Hatred is Bad For Business

Passover and Easter coincided that year, and Kate and I wanted to go to Jerusalem to witness the spectacle. But we were warned not to go by everyone on the kibbutz. We didn't have any hotel reservations and historically the occasions when Easter and Passover coincided were the busiest week-ends in Jerusalem. Finding a vacant hostel would be as hard as the night Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem. The kibbutzniks told us we shouldn't go because the Intifadia was in its fifth month, and "those Arabs" would probably be planning trouble. The march down the Via Dolorosa (where Jesus carried the cross) had been canceled for Good Friday. But we were eighteen, and invincible. If we couldn't find a hostel, we'd sleep in the streets. If they threw rocks, we'd run. On Good Friday morning we left, hoping to hitch-hike to the city. For the first hour we passed up rides from all the cars with Arabs driving, as we had been told. But after we realized that we would be sitting in the Negev desert all day if we didn't take one, we finally jumped in with one leathery-faced man. He offered us cigarettes, and even though we didn't smoke, we felt obliged to accept. He could not understand a word we said, and we couldn't understand his garbled tongue. Anyway, we arrived at ten o'clock at the Jaffa Gate to the Old City. As soon as we passed through the gate, we could see an array of hostels. I went into the "Swedish Hostel" where they said they had beds, and for only six shekels a night (four bucks). We threw our backpacks on two cots in a long hall. There were only two other cots claimed. The owner said that everyone was scared of the city. What should have been his most profitable week-end ever, turned out to be a bust. We hurried through the stone streets too narrow for cars to the Via, hoping to walk the path. When we got to the first station of the cross, we saw a long line forming, with a group of Jesuit priests leading. The walk was on! The cross-bearer did the obligatory three falls, and some one spit on him as called for. One man yelled "Welcome to Palestine" to us, which seemed friendly enough. Those were the only signs of violence we saw. But during the march, the narrow streets seemed quiet, too quiet. The city should have been overflowing if everyone back at the kibbutz was right. Even at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher a crowd failed to gather. At about three o'clock we decided to get away from the incessant vendors who seemed to have been there since biblical times. We decided to go to the Mount of Olives. Time and time again we had been warned not to go there, it was in the "odiously violent" occupied territories. But we were still eighteen and invincible. We climbed to the top of the mount, a twisting worn stone stairway showed the way. It was hot. It was the Middle East in mid-afternoon and we were ill-prepared. But we made it past the tomb of Malachi, to the summit and looked straight down into the city. An Arab with a camel approached and asked in perfect English if we wanted a ride. He sold rides to tourists, and we were the only ones around. But we explained that we couldn't afford it, and he offered us cigarettes. Our throats felt like the desert, but there were no signs of relief. "Excuse me, where can we get something to drink?" "Nowhere up here anymore. They closed a month ago, went bankrupt," said Radoui pointing to the hotel behind us. Then he said that no one ever came up here anymore, and that he had to find another job soon. This was one of the best views in Israel, but tourists shunned it. He was very surprised to see us. A jeep full of Israeli soldiers pulled up, anxious I think to see Kate up close. We chatted in English and I found out that one guy, David, had gone to high school in New Jersey. They started joking with the camel driver, who they apparently knew. Then we started talking about the troubles. "I hate it here. I want to go back to my home in the North," said one soldier. "We don't like what we are doing," said another, "this whole situation is costing us gravely. No one can make money, not us nor them when we can't spend time working." They brought out a bunch of boxed apple juices from a cooler. David gave us a couple each, and gave Radoui a few also. Radoui offered us a free ride. Kate and I climbed up, and sped along the gravel precariously as they laughed at us. Radoui called the camel back and we laughed as we pulled up next to the jeep. Suddenly the walkie-talkies squawked. "Good-bye friends, we must go. There is some trouble. See you tomorrow Radoui," said one soldier seriously. They jumped into the truck and shot off. Radoui said gravely that he was going home because he knew no tourists would come now. Kate and I sat on the wall above the graveyard, staring into Jerusalem below. The sun was setting and reflected at a strange angle off the Dome of the Rock. Good luck in Madrid. Brian Kennedy is a sophomore English major from Newark, New Jersey. Never Mind The Bollocks appears alternate Thursdays.

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