Walking the Bible

by Bruce Feiler

  A few minutes’ walk away, along a spine with a breathtaking view of the Sinai’s central plain, Avner led us to the mouth of a small cave, where we removed our knapsacks, water bottles, and hats and slid on our backs down a red clay chute into a cramped cavern about the size of the space underneath a pickup truck. He pulled out a flashlight and shined the beam on a small verse of script, etched in pale white on the terra-cotta stone. The letters were much simpler than hieroglyphics, but still animal-like or anthropoid: ox, fish, eye, house. There was space between them and a clear system at work in their styling. But which system? When Petrie first found these inscriptions in 1906 he couldn’t decipher them. Not until Albright arrived in the 1940s did he realize that these weren’t Egyptian, but the initial forms of a Semitic alphabet, the precursor to our alphabet, and all alphabets. The snake would later become the N; the fish, the D; the head, the R; the hand with bent fingers, the K. These letters, now called the protosinaitic inscriptions, are believed to be the oldest letters ever found—perhaps an eye chart, perhaps a poem, perhaps some laws or commandments. “We don’t know,” Avner said.

  But it was that last possibility that became even more intriguing as we descended the mountain, hiking over a dried waterfall. As Avner explained, the Semitic alphabet was developed in the ancient Near East in the middle of the second millennium B.C.E., once again out of the combustion of cultures in the Fertile Crescent. Previous forms of writing—cuneiform along the Tigris and Euphrates, hieroglyphics along the Nile—were complex systems involving hundreds of signs that were decipherable only to a rarefied, priestly class. “The great achievement of the Semitic alphabet,” he said, “was that each sound was represented by one symbol and each symbol represented one sound.” In Egypt, by contrast, there were five hundred hieroglyphs, and words were written using a mix of ideograms, which represented things, and phonograms, which represented sounds. “You often had to know in advance what the word was in order to read it,” Avner said.

  More striking, for me, was the realization that this alphabet was just coming into being during the time the Israelites themselves would have just been coming into being, and in the same region. This added a new dimension to the importance of writing in the Israelite worldview, and, in particular, in the Bible. Based on historical realities, it would have been unrealistic even for a great leader like Abraham, at the start of the second millennium B.C.E., to have been able to read a contract with God. In fact, in Genesis, Abraham’s covenant with God is not written down, nor is Isaac’s, Jacob’s, or Joseph’s. These covenants were delivered orally, renewed with words, and occasionally commemorated by raising stones.

  By the time of Moses, however, just five hundred years later, this reality would have changed. Not only would a great leader probably have been able to read, but the time was approaching when even some laypeople would have been able to understand the written word. This brings the Ten Commandments into a new light. The commandments, delivered in the Sinai and described in the Book of Exodus, are the first things of any importance that the text says are actually written down.This reinforces the idea that the commandments are a bond not just between God and the priestly class, or even between God and Moses, but between God and the entire people. The traditional explanation of why the Ten Commandments were written is that writing had become a significant cultural tool by the mid–first millennium B.C.E., when the Bible itself was written down from oral sources. But seeing the inscriptions made me question that view. If writing was so important to later biblical scribes, why didn’t they have Abraham write down his original covenant with God, or have anything else in the entire book of Genesis inscribed into stone?

  A more intriguing, and perhaps more likely, explanation is that by the time of the Exodus, the ideas of literacy and writing were building in the ancient Near East, at the very time the Israelites were forming their nation. The inscriptions near Serabit el-Khadim suggest these notions were certainly alive in the Sinai at the time the Israelites would have been leaving Egypt. As I speculated during our walk, this remarkable convergence cannot be mere coincidence. It suggests, instead, that the story of Exodus—and in particular the story of the Ten Commandments—almost surely has roots that date back to the second millennium, when the Semitic alphabet first came into existence. This doesn’t mean these stories are true. But it does mean that the Israelites’ knowledge of such a momentous historical change—the development of writing—indicates remarkable foresight of how this simple act would revolutionize the world. The written word would change not only each person’s relationship with other people but each person’s relationship with God. Not least because it opened the way for the people of the covenant to eventually become the people of the Book.

  By the time we got down the mountain it was midafternoon, we hadn’t eaten much, and we were depleted by the sun. Even compared to the incessant heat of the Dead Sea and the Nile, the heat of the Sinai was severe—especially when contrasted with the chill of the evening. The local bedouin call this phenomenon the “four seasons of the day.”

  We got back in the jeep and drove inland now, toward the south-central mountains, along Wadi Feiran, one of the largest dried riverbeds in the Sinai. It runs toward the Gulf of Suez from the base of Jebel Musa, or Mount Moses, the mountain that Byzantine travelers identified as Mount Sinai. The wadi passes just to the south of an east-west belt of mountains that divides the Sinai roughly in half. We were on a craggy, barren tableland, about 1,200 feet above sea level, much higher than the Delta, but considerably lower than the mountains to come. Also, compared to the brown sands of the north, the terrain was grayer here, and rockier. The hills looked like armadillos, with narrow black dikes of basalt that run along the spines in dramatic fashion, making them appear fiercer. The ground was the color of squirrels.

  After about an hour the valley narrowed, and a few trees began to peak through the rocks. The road had become more winding, until around one corner we were greeted by a burst of green, a dense forest of date palms, hundreds of them clustered together and stretching for miles. This was an oasis on steroids, muscled with fronds so dense and plentiful they actually blocked out the sun. We slowed to take in the spectacle, and several kids and dogs began running after our jeep. We pulled over to take a break and in no time were surrounded by several dozen toddlers, teenagers, young women and men, the unquestioning embrace of bedouin hospitality. An old woman came out of one of the dozen or so shacks and greeted Avner with a kiss on either cheek. She recognized him from the fifteen years he lived in the Sinai and employed many bedouin in his role as chief excavator and caretaker of ancient sites. “It’s like you’re a gift from heaven,” she said.

  She gestured to the group and within moments the assembled horde was busily transforming a patch of sand beneath some trees into a makeshift lounge, where our break would become a meal, would become a campsite, would become our home for the rest of the night: time slowing before our eyes, forcing us to adapt to the more leisurely pace of the place. One person brought plastic mats, another cushions, still a third pulled down some blankets from an overturned palm tree that served as a clothesline. Nearby, some girls played with toy cars. A fourteen-year-old boy was smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Several old men were squatting on the ground playing a checkerslike game, using stones as light pieces and donkey dung as dark pieces. Everyone seemed to be moving simultaneously, but not going anywhere in particular. Goats wandered around, needing to be shorn. Babies squealed like plastic squeeze toys. A mother was breast-feeding her daughter behind a tree.

  Once the carpets and cushions had been arranged, the commotion seemed to collapse on itself, as everyone gravitated toward the small campfire (started, even in the heat, for boiling water) and the makeshift living room on the valley floor. The scene reminded me of a traditional Japanese gathering, with the fire, a squat table, and people relaxing in a common space, not retreating to their own rooms. The carpets, in particular, seemed to invite sloth. They are movable patches of real estate
with twists of maroon and yellow, and knots of purple and blue, that collect people, sand, flies, and time in equal measure. Yet they are capable, as with people and sand, of moving at a moment’s notice. There are few things more portable than a carpet that, when unfurled again, can so effortlessly give the feeling of home. Have carpet will travel; have carpet will stay.

  Which is why, I was coming to see, reclining is so important to the Israelites. With a limited number of trees in the desert, and thus limited wood, furniture played almost no role in the daily life of wandering tribes. Also, tribes never stayed in one place long enough to require the trappings of permanence. No table is mentioned in Genesis, and only one of any significance appears in Exodus (made of acacia wood and covered in gold, it is designed for use in the Tabernacle). Not one chair is mentioned in the entire Five Books of Moses. No small matter, this absence of home furnishings has religious significance. During the Passover seder, one of the four questions Jews traditionally ask is, “On all other nights we eat sitting or reclining. Why on this night do we only recline?” The historical answer would be, “Because the Israelites, too, would have been lounging on a carpet, leaning to one side, eating with their hands.”

  The following morning we awoke early once again and, heeding the principal lesson of the desert—perform strenuous activity as early as you can—we decided to climb Jebel Tahuna ( jebel is Arabic for mountain), not far from Feiran Oasis. Byzantine travelers believed this tiny mountain was the site of Rephidim, where the Israelites camp on their way to Mount Sinai, where Moses draws water from a rock, and where the Israelites wage war with the tribe of Amalek. In the fourth century C.E., visiting monks built a monastery and a cathedral to honor those events and made the small community of Feiran a bishopric. The remains of their town occupy a small tel near Jebel Tahuna, which itself is lined with several ruined churches.

  Before starting out, we performed the traditional modern pilgrim’s ritual upon reaching a holy site: shielding ourselves with floppy hats and sunglasses, lathering ourselves with sun block and UV lip protector, and arming ourselves with an assortment of Kleenex, insect repellants, and bottles of purified water. For a time, when I started this journey, I felt pampered and a bit sissified to be exbalming myself with such luxuries of the twentieth-century duty-free store, but the more accounts I read of travelers of previous centuries getting sick, lost, or disease-ridden for weeks, the less guilty I felt. Even the great Lawrence of Arabia was often felled in his attempts to help liberate the bedouin by his repeated bouts of sunstroke, malaria, and other maladies of the desert.

  We made our way to the mountain and began heading up the narrow, rock-strewn path. No sooner had we begun than we were joined by a swarm of hangers-on, a cluster of barefoot, eight-year-old boys who tugged at our shorts and reached into our pockets, parroting, “Money. Dollars. Pepsi. USA!” We spoke to them, ignored them, sighed at them, turned them down, but still they continued to haggle with us for most of the way to the top. “Money. One dollar. Two dollar. Baksheesh!” Eventually, after half an hour, they changed tactics and elected to hold our hands and sing to us. “At least we have something to sacrifice when we get to the top,” I said. Just before getting there, though, Avner showed them his Bible and mentioned that we were going to study. Quickly they hurried down the mountain.

  Once the Israelites arrive in the desert, they realize their dire condition—no water, no food, no idea where they’re headed. Immediately they start to complain, thereby initiating a cycle that will be repeated for the next forty years: The people protest, Moses becomes exasperated, God intervenes, and the people are temporarily placated, before starting the process all over again. The first source of grumbling, described in Exodus 15, was the bitter-tasting water, which God rectified by directing Moses to throw a piece of wood into the water. In Exodus 16, the people complain about the lack of food, which God solves by delivering manna in the mornings and quail in the evenings. In Exodus 17 the people complain about having no water to drink, which God addresses by instructing Moses to strike a stone with his staff. In each case the people receive God’s blessing and continue their trek.

  Suddenly, though, in the middle of Exodus 17, a nomadic tribe called Amalek appears and declares war on Israel. Moses asks Joshua to lead the troops while he, Aaron, and Hur, a previously unmentioned aide, climb to the top of the hill to oversee. Once there, a strange development occurs. Whenever Moses raises his hands, the Israelites prevail; when he drops his hands, Amalek prevails. No reason is given for Moses to perform this action, and no explanation is given for its power. Moses grows tired, though, so Aaron and Hur bring a stone for him to sit on. Aaron and Hur then each take a hand and hold it in the air until sunset, when the Israelites finally triumph.

  “So what’s the purpose of this story?” I said. “What’s it suddenly doing in the middle of Exodus?” We were sitting on top of the mountain now, in the apse of a ruined chapel. A modern cross stood on the spot. Down below, several wadis came together at the foot of the great palm forest. At the intersection was a nunnery, built alongside the ancient tel.

  “Maybe there’s some oral tradition behind it,” Avner said. “Maybe the Israelites faced some attacks in the desert.”

  “And what about the raised arms? What does that symbolize?”

  “The nuns say it foreshadows the cross on which Jesus is crucified.”

  “Really?”

  “They also believe the twelve palm trees represent the apostles, and the Red Sea is a kind of baptism.”

  “Surely the hands form some connection with God.”

  “Ancient people went into war carrying likenesses of their gods. In this case, it’s as if Moses is a likeness for God.”

  “A living icon.”

  “And an aging one, too. He’s eighty by now, you know.”

  I asked him what he thought of Moses at this point in the story.

  “I have some problems with Moses,” he said. “Problems with him as a negotiator between God and the people. He’s the one who’s carrying the covenant that God gave to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and the Israelites are supposed to follow him. But many times he gives up. ‘I’m too tired to continue,’ he says.”

  “But he’s given a pretty tough assignment,” I said.

  “Very much so.”

  “Jacob couldn’t even control twelve sons.”

  “Sons are always more difficult,” he said, chuckling.

  “So maybe he’s just working out his role,” I said. “He doesn’t yet have the confidence he does when he goes up Mount Sinai. He doesn’t even have the power to hold up his own arms.”

  “The point is: He never has that power. He’s just a middleman. God has the power. The Israelites have that power. But they’re both wary. Moses’ role is to deliver them to each other.”

  Back down the mountain we waved good-bye to the boys, who were now idly tossing stones at passing cars, and turned inland. We hoped to make it to Saint Catherine’s by nightfall and begin several days around Jebel Musa. The road was climbing higher now and the surroundings growing more severe: The mountains were no longer armadillos, with rounded tops, but rhinoceroses, with rough, angular peaks. The light was brighter, almost a white neon. It was as if we were driving through a pile of discarded bones.

  By midafternoon we reached another cluster of vegetation, the Oasis of the Tamarisks of Saint Catherine’s. We pulled over for lunch. This oasis was much smaller than Feiran, closer in size to Ain Musa. Only here the majority of trees were tamarisks, a chiefly desert tree, with stringy bark similar to cedar and feathery leaves akin to fir. To explain the concentration of greenery, Avner began constructing another of his models in the sand. He drew a shape that looked like a bottle. He dug out the model several inches deep and then went over to a well and brought back a jug full of water.

  “This is a wadi,” he said, gesturing to his creation. “Most of the water from the mountains drains down into these basins. But the wadis are wide, so the water is equally di
stributed on the water table just below the surface.” He poured the water into the bottom end of the bottle and it dispersed evenly across the width. “Now watch,” he said. “As the water nears the neck, it begins to rise, because the width of the water table shrinks.” And indeed the water did spill over at the neck; not with a splash, but with a gurgle. “Where the water bubbles up,” he said. “That’s where you get an oasis. It’s the part where the valley narrows. The water table pushes through the ground, and plants have enough water to survive.”

  “So where does the word oasis come from?” I asked.

  “It’s Greek.”

  “What’s the Hebrew word for oasis?”

  “Naot midbar,” he said, “the most beautiful place of the desert.”

  Once we finished with the model, we turned our attention to the real focal point of the site, the trees. Oases are mentioned throughout the Bible as locations where the Israelites camped. Though tamarisk trees are not mentioned, they, too, may have played a part in inspiring one of the more memorable details of the Exodus story, the “bread from heaven.” In their second month on the road, the Israelites complain bitterly about the lack of food, and God promises Moses that he will rain down “bread” from the sky every morning and “flesh” every evening. The flesh turns out to be quail, and the bread a “fine and flaky substance, as fine as the frost on the ground” that the Israelites call manna, from the Hebrew expression they mutter when they first see it, man hu, “What is it?” Manna is described as being like coriander seed, white in color, and tasting like wafers in honey, or rich cream. In addition to providing the food, God provides a warning: Each person should take only one portion every morning, and two on the sixth day. There is no manna on the Sabbath. The Israelites, of course, ignore the warning, but they soon find that all their hoarded manna “became infested and stank.” Having learned their lesson, the Israelites eat manna for the rest of their forty years in the desert.