridiculous? In a man's own country, he is called "The Chosen One."

I tried to help him with the answer: "How did you arrive at this question?"

"In my hours of vanity, I have taken pride in this designation; but seriously, this t.i.tle actually irritates me."

"So, be angry!" said my wife. "Your irritation is more justified than any pleasure from that t.i.tle." As he meditated on that advice, he looked at her. Then he aimed his eyes on me, thoughtfully nodding: "I put a great deal of stock into what your wife has said. Perhaps you don't? Up to this point, she has always come up with just the right words. Now, I'm really going to do it! May Allah protect you!"

Hardly ten minutes after he left us, there was a knock on the door. Who was it? His father. He asked us to forgive him for disturbing us at such an inconvenient hour. Something had happened which he absolutely had to share with us. "Did you dream something?"

I asked him.

"Yes, how did you know that?"

"No, I didn't know for sure-I simply had a hunch."

"You guessed correctly. Just think! In my dream, it was morning as I got out of bed and came into my living room. There sat my brother, as real as I am standing here. He smiled at me and said: 'I have come, and I want to see if I should remain.' In pure joy, I woke up. Now tell me, is that a phenomenon, or not?"

"A miracle? No, to me it is something more like a completely natural occurrence."

"After our conversation yesterday, I too felt comfortable about all of this. Yet in today's awakening, instantly after the dream, a thought came to me-almost as if this thought itself were to be the continuation of the dream. Do you know what my brother said to me in the previous dream I described to you?"

"That he would send you a sign of his forgiveness."

"Now then, do you recall the name of the child whom you met yesterday, the girl whom my son constantly talks about?"

"Schamah, the Forgiveness!"

My wife swiftly joined in: "Yes, that's true! That's exactly right! It might be-"

Imitating Old Jew Eppstein, I quickly interrupted: "Pssst!

Still! Pssst! Don't try to force some kind of mystery from all this. Although 'Schamah' means 'forgiveness,' at the same time, it's also a girl's name." Mustafa interjected: "But as Thar told me, the girl's mother comes from the region of Al Karak, and that place is in East Jordan, where my brother went." In order to divert him from this subject, I asked him: "So, did you and Thar talk about her today?"

"It was yesterday evening that we talked. Today, he was up early, but he said practically nothing. Whenever his thoughts are focused on his mother, he acts this way. It always keeps him preoccupied as he looks for some kind of gift he can give or a good deed that he can perform for someone. Off he went without having anything to eat or drink for breakfast.

"Does he know that you are here with us?"

"I don't think so. If he knew that he could visit you as often as he wanted, he would stay beside you for the entire day. I must confess that his heart dearly loves both of you. Ever since yesterday, I've seen changes in him. The young girl seems to have made an impression on him, and that baffles me."

"Surely such a riddle is not a bad one?"

"Oh no, it's especially very pleasant and welcome. Compared to ordinary times, I too have changed. Yesterday was a festival; yet for me, it's as if the celebration is just now happening. I feel the same joy that I felt in my boyhood-when something long-desired finally promises to come true. Isn't that strange? Isn't that laughable?"

"It's not strange to me, and in no way is it absurd. Our souls are linked to an entirely different world than our bodies. This connection is so deeply intimate, that no reasonably sane man would ever doubt what we call our 'inner voices.' Did your dream clearly focus on your brother? Or was it merely a figure which you mistook for him?"

"Truly and clearly, it was so certain and distinct, that even in the dream I marveled at the joy I felt in seeing him appear precisely as he looked earlier. We were so extraordinarily similar that people often would mistake one for the other. We had fun with that, so he would often enhance that relationship by wearing the same clothes and by growing a beard just like mine. On the inside, we were very different. He was always tender , pliable, and p.r.o.ne to be at peace.

By contrast, I was insensitive, unsympathetic, and always ready to play the role of lord and master. In the end, that separated us.

However, today-." Something inside him stopped. He walked to the window, gazed outside and reconciled himself to what would come: "There lies the road to Bab en Nebi Daud, and that way goes to Bab el Amud. For me, it's the same, whichever path I take. They both lead me around the city and towards the Mount of Olives where I will wait to learn when and how the 'forgiveness" will come to me. Today, I am in suspense, and I can't relax. I'm going!"

He left, and I openly confess that a portion of his suspense stayed there with us. If I were to try to attach an artificial angle on his narration, one which differed from the view he had just shared with us, then I would have to rearrange the tale itself. The conclusion would be otherwise, even giving his story an extra chapter of its own. For me, it all seemed to follow a natural course of events, which was just as interesting as any literary embellishment that his son Thar would have added. So, I'll follow the examples from our brave boy Thar and simply report the plain, unvarnished facts As long as Schamah dwelt among us, she renounced any synthetic coloring of green nor blue, neither yellow nor red.

That morning, we visited the Graves of the Kings and a couple of other nearby sites. In the afternoon, we wanted to go to Ain Kahrim, one of my favorite places. However, we could not undertake this outing. Just as we were preparing to eat our lunch, there was a third knocking at our door. Who appeared? Schamah and her mother. We were genuinely glad to see them, and we welcomed their noontime visit.

Without hesitation, we invited them to eat with us. The mother was a loving, good-natured, and n.o.ble-minded woman. She had an inner pride that stemmed from her heart's solemn education. In spite of her humility, she spoke with a good deal of satisfaction about her Azerbeijan roots and the fact that she did not come from Syria. So, as far back as tradition stretched, her people had always been Christians. Due to her father's beliefs, he was oppressed and died as a poor army officer in Al Karah. Her husband was also very poor, but he was blessed with all of the virtues that are necessary to merit the attention and the love of all mankind. His name was Achmed Bustani, and he died from a sickness of the heart, a yearning that never stopped gnawing at him-until death delivered him from that ceaseless longing.

Achmed Bustani! Surely, you can imagine the impact this name had on us. Just think-the brother of our friend. As soon as the widow made this disclosure, both women intuitively knew that they had been drawn to each other-both outwardly and inwardly, sensing a bond of confidentiality between them. In spite of the few short lines that I now use to report this surprise, naturally, it took several hours for us to grasp what we had just learned. During the time she talked with us, her heart's restrained agony peered out from her moist, poignant eyes. Not wanting to increase her sadness by asking insensitive questions, it was especially hard for us to repress our normal curiosity about the details.

Quite simply, Achmed Bustani died of homesickness. At most, his love for his wife and child delayed his death, but nothing could prevent his dying. Knowing the inherent importance of very close family relationships among Semitic people, it cost him his life when he could not bear the thought of his father and his entire family banishing him and forever refusing to give him their support.

Practically moments from death, he asked his wife to promise him that she and Schamah would make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. If possible, she was to find his brother and seek reconciliation with him.

Originally, she had only wanted to hike from Abraham's Oak to Bethlehem. Her plans changed at the Hospice, where she received a slip of paper from an anonymous benefactor in Bethany, a village on Jerusalem's eastern slope of Olivet. The note a.s.sured them of free room and board in the Good Samaritan's house. At the same time, he had arranged for our Donkey Driver to take them to Jerusalem. From there, someone would pick them up and accompany them-all free of charge. It pleased her to recall the kindness of this man's heart.

Likewise, she was thankful for the humanitarian aid they received in the Russian Hospice that stood near Abraham's Oak. They never suspected the truth, that our "Hero of the Blood Feud" was the one to whom they owed their thanks.

They did not go into the accursed Valley of Hinnom where the G.o.d Moloch was once worshipped. Nor did they ride straight to the house of their anonymous benefactor. They first wanted to ask if we thought it was "OK" for two lonely, Christian pilgrims to accept this man's invitation to stay in his home. We gave them as much information as we could and offered to accompany them to their host's house, for we too wanted to meet this man. They gratefully accepted our offer. Just as we were ready to depart, there was a fourth knock at our door-in stepped our lad Thar.

He was completely out of breath. When he saw Schamah and her mother, he excitedly called out: "So, what the Donkey Driver told me is true! Instead of riding straight to your host's house, you first stopped off here. But why are you staying here longer? Why didn't you travel directly towards Bethany, following the Hinnom Valley, just like I told the Donkey Driver to do?" He was coming close to revealing his other ident.i.ty. I placed my hand on his shirt collar and brought him into the adjoining room: "I believe it's best that Schamah and her mother don't know that you and the Donkey Driver secretly instigated this part of their visit to Jerusalem. Are you now ready to tell everything?"

He seemed startled: "Allah, Allah! You're right-that was dumb of me! Still, put yourself in my shoes, Effendi. There I was with all of my Lions, Elephants, Hippos, and Whales, standing near the Pool of Siloam as we waited for Schamah. We were all set to provide a festive, multi-stage-parade as we escorted her to Bethany-"

"With the Hippos and Elephants?"

"Yes, of course!" he nodded. "I called them all together, because I wanted them to help me welcome my new friend with a grand reception. They all wore their best costumes. We had decorated the entire neighborhood with flowers. We even took branches and swept the streets of the parade route. Upon her arrival, we had all planned to bow at the same time. Next, Firdusi was going to recite a poem.

Thereafter, it would be my turn to give a good speech in her honor.

Following this, there would be more bows, along with a song that included both singing and blowing our horns. Busiri's poem would come next. Finally, there would be a triumphant bellowing 'Huzzah!' At this point, our festive procession would begin to move-half of us ahead and half trailing. I would be riding between Schamah and her mother, leading both of their donkeys."

I laughed as I exclaimed, "Yes, you planned a delightful surprise!"

"You're right. Now, imagine how we waited for hours, yet no one came. When Schamah and her mother separated from the Donkey Driver and rode here to your door instead of taking the pre-arranged route, we agreed to modify our plan. Since this thought came to the Driver later on, it was just a few minutes ago that I realized how I might find them waiting here at your place. I hurried here to urge you to come right away-I don't want my Lions and Whales to lose patience!"

It made me sad to know that I had to dampen his enthusiasm, but I couldn't do otherwise-I had to follow through. I shared my reasons regarding why such a grand greeting would be impossible. Think. This would not befit a Christian pilgrim whose inner nature is humble and modest. Likewise, consider her reaction to hearing Islamic poems and the bellowing whoops of your triumphant reception.

He understood enough to see my point of view: "Good, Effendi.

So, let's omit those things, but do this instead. Do you know "The Song of Bethany," telling how Jesus came to visit his siblings?"

"No."

"Alright, you'll soon hear that song. Are you now planning to take the road towards the Hinnom Valley and the Pool of Siloam?"

"Yes, my wife will likely take a photograph there."

"Good, that works. Please travel slowly. As for me, I'll rush on ahead of you."

I wanted to admonish him not to do anything inappropriate, but he waved me off as he hurriedly left in a cloud of dust. We followed him; and just as I thought, my wife reminded me to bring along the camera. She wanted to take a few pictures at the Pool of Siloam and a couple of photos in Bethany.

The purpose of this story is not to describe Jerusalem and its surroundings. For that, I'll let the path of our journey speak for itself. My wife's photographs clearly show the location and the appearance of the Pool of Siloam. In that photo, I'm not dressed like an Arab; instead, I'm wearing European clothes and a safari hat on my head. This partially explains the picture. According to The Book of John, Chapter 9: 7, it was here that Christ healed the man who was born blind.

When we arrived, we saw that no one else was there. I was glad about that. The solitude and stillness matched the moods that we found ourselves in. As we rode along, we limited ourselves to earnest conversations. Little Schamah acted like a lovely inner beam of sunshine that cast its light on our serious-minded subjects. The widow focused on the goal of her journey. One ceaseless, important question quaked inside of her: "Would her pilgrimage be favorably fulfilled, or not?" As for us and what we already knew, we eagerly held onto our high expectations that the moment of decision would soon come.

My wife wanted to have her picture taken with Schamah, but today the child did not trust the dark, dangling three-dimensional camera-so, she declined. I alone would have my picture taken beside the Pool. After the camera clicked and before we left the site, she took one last, close look, as if to memorize this part of our trip.

Suddenly, the boys surprised us from the right and to the left, both from above and below, practically from all sides and from all heights where they had hidden themselves behind the rocks. They were singing a peculiar, two-part song in the Arabic language. It was "The Song of Bethany," when Jesus was on his way to visit brothers and sisters, stopping along the way to heal the sick at the Pool of Siloam.

Picture our inner moods and the outer backdrop of the scenery; all of this seemed to be waiting for us. Here too, we were completely amazed when we heard the profoundly deep and strangely stirring "Song of Christ." That song left a lasting impression on us, one that almost brought us to our knees as we intently listened. Neither breath nor foot moved. The singers remained concealed in their hiding-places- they had a good stage director. From this moment on, I never doubted that our lad had been born with a natural talent for art.

From the Pool, we traveled toward Cedron, the brook that flows between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives. We also wanted to see the so-called upper bridge at Gethsemane. On our way to Bethany, we pa.s.sed by the Jewish burial grounds. Just outside the village, Thar stood all alone. He was waiting for our arrival, so he greeted us.

Very softly, he asked me this question: "Have you seen them?"

"Whom?"

"The singers. They antic.i.p.ated the time it would take for you to make the trip to Gethsemane, all in order to be here to sing for you once more. Come! I'll lead you to Abd en Nom; you'll want to see the living quarters that we've already reserved for Schamah. After that, we'll go to Lazarus' Tomb, and there you can take a photograph.

He took Schamah by the hand as they went on ahead of us. Abd en Nom's house was located near the site of Lazarus' Grave. The owner of the house stepped outside, bowing respectfully low as he greeted us.

His two sons were there, both of whom we recognized from Thar's description of them: "the largest Whale that we have and the strongest Hippo that ever was." Both of them gave us an inspiring impression that they were quite friendly. The little guest house certainly appeared to be clean and cozy. It looked as if the guests would be very satisfied with their accommodations here. When we stepped inside, we saw that we had guessed correctly. Regarding the two rooms prepared for Schamah and her mother, the furnishings were so perfectly arranged that nothing more could be wished for. Besides all this, the rooms were decorated with flowers and palm branches that no doubt were part of the festive parade that Thar had planned.

Secretively, the lad gave me this explanation: "Since I had to hurry so much, everything here had to be put in place very quickly."

"Well now, where did you find all of the heroes?"

"Right away, you'll hear them." With these words, he went to the door and motioned to someone outside. Immediately, there arose a triumphant whoop that was at least fifty to sixty voices strong. The pitch and tone of this cheer were so shocking and unnatural, that all of this noise could not have come from real lions, elephants, hippos, and whales. "May Allah have mercy on you!" I called out. "That's enough. Please stop!"

When he beckoned with his hand, everything quieted down. Still, we couldn't see where these "beasts" were hidden away. "That completes it," he said. "Just one last time, I had to let them blare. Now they've had their way, so they won't do it again. Well now, do we want to visit Lazarus' Grave where you can take some photos?"

We all agreed to go, because the sun was already beginning to sink; if we waited any longer, we wouldn't have enough daylight for a good picture. Thar and Schamah ran on ahead, but her mother asked to stay behind. Before it grew dark, she wanted to be sure that their rooms were ready for night time. Her request was such a natural one, that we fully understood her wish to remain at the house. So we went on without her and soon caught up with the children. We positioned the camera so that it was pointed toward the entrance of the tomb. As far as we knew, no one was inside.

From behind a door inside the cave, out stepped the official attendant, waving his arms in the air and shouting at us: "Not now!

Not now! Now it is forbidden, because a Muslim is inside, a Follower of the Prophet!" Click! He was too late; my wife had just snapped the camera's shutter. In spite of our disobedience of his orders, we were thankful to have a good picture that ill.u.s.trates this part of my narrative. Just as we were putting the camera away, we saw the "Believer of the Prophet" emerge from Lazarus' Tomb. When he recognized us, he happily hurried out to greet us. It was our good friend Mustafa Bustani. "How fitting and how right it feels that we should meet here!" he said. "On our way home, let's go through Kafr et Tur, just like we did yesterday." Turning towards his son, he asked: "And you too?" When he saw Schamah, he respectfully bowed: "And who is this small, lovely child?"

With ever-widening glistening eyes, Schamah stood there. Her pet.i.te face beamed with pure happiness. Jumping for joy, she stretched out her tiny arms, begging him to lift her up: "My Daddy!

My Daddy!" Thrilled to see him, she clapped her hands together and cried out: "Mother told me so! My Mother said it would happen!"