the Holy Land

All looked while she entered the room. Her smile was one of hello and goodbye; it was sad but polite and filled with a mysterious warmth. Around her head was tied loosely a very thin piece of old silk, its shine barely visible in the dusty light.

Her shawl, once glorious but now faded, framed her bright face – whose glory was the young girl’s deep black shining eyes. One piece of black hair, a black only to match her striking eyes, escaped from under her shawl and reminded one of the wine dark sea waves as they caressed the holy shores of Palestine.

Stepping lightly over the thin and worn out Persian rugs, she carried a silver tea service to her father’s three guests waiting for her to look up at them as she silently and gently crossed the room.

“Thank you my angel.”

The old man seated on a pillow under the dark window greeted the girl and took from her a small cup of peppermint tea – the peppermint was strong enough to fill the small room with a fragrance which reminded one how the sun would fill a garden early in the morning when its rays where still golden and young.

“This is God’s gift to me my friends. Bashera is her name – her mother left her behind to me before she went on her long journey.”

The old man smiled at his daughter with a gentleness that only a father could have. He then turned to speak with one of his guests – a man sitting directly opposite. A man dressed in a suit of the finest craftsmanship – perhaps even tailormade for him in Italy or somewhere else where only the rich are addressed.

“Allah has granted my wish today to honour you before I die, my Jewish friend. Will you not drink a glass of tea in my house with me and my children before you call your army? It is an honour to have such a great man come and drink the tea of a poor humble man in his house.”

Four men sat on some low couches and on the floor. One old and three young to middle-aged.

The three younger men seemed nervous and out of breath.

The old man spoke to the middle-aged man directly across from him seated on the floor. This middle-aged man was dark haired, barrel chested and had eyes piercing like a hawk’s; he hesitated and took in a long breath of dusty air to restore his confidence. He responded to the feeble old man sitting opposite him while looking him directly and deeply in the eyes. The rich man tightened his face before he would speak and there was some small worry apparent from his wrinkled forehead – a light suspicion of the good old man’s kind simplicity.

“I understand, but you have the last part wrong. No, among friends there is no great and no small – you taught that to me today. It is rather an honour for me to be here and to recognize the lesson which this day has brought. The honour is mine – ah, I don’t even know your name! Hahahaha.” The serious man went from looking like he would cry to chuckling as he raised his small white chipped teacup to toast the old man. And he smiled, but it was a smile that was somewhat heavy and thoughtful.

“Ah, my name! I am Allah’s old and humble servant, Hamadiah!”

Hamadiah smiled and laughed. The old man’s laugh was different; it went all the way through him with no complexity. It was just like the ripples on the water as they slowly and smoothly cover the entire surface of a clear pool of water just left from a winter’s rain.

“And what is my guest’s name?”

“Ah, please just call me Michael. And this is my young friend and my driver.”

Just then one of the men seated on the floor opposite Hamadiah quickly spoke out.

“You saved us!”

The man moved forward taking Hamadiah’s thin hand in his and kissed it.

“One minute more and the mob would have stoned us to death! You displayed such courage. You are old but yet you rescued us! My wife and my children will forever be in your debt!”

Michael, embarrassed, motioned for his driver to sit back down, shut-up and control himself when Hamadiah spoke again.

“God made us men before he made us Jews, Christians or Muslims. I am old but time has not silenced what Allah gave me – the simple heart of a man. I am no hero. And as you saw, it was my angel, my Bashera who tamed the crowd and made a path for you.”

Just then one of the men seated next to Michael who had until now been sitting as a dead man, silent and with his mind either far away or completely empty of thoughts, spoke slowly and gently.

“Please, please, who is he? I mean…how did you, Michael, come to know him, this old man…a Palestinian, a Muslim – who would save a Jew?”

The man broke off his speech. He had trouble speaking, blood still ran down the side of his face from the spot just above his right temple, just above his beautiful long black curls which gave him away – that he was an Orthodox Jew. He had been struck by a stone. It was just these beautiful long black curls gently falling from his temples and framing his intense visage which gave the three men away that afternoon to the Arabs who saw their car – an S-Class Mercedes – passing through their dusty and bullet scarred neighbourhood.

Hamadiah waved to his daughter to serve tea to his guests. On a thin wooden tray she carried some very small white cups and two silver pots – one of tea and the other hot water. Hamadiah motioned for his daughter to go to the guest who looked troubled and in pain and help him – he seemed to be suffering more than the others.

“Please my friend, first drink tea with us and then we can talk. Refresh yourself first and forget the struggles surrounding you. At least while you are in my house no harm will come to you.”

The wounded man, without looking up at the girl, raised his hand to stop her, she stopped and took a step backward. It seemed that he didn’t want to be distracted or interrupted at the moment. He breathed in rather deeply and visibly relaxed his shoulders but only for a moment, then tensed up again to speak, looking Hamadiah in the eye – for cleverness should be used when speaking with such a remarkable Palestinian.

“The driver seemed to take a wrong turn in the city, but now I see that he has brought us to the wise man of west Hebron.”

It was a kind and gentle tone but with some irony humming just behind his words.

Michael raised his hand and then put it on the knee of the wounded man to halt his speech. Hamadiah spoke to Michael.

“My friend, why have you come here? West Hebron is as dangerous for you, for your people, as dangerous as, as West Jerusalem is dangerous for me.”

Michael couldn’t help it but quickly shot a look at his bleeding friend and then he responded to Hamadiah.

“We have dead here also.”

“Oh? One of you knows someone who is buried here?”

“Well, yes and no. It was our aim to visit the Tomb of the Patriarchs. My friend here”, Michael rested his hand on the shoulder of the young man with the beautiful long curls, “has travelled from the United States to experience the Holy Land. He is a passionate member of the Bnei Akiva and felt he must see the caves mentioned in the Holy Scripture – I told him there might be trouble – and this experience almost cost him his life. While I was deep in conversation none of us realized that the road we wished to take had been diverted for the construction of some new Jewish settlements.”

Now the Bnei Akiva straightened himself up as best he could and spoke somewhat less gently with a wild fiery look in his young eyes directed at his host.

“It is our right to visit the home and resting place of our fathers!”

Hamadiah looked surprised at the tone of his wounded guest, but he calmed himself before he spoke gently; a wounded guest should be afforded extra patience and understanding.

“Yes, it is true, Abraham is our father also and it is evil that any man should make your way to him hard and dangerous – Allah forgive them.”

Speaking as gently and friendly as he could, Hamadiah’s words did not seem to ease the mind of his guest. His troubled guest spoke again.

“Your people encircled our car – the mad dogs – and they threw rocks at us and swarmed around us like angry hornets surrounding an innocent doe! And had you taken any longer to send your children from your house we would still have been trapped in the car when your people hurled their fire-bombs! Yelling, “Kill the Jews! Kill the Jews!””

Michael became uneasy and pushed against the shoulder of his friend to signal that he should stop speaking. Then the driver who became frustrated at the speech of his passionate Jewish companion, spoke.

“But Hamadiah, you are a hero, you have saved us, you and your beautiful children. My wife will thank you forever! You stood between us and the fire-bombs. The car could not be saved, I am sorry sir.” he said to Michael then turning back to Hamadiah, “Hearing your voice above the mob saying, “I know this man, he fears God and is my brother! Allah gave them to me to protect!””

The driver again reached out towards Hamadiah but Michael restrained him and while Michael was trying to make eye contact with his driver to get him under control the bleeding youth spoke again, but this time in a self-controlled manner.

“Michael – how do you know him – you still have not told – from where do you know the wise Palestinian of West Hebron?”

Hamadiah sees that there may be trouble for his guests if they learn about the history of how he met Michael so he cautions Michael.

“Michael, rest my brother. Call your authorities now. They must mobilize to put down the mob and get you and your companions safely out of here. I have no automobile and no exit that is hidden from my angry people. Call now – tell your friend some other time.”

Hamadiah spoke now more and more softly, his voice almost pleading, pleading Michael not to share their history.

“No Hamadiah. These men – my companions must learn also the lesson this day has taught me – that among friends there is no great and there is no small.”

In disbelief, the wounded Bnei Akiva says now stronger than ever, “Yes, tell us about this Arab who believes he is wiser than a Jew.”

Now, for the first time Michael straightened his back to its full length and focused his clever eye like an eagle on the group surrounding him – he seems to almost look right through his companions who are silenced by his stare and ready to hear the story which has something to do with their close escape from death that day. Michael holds up his chipped white tea cup to Hamadiah’s daughter and asks for plain tea without hot water…

“My friends, I am also not without courage. Ha!!! I shall tell you. Hamadiah is both a very brave and a very foolish man…he is not wiser than a Jew for no Jew would take the risks he did simply because his sad heart begged him to – you see Hamadiah, although you are kind and brave you willingly and knowingly entered West Jerusalem unannounced, whereas we Jews are here only by accident…You came to my garden in West Jerusalem blindly driven by your dark melancholy reflections, you must have been out of your mind!”

Hamadiah looked suspiciously at Michael and spoke, “Hmmmmm, well, let me be a fool so long as you say that I was brave and true to visit my wife’s grave.”

Michael fired back the words, “Brave and true! How does that serve a dead man?”

Hamadiah responded, “Only cowards are dead, the brave never die! I came to my wife’s grave in your garden to tell her that I would join her soon. Let all your soldiers and army and police do what they can – I visited her and gave her my message!”

Michael responded, “Yes, but what if the police I called had machine gunned you right over her grave??? Had I not stopped them they would have, you are a fool!”

Hamadiah crossed his arms and spoke, “Ha! Well, a true man does what he must to respect those he loves, if your soldiers had sown me up with their bullets before my wife’s grave it is not my problem – they would only have returned me to her sooner while making themselves into devils!”

Then Bnei Akiva raised his hand to speak but Michael beat him to the moment and lifted his hand first and spoke with a lively tone,

“Ha! However am I to deal with you passionate and impossible Arabs! Courage and foolishness seem to be indistinguishable to you all. Punishment does not teach you – nor superiority of power – nor can we buy you all out of here. Will the Jew and the Arab finally have to murder each and every one of the other or not? Ha!”

Hamadiah speaks, “You forget my friend, God is judge. Not even history will choose the winner.”

Michael seems frustrated by Hamadiah’s statement as if Hamadiah has said something unintelligible and yet Michael understands all too well what is meant. Michael shuts Hamadiah up with a stern look directly into his eyes and then speaks,

“Hamadiah, ok, ok, let us not discuss further or evil politics are sure to enter…all I wanted to do, and all that is my duty here to do is to tell you what happened. I am a realistic man, you overly holy men can hammer out the details which I have neither time for nor care for…anyway, let me tell you my companions how I met this infuriatingly decent Palestinian man…

Well, I am new here in Israel. In fact I have been accused many times in the ministry of still being too much of a Frenchman, although I have told my colleagues that I shall not accept this insult much longer. Anyway, I was new in West Jerusalem when one day I looked out the balcony window into the garden, behind my new house in the direction of the old olive grove. And there what did I see, there, wavering in the wind like an old sheet, but this very old man which you now see before you…

Naturally, I being a magistrate of Israel and with little time to spend on trivialities and worthless people, I thought to myself, “Ah, I should rid my garden of this beggar. Who knows what foolishness such a person is up to, wandering like a cloud in my backyard.

So I called the police and told them to rid me of the old beggar wandering in my garden. I told them he seemed harmless but that as I was new to the ministry, I had no time for worthless difficulties. Fortunately, the police chief seemed very motivated and hardly wanted to waste time on the phone talking about it before arriving at the scene to deal with the problem. He simply told me that I should on no account go out of my house, but should stay indoors with my entire family and wait until he and his men had dealt with everything. I was reassured and agreed, but repeated that it was nothing big, just a lonely and very old man lost and wandering in my garden – who probably was not a Jew given that he looked extremely poor and pathetic.

Well, what to my surprise but within fifteen minutes, six men arrived pounding on my front door. I must say that their pounding on my front door gave me more of a fright than seeing the old man in the back yard had. I opened the door and standing practically on their toes were six men armed not like policemen but like soldiers. I told them,

“My garden is not in need of conquest, only I wish someone to check who is there and escort him where he belongs, that is all.”

The captain of the police stepped forward and made himself clear,

“We are here to protect you sir, please just let us do our job. If this is really a Palestinian invading your garden then you must not underestimate the problem – no amount of force is too much when facing a Palestinian terrorist.”

“But he is just a frail old man.” I responded.

The police chief quickly corrected me, “I see you are new here sir and you do not yet understand the inhumane nature of these Palestinians and what they are capable of. They would bleed their last drop of blood just to pluck a single piece of hair from a Jewish head. Just let us do our job and stay out of the way. We will move out now – stay in your house and keep everyone inside until we give you the word that the Palestinian dog has been extinguished.”

The police then disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. And I thought to myself that our encounter was probably more horrifying than if had I just gone and spoke to the old man myself. I must admit that I did not like the manner of the police chief. First, I know how precarious the economy is here in Israel and six men suited like soldiers out of a galactic war coming just to ask an old man in my garden a few questions seemed like an absurd extravagance.

I asked myself what the money for their weapons could have been better spent on – and his manner with me – he treated me like a fool or a child, like I had no sense of how to measure the dangers presented by this unidentified old man in my garden. And finally the only justification this arrogant police chief could give me was that the Palestinian seems to have supernatural powers for evil – as if there was reason for me to have an irrational fear of him – Ha! A Jew, and a Jewish lawyer at that, should never be persuaded by such fanaticism and irrationality – the threat of an old man in my garden is clear – or did the police want me to imagine he carried some kind of nuclear device?

Anyway, I was not impressed by the lack of sanity and by the arrogant and inefficient manner of the police. Needless to say I wanted to observe their handling of the situation more closely.

I went to the back window but couldn’t see any of the soldier-police anywhere – I only saw the intruder moving more slowly than before and looking down at the earth in the most pathetic way.

Then the soldier-police suddenly came at the garden from all angles closing in on the stranger – encircling him.

I saw that Hamadiah, our old grandfather here, did not notice because he was so intently focused on the earth, as if he were longing for his grave. Then, just as soldiers closed in on him, the old man dropped to one knee bowing to the earth to pray.

Then when he reached out and took something from the earth and would put it to his lips – just before he would kiss it the Policemen begin a violent barking at him from all directions. So startled the ancient man almost fell over dead from his terror and surprise.

The Police surrounded him and ordered him to stand and move toward the clearing. And when I saw the old man turn I could see that he was weeping like a lost child – weeping and frozen to the spot in fright and surprise.

The Police continued barking at him – all shouting simultaneously so that not a single one of their words could be understood – but frozen to the spot, Hamadiah, the old man, just stood miserably bent and reaching out with his shaking hand toward where he had been kneeling.

Just then one of the soldiers moved forward and jabbed the old man with the muzzle of his gun ordering him to move – but rather than moving the old man just grabbed his side and was about to fall over.

Watching this I had had enough and began my own barking and shouting at the head of the police-soldiers,

“With six machine guns you can’t accomplish what simply a calm word could – can’t you see the poor fool can’t move!!! Because his feet are frozen while the rest of him shakes like a leaf with worry and despair!”

But the brilliant head Policeman says, “Stand back, the Dog may have an explosive. He is holding something! Get back everyone! Open your hands! Drop all your possessions!”

We all stepped back and when Hamadiah came to himself he opened his thin and shaking hand to show us a crushed flower, presumably something he had taken from the earth only moments ago – it dropped from his hand.

Before I could contemplate the meaning or madness of this I was overwhelmed and surrounded with yelling, “Move forward put your hands behind your back.”

I had had enough of this pointless yelling and wanted to finally know who this old stranger was and what he was doing in my garden.

“Stop! What is the old fool looking at on the ground.” – I said – but police just kept shoving, I tried to get closer to Hamadiah and look into the old man’s watery eyes and I asked, “Why are you here? What are you looking at??”

Then I got a shove from the head soldier who sternly said to me, “You are new here, we are here to protect you, you have no idea what these Palestinians are capable of! Go back to your house and let us do our job here!”

Then they successfully pushed me out of their circle around Hamadiah and I immediately went to the spot where I had seen the old man was kneeling and praying – and there in the grass I found a rough grave – there in my garden!

“Whose grave is this? Tell me, who is buried here in my garden?”

Then Hamadiah answered, “There she lies, my wife – there she lies.”

“Your wife is buried in my garden!” I gasped in terror.

The beggar said, “Let me pray by her grave one last time before I die, please, in peace, and Allah let me repay you a thousand times sir.”

I am ashamed of it now, even as I tell you all, ashamed of my, well, anyways, I laughed at the old man. I laughed even while he stood there more than half dead already and I said, “If you leave here with your life it shall be enough for you.”

Then the police chief yelled, “We must do our job here, get back to the house please!”

They even took me by the shirt to gently pull me back in the direction of my house – as I turned to go I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the Policemen throw a large rough kitchen knife down at the feet of the beggar just as another police officer held up his iPhone ready to document what was happening.

I got a sick feeling in my gut and stopped and began turning back toward the circle just as the other policeman raised their guns at…” Michael broke off for a moment and put his head into his hands, and then wiping sweat from his head and taking in a large gasp of air he looked again at his bleeding friend sitting next to him on the floor. Michael continued, “Well, you know, they raised their machine guns at old Hamadiah here, and in my garden!”

Michael looked as though he could barely remain seated any longer to tell his story. But then looking at Hamadiah who sat so peacefully and even with a look of understanding, Michael continued,

“Well, they were going to, … anyways I had to stop them. Now I began to get frantic, I had really had enough of this circus.

I began swinging my arms and showing my rage and I shouted at the lot of the police-soldiers saying,

“I asked you to come and see who was in my garden and now you want to spill innocent blood in my garden! You incompetent fools! Get out of here, get out of here! Before I report you all to the ministry for being incompetent idiots! Get out of my yard all of you. And you,” I then pointed at Hamadiah and even yelled at him, “Can’t you knock on my door and ask permission before appearing unannounced in my garden? Do you think I want your blood spilled all over my garden where my children play?”

Then the head soldier had the impudence to say, “It is too late for that sir, this Palestinian dog should not be in this part of the city and he knows it. What will happen if we don’t make an example of him – there are too many of them and it is only fear that keeps them in order.”

“Oh! Out of my garden you incompetent fools, I should have handled this all myself from the beginning!”

Then I did something foolish not like myself and took the very muzzle of the gun in my hand and wrested the gun from the idiot soldiers hand – I must have surprised him because he didn’t react quickly enough to stop me – and I said,

“It is clear why Israel is experiencing the third Intifada when all her Police are mad hot heads! Get out of here this is my garden and I will deal with this on my own!”

I then handed the machine gun back to the police chief and walked to the old man.

The head Policeman waved to his men and said, “Come men, he will have to learn the hard way how one must deal with terrorists, we have tried to protect him, now let’s go.”

The soldiers no longer scared me but looked like the confused boys they were and left my garden. I realized that this old man would not be able to get back to his neighbourhood without more adventure so I got out the Benz to drive him where he would wish to go. But first, I let him pray but just a couple minutes, over the old rough stone hidden in the high grey-green grass of my garden.

So this is how I met Hamadiah my friends.

And as I drove him out of West-Jerusalem he said as soon as we reached the edge of East-Jerusalem, “May the God of Abraham bless you and your children, and may God grant me, before I die, the chance to protect you also from danger as you have protected me.”

I responded to him rather arrogantly, “Well, I hope you know the price you almost paid today to visit that grave. It is not every Jew who would have stood in the way of the Mishteret Yisra’el.”

Hamadiah told me even then, “The God of our fathers is watching over you and may he always protect you.”

Then he said, “Please drop me here sir, any farther may be dangerous for you.”

But before he left my car I handed him a flower saying,

“I picked this where you kneeled, please never return to my garden, but if you must here is my card, contact my secretary first ok?”

Hamadiah responded to me, “I pray that I will someday be able to repay my debt to you.”

But I laughed and said, “Well, its enough that I rescued you, my old Palestinian friend, but don’t ask for miracles!”

We both smiled and said goodbye, and that is how we met my friend, that is the story of how I met the wise Palestinian of West-Hebron.

And Michael rested his hand upon the shoulder of his Orthodox Jewish friend from Bnei Akiva – who sat with his young eyes glaring and breathing heavily – then the wounded young man said.

“God has preserved this frail old man just for today, for the purpose of saving His chosen today out of the hands of the evil mob. Thanks be to the Lord.”

Without any hesitation Hamadiah nodded his head and said,

“Praise be the Lord that my courageous daughter had seen in time what evil things were transpiring in the streets and told me. And now I am a happy man having served my friend.”

And Hamadiah raised his glass to Michael and both men smile at one another.

Then Michael turned to his Orthodox friend and said, “Raise your glass to the man to rescued you today my friend!”

But the Bnei Akiva only glared and responded. “I will not relax until we are finally back with our own people.”

Michael quickly responded. “Had my friend Hamadiah not appeared we would be under a mound of Palestinian stones at this moment. And don’t worry – the Mishteret Yisra’el are already on their way with tanks and armoured transports – the mob will disperse and we will be safely home by mid-night. Relax my friend, think of it this way, you will have a great adventure to tell those back in the USA. It is a good thing which has happened today!”

The young man still holding his wounded head responded,

“I understand that you have rescued this man and that in turn God has rescued us – I am content. But don’t waste your words, God alone is good!”

Michael changed the position he was seated in and looked more closely at the young man and spoke with a raised intensity.

“Listen, I am a lawyer and it is my business to know that good is said in many senses.”

The young man fiercely responded to Michael, “No, there is only one source of the Law and the good is alone what is good for God’s people. Michael, You are one of the secularist Jews – many like you have been deceived in this way since the time of Maimonides, and will never understand God’s plan – You don’t know the meaning of our chosenness – it does not mean that God has given us any benefit or easy way, the way of the Jew is much harder than the goyim. We are not a chosen race but the chosen race meaning that all others have been rejected by God but that through us they can also be saved.”

The two men looked at each other as if from a distance of an ocean. There fell a complete silence through out the room – it seemed that even no more sounds entered through the thin walls from the crazy street outside.

And then, just before it seemed that there would be no more air in the room the daughter of Hamadiah spoke, “I don’t know anything about Law, but I know about friendship – you will not drink our tea because then you can no longer be great and we small. You love Law more than friendship and this is why you are hated – but the greatest Law is to be a friend to others even if they are weak and poor and small like we are. This is what my father has taught me.”

All were silent, astounded by the wisdom of the young girl…until Michael, with a sudden air of confidence gave his cup of tea to the young wounded man sitting next to him and said,

“Will you still reject the gift of the man who almost gave his life for you today while you were a hated stranger? Drink and taste the kindness of a stranger for the first time in your life my friend – learn that there is no friend too small, too poor, too foreign who is not a treasure and a discovery. If you do this and learn the meaning of what this wise child has said today then your trip to this war torn land of terror, this land where countless empires have fallen and murdered their own people as well as each other, if you and our people learn this then this will finally and truly be a journey to a holy land – for where ever two friends sit together, without malice or suspicion, where neither is greater or more chosen than the other, where neither is rich or poor, that place, on this tired and dusty earth, is truly holy.”

–  T H E   E N D  –