Star, Crescent, Cross

Going to Israel is no ordinary event. And it is apparent from the moment you enter Istanbul’s Ataturk airport. Check-in queues are separate for the passengers headed to Tel-Aviv, from the rest of the world. As soon as I got into the Tel-Aviv queue, two airlines staff come over to me and ask for my passport, the reason for my visit to Israel, my address in Israel, and the invitation letter from my contact person etc. It takes quite a few minutes to get through all these questions. The grilling complete, I am allowed to check-in. As I move to the departure area, I notice a wide variety amongst my co-passengers bound for Israel. Most of them appear relaxed and in casual clothes. I was hoping to see some of them in the
traditional Jewish dress as the Rabbis wear, but there were none.

A rather uneventful two hour flight and I am in Tel-Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport. Just off the aerobridge, I am stopped by a girl who appears to be in her early twenties. “Airport Security”, she flashes her identity card and says she wants to ask a few questions. The interrogation is in a programmed manner, and relates to the reason, the duration and all the details about my visit to Israel. I have to show her a number of documents, including my business partners invitation letter, my company’s profile, my visiting card, my hotel booking and the works. Satisfied, she says, “Thank you, Sir. Welcome to Israel”. The immigration subsequently is a song, and in another 15 minutes, I am in the Promised Land.

The Promised Land ! Surely, It doesn’t get bigger than this.

By the time I collect my luggage, it is 2 AM. My next step is to look for my business partner in Israel, Ditza. I have met Ditza before, in Europe and in India and I am able to quickly locate her from amongst the scores of people at the exit point. She’s a Jewish woman in her 40’s and extremely sharp in her business dealings. She introduces me to her husband, Daniel, who greets me with the warmest of smiles. In the car, I remark to Daniel that he looks very Asian in his dispensation. He can’t help laughing as he explains that his family hails from Karachi, and had moved over to India in 1947. In India, he studied Electrical Engineering in Ahmedabad and later worked as a bank manager with the State Bank of India. He then tells me the story of Ditza, who is from Bombay and has studied at St Xavier’s College. The stories of the couple’s past, and how they came to be together and get married is just one of the many surprises that I was to encounter in Israel.

Next stop; fuel station, as we refuel Daniel’s car for 6 Israeli Shekels ( ILS ) per liter (USD 1.5/liter) and speed on the fantastic roads at peak speeds of 160 kmph to reach Netanya in about 40 minutes.

Netanya is a small, picturesque town on the Mediterranean and has a population of about 100,000. It has a fair bit of French influence and is a very leisurely kind of a place. It is summer, and everybody in Netanya just loves the sea with its azure waters. Dressing is typical summer; light, bright colors. Shorts and T-shirts. Negligees are in fashion as well. There is an open air stage just at the end of the city center, where a music band is playing. It appears to be a patriotic song, and scores of people, children and adults, sway to the beats, going into a frenzy singing and dancing, proudly waving the Israel flag. In fact this sense of nationalism, and display of pride in an Israeli identity was something I was to see over and over again in the next few days. This mainly stemmed from a desire to become a ‘strong’ nation, a nation they claim had been theirs for thousands of years, but was obtained only a little more than about half a century ago.

Just by the side is the beach, and it is one of the most beautiful Mediterranean beaches that I have seen. A number of people can be seen exercising, running, jogging and stretching in their endeavor to be physically fit. Many are cycling as well. The impression from the beach is that of a fitness conscious society. Of course, there is the usual stuff as well that one sees on the beaches: young couples coochi-cooing, little babies running round, the elderly on a stroll with their dogs.

The next day is a Saturday, the day of the Sabbath. There is no public transport, no taxis, and the roads are deserted. On the day God rested, Israel is resting as well, although I was getting restless about my plans to reach Jerusalem. My first feel of Israel on the day of the Sabbath was an educative one. I came to know of some examples about the extent to which people go in observance of the Sabbath. In some hotels, the elevators stop at all floors, so that the people traveling do not have to press the floor button (and thereby do some work, and hence violate the spirit of the Sabbath). Some toilets have flushes going on all day at few minute intervals, so that the users don’t have to turn the knob of the flush (and hence, do ‘work’).

My search for a transport to go to Jerusalem meets with limited success in the form of an Otobus (a minibus kind of thing) , which I catch from near the
Netanya central bus station. A helpful passerby tells me “ Boos, Boos, Tel Aviv” and I board the bus and become its first passenger. The bus only goes up to Tel Aviv, but I decide to go on and take my chances from Tel Aviv. For the next 15 minutes, I am the only passenger on board, as the driver makes two rounds of Netanya in search of more passengers. The driver also doubles up as conductor, and hands out tickets to passengers at the time of boarding. He has a long handle to his right, which acts as a lever, and which opens and closes the door. The driver is equipped with multiple mobile phones, a wireless set and a radio, on which he is continuously talking. The journey has beautiful views and the bus passes through a lot of green. In about an hour-and-a-half, I reach Tel Aviv bus station. The Otobus does not go inside the bus station, but stops at a makeshift bus stop just outside. There is a moderate sprinkling of people here, and a few tourists as well. Before I can ask, I hear shouts of “Jerusalem, Jerusalem” emanate from a nearby Otobus and like all others there, I rush towards the bus. I pay my 20 ILS ticket, and we are off in about ten minutes, on to Jerusalem. As I pause for a moment and try to think beyond the logistics of getting a transport, I can’t believe it. I am on my way to Jerusalem.

Jerusalem. Jerusalem, the city of peace.

Jerusalem literally means the City of Peace. Unfortunately, however, this city has rarely seen peace in its 3000 year history and has been the raison d’ etre for some of the bloodiest conflicts that mankind has seen.


An hour later, the Otobus drops me near Damascus gate, just outside a shanty hotel called Ramsis Hotel. The place is very different from whatever I have seen of Israel so far. Signboards are in Arabic, and the traditional Arabic greeting of Salaam Aleykum is heard. The board of the Ramsis Hotel says, in English language: RAMSIS HOTEL, DAMASCUS GATE, JERUSALEM. There is a picture of the Sphinx and the pyramids in the background. I found this very interesting. In one address, three great civilizations were being captured.

AT Jerusalem, I have a friend, Zachariah, who lives on Ben Gamla Street. I take a taxi to his place. The roads are totally deserted. No commercial activity. No vehicles. No driving. No cooking. ( No flushing ). The driver, who is an Arab Muslim, tells me that he has to take a longer route because he cannot drive through certain conservative Jewish parts of the city on Sabbath day, as there was every likelihood of the taxi being stoned by these ultra orthodox Jews for plying on Sabbath day.

In twenty minutes, I am at Zachariah’s. He is about my age, and works as a research scholar in the University of Jerusalem. We became friends through an Internet site, and are thrilled at our first meeting in the real world. His parents migrated to Israel from France in the 1960s and settled in Jerusalem. Zachariah has been to India, and longs to be there again. He talks of Calcutta and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan in almost the same breath, in a highly informed manner. He gives me an interesting perspective on Israel, calling it the most heterogeneous country in the world, where people from all parts came in and settled down. People from more than 150 nationalities have come over and settled here, chasing the millennia old dream of living in the Promised Land. Mainly, these are people from the USA, France, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Poland, UK and almost all other European countries, people from Ethiopia, Tanzania, Nigeria, Somalia and other African countries, people from India, Pakistan, Philippines, people from Russia and the other erstwhile Soviet Republics, people from Bolivia, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Colombia and other places in Latin America. What brought them all together was the idea of a Jewish state and the incredibly compelling thought of being able to live in Jerusalem, the holiest city in the world.

At the same time, he goes on to add, there is another dimension to this seemingly romantic idea of migrating to the Promised Land.

For many, the migration to Israel is a rational choice: driven by economics rather than religion. It is the promise of economic betterment, of an escape from the wretched dollar-a-day existence in the countries of their origin. Zachariah tells me there have been cases of people producing false certificates proclaiming a Jewish identity so that they could migrate to Israel. This was most often the case with
Russians.

As an aside, a few days later, the Jerusalem Post was to carry an article on Russians who migrated to Israel, but returned to Russia after a few years since
life in the Promised Land didn’t quite live up to its promise.

Although being a Jew was the only criteria to become an Israeli national, I was to notice a palpable undercurrent of an unwritten kind of racial discrimination amongst its citizens. The top jobs, be it in politics, government or business, are almost entirely the preserve of the white skinned Jews, migrants from North America or West Europe. Medium level jobs, petty businesses, agencies and shops, transportation, taxi driving are activities which Jews of East European or Asian origin have kind of monopolized. Jobs involving strong physique, most commonly those of private security guards, are the preserve of Russians and Africans. Cleaners, helpers, municipal garbage collectors are more often than not migrants from countries like Ethiopia.

Back to Jerusalem, I have a quick falafel lunch with Zachariah, and set off towards the old city. The Old part of Jerusalem is a walled city and is one of the three parts that make Jerusalem. The other two are the primarily Arab East Jerusalem and the modern West Jerusalem. The old city is where most of the sights and places of religious significance are. It is for this part that Jews, Muslims and Christians hold
Jerusalem sacred.

On my way to the Old city, I notice huge posters proclaiming a meeting of the Board of Governors of the University of Jerusalem. A smiling Albert Einstein’s
picture on the top left corner of the poster gives it a great appeal.

The Old city is divided into Armenian, Jewish, Christian and Muslim quarters. It is encircled by a 4 kilometer long grey stonewall, and has seven famous gates. The most famous and impressive of these is the Damascus Gate, which opens into the Old road leading north. The Jaffa gate opens into one of the key traffic junctions, leading west.

I enter from Damascus gate, and suddenly the landscape changes quite dramatically. It’s a chaotic, crowded, colourful, noisy Middle Eastern bazaar bursting with merchants selling tea, juices, flowers, Chinese electronic goods, clothes, T-shirts, handicrafts, film rolls, battery chargers and the like.

The crowd is a mix of Arabs, Jews and tourists. Gun totting policemen are all around. I see, for the first time, traditional Jews with black coats, long flowing
beards and sideburns. The study and practice of Judaism is the profession of many of them. Most have their private, gun-totting security guards accompanying them. These security guards are usually tall, well-built and black. My friend Mirijam, herself a Jew, has some rather unkind words to say about these orthodox Jews who are into religious practice. “They are parasites”, she says. “They don’t do the army, get generous government grants, reproduce like pigs and worst of all, I pay my taxes to fund them”.

In some time, I reach the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This is in the Christian quarter, which is in the western part of the old city. The way of the Cross, Jesus’ last journey, ends inside the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre. The quarry in the church was once an execution ground, with a hill clearly visible. Today, the area outside the church is the home to souvenir shops with a small courtyard where children play.

The Church is today divided among five communities in their respective spheres of influence: the Roman catholic, the Greek Orthodox, the Armenians, the Coptic and the Syrian Orthodox. The cavalry has two chapels adjacent to each other, one of which is Roman catholic and the other Greek Orthodox. Jesus was stripped and nailed to the cross on the Roman side and he died (ascended into Heaven) on the Greek side. In between the two is the “Sorrowful Mother”, a dedication to Mary on the unfortunate event of her son’s death.

Next, down below from the stairs, is a stone slab, the Unction, where legend has it that Jesus’ body was after being taken down from the cross. There is a painting depicting the same in the background.

A little more to the inside, is the Tomb of Jesus. It is a small chamber, very low in height. I am in a large queue outside, waiting for my turn to enter. A bearded priest in black robes is disciplining our queue in his moments of supreme power, as is typical of religious places all over the world. I have to bend down to enter into the tomb chamber. It is a small, candle-lit area. Inside, there are moments of
stillness. The lady in front of me in the queue is touching and feeling the tomb, and weeping inconsolably. Almost everyone who comes in feels the tomb, touches it, many cry. It is very difficult not to get emotional and be overwhelmed by the enormity of this little chamber. I light a candle.

Coming out of the tomb, I cross a few other chapels. There is a group of Greek orthodoxs in a procession, singing and chanting. There are multiple such processions going on in evening time, for each of the ‘sects’ (if I may use that term). There are fixed timing for each sect, and any infringement on each others’ time leads to acrimony. A few years ago, the Roman Catholics and the Greek Orthodoxs came to blows over such an issue.

Outside the church of the Holy sepulcher, there is a small ladder that rests on one of the windows on the top floor. No one knows how and when it came there,
but it has been there for quite many years now. And most interestingly, the gates of the church are opened and closed by an Arab Muslim who lives in the Muslim
quarter. Because of heavy infighting between the Greek Orthodox, the Roman Catholics and the Armenians, three was no one who was willing to allow the other this privilege. Ironically therefore, a neutral party, a Muslim family holds the keys to the gate of the most holy Christian site in Jerusalem.

Coming out of the church into the narrow alleys, I am in the Muslim quarter. The lanes are very narrow and slippery. Little kids are playing all over, and shopkeepers have their wares infringing upon the roads. There is a tractor which collects garbage, vrooming around the area at breakneck speeds leaving everyone scurrying for cover. This quarter is the noisiest of all, and resembles a souq anywhere in the Arab world. The fragrances and spices from all over the orient, along with the colour and smells create a heady concoction.

I turn into the Jewish quarter, I notice shops selling expensive artwork. One of them declares, “History is on sale here”. This is a very expensive area, and is definitely less crowded. There’s a T-shirt shop, selling T-shirts with a wide variety of slogans encompassing the entire range of the political spectrum. From proclaiming “Free Palestine” to “ I love Israel” there is every slogan you can find on a T-shirt.

A few turns later, I am near the Dome of the rock, referred to as the Mosque of Omar. It is here, according to Islam, where the scales to weigh souls and make a balance sheet of our good deeds and bad will be made on the day of judgment. It is the most recognizable monument in the entire area. Nearby is the Al-Asqa mosque, meaning ‘farthest’ because this is the farthest that Prophet Mohammed got to.

I feel fortunate to be at the third holiest place in the world for Muslims. Muslims believe that this is the place from where the Prophet ascended into heaven, and hence its importance.

As I want to enter the mosque complex, I am stopped by a security guard, who asks me where I am from and whether I am Muslim. I said no, I am not, but I really really want to go inside. The guard looks around, says he will be in trouble if someone figures out that he allowed a non-Muslim in. But he takes me a few steps in the portico, and asks me to savour the holy sight from there for as long as I wanted. The guard was a Jew, an Israeli soldier by the name of Marko, and had been harboring plans of going to India for a long time. He takes my email ID and promises to write to me regarding his India trip. The practice of not allowing non-Muslims in is a rather recent phenomenon, and has to do with security concerns. A few years ago, a provocative visit by Ariel Sharon to the Al-Asqa complex left in its wake a bloody trail of violence and bloodshed, in which hundreds were killed.

On the other side, which I reach after a few more turns in the narrow alleys and by-lanes, is the holiest of places, the object of pilgrimage for Jews the world over. The symbol of Jewish faith, the Western wall is the only surviving remnant of Herod’s temple mount. It was on the western side of the temple monument, hence the name. In the 2000 years of exile of Jews from Jerusalem, Jews would pray in the direction of the wall, wherever in the world they were. The hope of being in Jerusalem would always shine bright, and the phrase, “next year in Jerusalem” comes from the two millennia of exile. During this time, the wall acquired the name “The wailing wall”, as this is where Jews mourned the destruction of the temple. When Israeli soldiers re-conquered it about forty years ago, it was one of the most emotional moments in the history of the Jews.

I have to pass through a metal detector to get in, and my bag has to undergo an X-Ray and a thorough search through the black security guards. In spite of the security, it appears that it’s not difficult for an inspired person to breach it. And that’s what makes most Jews paranoid of Palestinian suicide bombers.

I am inside.

It’s the day of the Sabbath. There are a large number of people congregated. The praying area is split into the Men’s area and the women’s area, separated by a plastic sheet. There are hundreds of people praying, reading aloud the Torah. There are paper kippers for those who don’t have headgear. The area is resonating with the sounds of a large number of prayers at the same time. There is also a tradition of writing prayers on small slips of paper and inserting them in the small holes between the stones. People are touching, feeling, kissing the wall. Many are crying as well. The people are a mix of all kinds. Black Jews, White Jews. Asian Jews. Orthodox Jews. The not-so-orthodox. Young and old, men and women. The orthodox ones have their black coats, ties, inner jackets and hats in the 35 degrees temperature. Some with silk robes. Many with T-shirts. Little girls with pigtails. Young men with guns. Children with schoolbags and water bottles. There are all kinds at the Western wall.

There are orange ribbons at many places, a symbol of solidarity with the Jews who were forcefully evicted from the territories promised to the Palestinians.

Outside the praying area, there is lots of playing, singing, dancing in a kind of a community celebration. The sights and sounds are fantastic. There is verve, a
spring, and an unmistakable element of energy in the proceedings which is very contagious. Small groups of schoolchildren are singing aloud. Many are carrying the Israel flag, and waving it with passion. A strong feeling of nationalism rents the air.

Just outside the premises, there is a political-religious meeting going on. “Madaba shall not be repeated again” is the common refrain in the meeting. There are boys and girls, no more than 16-17 year old, who are carrying guns and continuing with the religious festivities. I see an interesting picture of Pope John Paul-II praying on the western wall.

Its sunset time and activity has reached a feverish pitch. People are eating traditional food, and at the same time there is more frenzied singing, dancing and community celebration.

When I come out of the western wall complex after a never before experience, I am conscious of having been to one of the most sacred, overwhelming, fought for,
desired for places on this earth.

As I walk further around old Jerusalem, I cross the branch office of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of charity, the Tower of David, Artwork shops, rows of
Israeli flags. I come across a building which used to be the house of a Greek orthodox Christian priest. It was purchased for an exorbitant price by a Jew a few
years ago, setting off a wave of outrage amongst Christians and Muslims, as it was perceived as an act of aggression by the Jews.

I am in the Otobus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. A Filipino is my co-passenger. He works as an Electrical Engineer in an old age home, and makes some extra money by copying CDs. He says he is here only for the money, everything else is much better in Taiwan where he used to work prior to Israel. His employers treat him like a dog, he says. Other co-passengers on my bus are a mix of Israelis, Russians, Sri Lankans and Thais.

On the way, I notice that certain Kosher food joints have opened. Israeli foods habits are dominated by religion, and it is forbidden to eat unclean animals. Pork is a strict no-no for Jews as well as for Muslims. There are other ‘laws’ as well. For example, meat and dairy products cannot be eaten together. The various immigrants have brought in their own local cuisine which gets reflected in the menu cards. Like the rest of the Middle East, Hummus, falafel and ful are easily available all over the place. Being a vegetarian, this, for me, was extremely important. What I also got to know and realize was that other vegetarian items like Salads were also freely available and quite popular. In fact, there are dedicated vegetarian restaurants in cities like Tel Aviv, which are open, yes, 24 * 7 * 365. I went to one of them, where the waiter greets with a Namaste,
and gets me a complimentary mango lassi.

I am in a business meeting the next day, where I hear the common refrain; “ We Israelis love to have first world quality at third world prices”. As an aside, I also hear from many that the public transportation system in Israel, at many places, is “ third world quality at first world prices”

On my way to these meetings, I notice that the landscape is green at most places, and Israelis take pride in creating a green belt in a desert area. Israel is also a world leader in agriculture technology. From the top in Jerusalem, one can get a nice view of the Palestinian territories. They can be easily identified by the brown colour of the landscape. The Israeli side is a lot greener. The Israelis have no love lost for the Arabs for not making the environment green and scoff at their waste management ways. Later, I read that the water supply to the Palestinian parts is severely restricted by the Israelis, sometimes insufficient even to meet domestic
needs.


Most of my other meetings are also in and around Tel Aviv. Although less than a hundred miles from Jerusalem, it is as far away in its dispensation as it could be. Tel Aviv is a modern metropolis, housing businesses, embassies, hotels, clubs and finance centers. The mix is very cosmopolitan, and varies from the oriental quarters to hip, upmarket cafes and discotheques. The dressing is very international. Tel Aviv is a study in contrast compared to the 3000 years of history of Jerusalem and shapes the image of Israel as being more than just a history textbook. Tel Aviv lends to Israel the image of being a modern, capitalistic country. Compared to the orthodox, religious air of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv is a totally liberal, free and open city.

I go to the Dizengoff center in Tel-Aviv, a huge shopping mall with all the brands of the world being represented. In addition to the brands and the eateries, tattoos are very popular. Tattoos of all kind. Animals, religious symbols, flags, artifacts. And they happen at all parts of the body. Face tattoos. Arm tattoos. Thigh tattoos. Breast tattoos.

Tel Aviv is a city that rarely sleeps. Wrongly parked cars are towed away all night. Parking space itself is a big luxury. Falafel bars are open all round. Shops selling beachwear do brisk business even in the wee hours.

From my hotel, which is on the sea, I can see a Jewish wedding ceremony on the beach. The groom and the bride pose for photographers with the Mediterranean in the background. There is singing. And dancing. And eating. And drinking. There is the tradition of breaking the glass, which symbolizes standing with each other
through thick and thin.

Next day, I am on a taxi ride with David, my driver. He is a Jew whose father was from Bombay and whose parentage was part Indian and part Pakistani. David tells me of his love for Bollywood. Especially, Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan. I tell him I am a big fan of Shah Rukh Khan, and he immediately puts on a cassette of ‘Veer Zaara’, which is, interestingly, about the irrelevance of man made borders. David tells me he can’t understand a word of Hindi, but loves the songs nevertheless. Some cineplexes in Tel-Aviv sometimes screen Bollywood movies (with Hebrew subtitles) and he feasts on them. He says he drives his taxi for about twelve hours a day, makes about 10,000 ILS a month (USD 2200), and his life is drive, eat, sleep. Bollywood songs and the FM radio are his best companions as he zooms in his taxi at 160 kmph speeds.

A few days later, it is the weekend approaching again, and this time I want to go to Bethlehem, for which I first get to Jerusalem. Bethlehem is, technically, in
Palestine. I board a bus from Damascus Gate in the Old city of Jerusalem. The bus is what is referred to as a micro bus, fairly basic and has twenty passengers. Nineteen Palestinians, and one Indian. The greeting on the bus is Asaalaam-Aliyekum and not Shalom. The radio on the bus is playing an Arabic song, which I have heard before but I am not sure where, possibly in Syria.

A little before the old city limits, the bus is stopped by two Israeli girls in Khakis. They appear to be in their early 20’s and are possibly on the mandatory three year army/police stint. One of them, who appears to be the senior, comes to the door of the bus, and asks a young boy who is also traveling to collect identification cards from all the passengers. The driver of the bus has got down, and is chatting up with the other girl. I present my Indian passport to the senior, she waves me off saying its ok. All other identification cards collected, the young boy hands over to the senior, who passes them on to her colleague. She has a sheet of paper with a standardized format, and takes down the names and other details from all the cards she has collected. This process takes painfully long, about 25 minutes. Having noted down the details, the senior walks up to the door of the bus again, looks around, and asks passengers to come one by one and collect the cards. Her body language reflects she’s bossing around and my co-passengers are not amused at all by her mannerisms. I could sense an undercurrent of hurt and humiliation in my Palestine co-passengers as the exercise continued.

The formalities over, the bus starts off again, and in about 20 minutes we are at the check post. Visible in front, about three quarters of a kilometer away is the ‘wall’. It’s the wall that I have read about in newspapers back home in India, one that segregates Palestine from the rest of the country. Getting there is still some way off. All the bus passengers get down, and through a narrow, unpaved, dangerous path by the side of a cliff, we make our way to the checkpoint. There is an array of Israeli guards, a plethora of Israel flags flying majestically on the sides, a metal detector and a straight lined barricade. I present my Indian passport, and I am whisked through, no questions asked. The rest of the passengers are scrutinized more carefully.

I walk out, into what is a no man’s land. A few palm trees by the side, the wall in front. Israel flags by the side. And a different world behind. Two young boys, about 8-10 years of age, come up to me, selling a wallet for 10 Shekel. Some other boys are playing with stones and marbles. I can make out they are Palestinian.

As I walk, I am terribly excited to be nearing Bethlehem. Bethlehem is a hilltop, Biblical town and the word Bethlehem means ‘the House of Bread’ in Hebrew and ‘the house of meat’ in Arabic. Either side of the road are vast, rocky pastures where shepherds tend their flock of sheep and goats. Legend has it that on one of these fields, the angels announced the birth of Jesus. The fields are also the ground for the love story of Ruth and Boaz, the great grand parents of King David, born approximately a thousand years before Jesus.

Back to the present, and another few hundred meters of walk, and I am at the wall. The wall is a dull grey colour, unpainted, long and about 7-8 meters high. There is graffiti on the wall, saying ‘Israel apartheid, American money’. There is another which says ‘ * is X “ . And yet another which uses a common four letter word , proclaiming “F*** Israel”

As I walk in, and cross the wall, the world appears to have changed. An unmistakable resemblance to the Arab world, far removed from the sophisticated urban environs of Tel Aviv and west Jerusalem.

In a couple of minutes, I have taxi drivers approaching me for taking me to the Church. They know by the looks. From a quote of 40 Shekel, the driver himself comes down to 10 Shekel, when I use the word ‘Habibi’ to address him. Habibi is a commonly used salutation in Arabic, and means ‘Dearest’.

I also come to know that the Jordanian Dinar is legal tender in this part, although the Shekel is more common and also more practical to use. Mahmud is my taxi driver, belongs to Hebron, and he is extremely happy on knowing I am from India and is all praise for India, calling it a great friend of the Palestinian people. He remembers, surprisingly, Indira Gandhi, and says she was a great supporter of the Palestinian cause.

The Church of Nativity is a 15 minute drive, and on the way the taxi is stopped by tourism police, asking me how much the driver is charging. I say 10 NIS, the policeman says ok, and asks us to proceed. The taxi drops me at the Church of nativity. To the other side is an impressive building, boldly proclaiming ‘Palestinian Tourism Police office’. A Palestinian flag is proudly flying at the side. The area is a kind of an open square, with little shops selling souvenirs and other paraphernalia at the sides, and the mosque situated opposite to the church. This is a place which bears little resemblance to anything from the land I left a few miles ago. Even my mobile phone shows a Palestinian network.

Everything appears different. Well, everything, but for Coca Cola billboards.

At the gate of the church, I am greeted by this man who speaks good English. He says he is a registered guide and shows his identification card. He says 10 NIS for a tour of the church, and when I agree, he is thrilled. He introduces me to three of his fellow guides. We shake hands and move inside the Church.

The church has five naves, I see the grotto of the nativity with the altar of the birth of Jesus. There is also the silver star and a marble slab. Just above the altar are lamps, each of which belongs to various Christian communities. Most of the visitors can be seen getting very emotional here. They bend down, they touch, they feel and they kiss the silver star. Some cry inconsolably. Some not-so-emotional kinds like to be photographed with the star. There are a large number of paintings on the wall nearby- little Jesus with Mary is the most beautiful of those.


Back from Palestine, and into Israel, I chatted up and talked to a number of people, and almost everyone knows India very well. Israel is one of the few placesin the world where an Indian passport carries a great brand equity. In fact, a liking for India is one of the few things I noticed that both Israelis and Palestinians agree on.

Many Israelis have, in fact, also traveled to India, most of them after completing the mandatory three years in the army. They can easily recognize me by my looks, and I get a big, broad smile as a greeting. They remember a few Hindi words, and Namaste (Greetings!) is the most common. And boy, do they love India! They adore it. Most often, India represents their first voyage to a land and culture that is different from Israel, Europe and the US, where the sheer variety and diversity of everything is mind-boggling. The Indian trip for Israelis just out of Army/University is an adventure for some, a spiritual journey and a voyage of ‘knowing oneself’ for others.

One of the jokes I heard about the large numbers of Israelis traveling in India goes like this. An Israeli tourist meets an Indian on a train from Bombay to Goa. The Indian asks him, “ So, how many people do you have in Israel”? The Israeli responds, “ Six million”, to which the Indian says, “ No, no. I am not talking of the number of Israelis traveling in India”


Those who have not been to India long to be there one day, and amongst those, is my middle-aged taxi driver from the Damascus gate in Jerusalem to the Jerusalem Bus station. Shimonoviz is his name, and he makes good use of the 30 minute journey by lapping up as much information as he can on India, on places to visit, on mode of transport, on optimizing his itinerary, on the right months to visit. On the back of a small slip of paper, I draw a map of India and write down a possible itinerary for his three week trip based on his choice of places: it’s a typical Lonely planet itinerary; starting from Bombay on the El-Al direct from Tel Aviv, on to Goa, then Bangalore & Mysore, fly to Calcutta, on to Varanasi, Lucknow, Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, Udaipur and back to Bombay for the El-Al to Ben Gurion Airport. Shimonoviz is extremely pleased, takes down my email ID and phone number and promises to contact me for more information. As the taxi logs into the bus station. he gives me a piece of parting advise, and it refers to his earlier travels to Germany, Turkey and Austria; “to lap up the local flavour of a place, one must also make it a point to get romantically involved with local girls”. I thank him, smile and bid him goodbye.

In the local media, It is always interesting to note the views of the Israel press on Islam, and Islamic countries. Therefore, what stuck me in once corner of the Jerusalem post was the news about Pakistan President Pervez Musharraff’s statement regarding Israel and Palestine. It said, “ We (Pakistan) cannot be more Palestinian than the Palestinians themselves. If Palestinians can be in dialogue with Israel on a host of issues, so can Pakistan”.

Later, on the night prior to my departure, I meet Ditza and Daniel again. They are now Israeli citizens, but have an Indian roots intact. We talk about how their life has changed by coming to Israel. Ditza was in Bombay till her early twenties, and Daniel in Ahmedabad till about twenty five. This was about three decades ago, when they migrated to Israel. Ditza still watches the Hindi soap operas (teleserials) on Zee TV and Sony, and is quite up to date with the developments in most of them. She considers herself the sentimental type, and loves these mushy mushy serials. She also visits India frequently, at least twice a year. When I ask Daniel if migrating to Israel was a good thing, he says there is more money here, he has traveled more as a result of coming to Israel. But, most of his friends are still in India, and says emphatically that they would have surely had more fun had they continued to live in India.

Ditto, says Ditza.

When she came to Israel, she got a job because of her English speaking skills. On coming here, she picked up Hebrew. She says her Hindi is still the Bombay types, with the typical Mrs Berganza kind of accent. She speaks to her three daughters in Hebrew and English, but unfortunately, says Ditza, they do not know a word of Hindi. She says they are pure Israelis, and their being totally integrated represents the fact that they are living the Jewish dream.

For my return, it’s the airport again. In my few days in Israel, there is hardly anyone I met, Israeli or non-Israeli, who does not have a story to tell about
the immigration, emigration and security check at the airport. One lady, while coming back home to Israel from a trip of Turkey was asked to prove that she was a Jew. And so on. Expectedly, the formalities take a long long time. Once done, as I look down from my aircraft window , I feel a great sense of accomplishment at having been there, having seen a bit, and having got a feel of this fantastic place called Israel.