By Jan Therien
Bethlehem, November, 2015
“Litany- a series of petitions for use in church services or processions, usually recited by the clergy and responded to in a recurring formula by the people. Synonyms: prayer, invocation, supplication, devotion.
A tedious recital or repetitive series. Synonyms: recital, recitation, enumeration, listing, inventory”. Also, “a resonant or repetitive chant”.
Bethlehem is home for Church of the Nativity and three Palestinian Refugee Camps housing over 16,000 displaced Palestinians, many so displaced since the 1948 war. Hundreds of tourists from innumerable nations, races and religions daily flood this small Arab village to file through the alleged site of Jesus’ birth and the manger where he was laid as a newborn. They give homage, each in their private ways, and pass on and beyond the realities of this so called “holy place.”
Befriended by a local Palestinian tour guide, I entered the small, hot, spaces where perhaps Jesus was born and placed in his humble cradle, spaces crowded uncomfortably now with people pushing and surging against one another to take yet one more photo. Saeid was my guide’s name.
For two hours afterwards my traveling companion and I conversed with him at a friends’s olive wood store. We drank hot tea and spoke of life for him and his family, for this tragically sad “holy city” where weekly a minimum of four, usually more, Palestinians die from Israeli guns. They die in the camps where especially the young continue to resist the oppression of Israeli occupation.
The next morning Saeid took us to Camp Aida where more than 6000 Palestinians are contained (their word), refugees within their own country. We walked through streets where these displaced people live. Not many were on the streets. Those who were gave silent acknowledgement of our presence, walking with their faces down, making no eye contact. The few children I met did not play. They walked closely beside a parent. But the children were the ones who would meet my eyes as they walked through litter-cluttered streets. Rarely would they smile, but their eyes held wonder when they met mine. They travel on dirt streets where the wall casts shadows over them. The Wall, called by many the Apartheid Wall snakes its way around this village and its refugee camps. It stands 25 feet tall and has towering observation posts where the Israeli Defense Forces maintain constant observation. This wall separates families and farm lands unable to be tilled and planted throughout more than 48% of Occupied Palestine.
The wall at Camp Aida and life in that place is yet another story I would like to tell. (The Electronic Intifada is a good web site to learn more about the wall and its past and current presence in the West Bank.)
The Bus to Jerusalem
We left Bethlehem aboard a public transportation bus destined for Jerusalem. The bus stopped at many places along its route through the narrow winding streets of Bethlehem. Passengers would board and silently pass down the aisle to seats. No words were spoken. Most passengers were young adults, many with book bags, headed for university in Jerusalem. Some were young women traveling to Jerusalem. For what purposes I was unable to learn, maybe to work in hotels, restaurants. The absence of conversations was striking to me. Like the silences in Camp Aida.
The bus approached an Israeli checkpoint, Checkpoint 300, at the Temple of Rachael’s Tomb.
It pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. The driver opened the doors and requested all passengers but myself and my traveling companion to get off the bus and line up at a point he designated. He asked the two of us to remain on the bus but have our passports ready when Israeli soldiers boarded. I watched as our fellow passengers were lined up single file and one by one approached an Israeli guard, showing their documentation papers and answering questions. During this time two Israeli soldiers boarded the bus, reviewed our passports and then left the bus.
One by one, the Palestinians reboarded. Individually, they passed me as they walked down the aisle, returning to their seats. Their faces, as they passed, spoke with a silence that was deafening to me. Facial muscles fixed and tight, some with muscles twitching. Eyes were fixed straight ahead, some filled with anger, none appearing sad. Lips were pressed tightly shut. Not a word was spoken, by anyone.
The faces of those young people will forever remain with me. A bus full of Palestinians, most young adults, who had just been subjected to yet one more act of dehumanization and intimidation, like in Camp Aida. I struggled that night to find words to describe those young faces as I wrote in my journal. So much said, though not a word was spoken.
Embarrassment
Humiliation
Anger
Resolution
Defiance with Dignity
And, looking back on my days spent with Palestinian families and friends in the West Bank, I think the wordless litany spoken on that bus and in Camp Aida meant, “You oppress us and occupy us but you will not rid us of the determination to be Palestinian, and the determination to live.”
An incredible litany without words
Chaplain Jan Therien recently returned from sixteen days of traveling with a friend through Israel and the West Bank. For several of these days they stayed with Palestinian farmers in their homes. Even when language precluded in-depth communication, stories were shared and truths told. Truths were told by Israelis not supporting the Israeli government. Truths were told by Palestinians of the need to end Palestinian occupation. She will write more for this blog.