Living Stones

by Lloyd Johnson

“I don’t know ‘curious.’ What does it mean?”

  “It means I’d like to ask a question.”

  “So, ask it.”

  “You are wearing a Muslim head covering and yet I see a Bible with you. I don’t understand.”

  Fatima smiled. “I’m a student at the Bible College. I’m studying while waiting for a ride home.”

  “So, are you a Christian?”

  “No. But I’m a follower of Jesus.”

  “But you look Muslim.”

  “I am. I grew up Muslim. My family is Muslim. I first learned of Jesus in the Qu’ran. But I began to follow him when I learned about him in the Injil … ah, the New Testament. And in it didn’t he say to follow him? He never talked about becoming a ‘Christian.’ That’s a different culture. My culture is Muslim.”

  Ashley frowned and shook her head. She had never heard anything like that.

  Fatima continued. “So we stay inside our own culture and talk about the love of Jesus with our friends and families in a natural way.”

  “Do your parents approve of your going to the Bible College?”

  “Oh yes. They see how I have changed. And the college has a good reputation for giving us a good education in Bethlehem.”

  “That’s wonderful, Fatima.”

  An old Fiat pulled up to the hotel entrance. “I have to go home now,” Fatima said. “But we have an English Club at the college tonight at eight. Could you come? We like to have native English speakers to help us talk correctly.”

  Ashley laughed. “Gamal already invited me. My friend Jim is coming with me, and I am absolutely delighted to come tonight.”

  Ashley and Jim looked for the students as they walked in the entryway of the college with its tall ceiling. Fatima appeared and, after introductions, she led them past the library with its glass doors and into a classroom. A beautiful girl, Ashley noticed her shining, long black hair, uncovered by a headscarf. Gamal rose to greet them as did the other ten students, who shook hands with Jim and Ashley. Fatima brought out a tray of dates and olives with flat bread to go with their tea.

  Gamal smiled and wanted to know about Jim and his work in America. Jim mentioned that he, as a pastor, cared about people. An eager student, Majid sat on the edge of his chair, waiting to ask a question.

  “How do you work with Muslims in America?”

  Jim looked surprised. “I guess I don’t since I don’t know any.”

  “Oh. We live and work with Muslim people every day and live in peace together. In Israel and the West Bank, eighty percent or more of the people are Islamic. We don’t have any problem with them because we’re Christians. We both suffer from the military occupation and it draws us together. We become friends.”

  Ashley couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. “Fatima, I notice you are not wearing your headscarf here. Why not?”

  “It’s not needed in here, Ashley. I wear it outside for modesty in public. That is important in our Muslim culture. The hijab stands for modesty. I am still a Muslim in my culture. In my faith, I love Jesus. The two are different. I have not taken on the Christian culture of the West as that would terribly upset my family and tear us apart. So I don’t embarrass my father by going out without the scarf. My parents ask what I am learning here. I tell them about Jesus. Remember, he was born here.”

  Jim looked stunned. “So are you are still a Muslim?”

  “In my culture, yes,” Fatima smiled. “‘Muslim’ means to submit. So I submit to my heavenly Father and to my earthly one. It pleases both, I think. Didn’t Saint Paul become all things to all men? He kept being a cultural Jew all his life, going into synagogues, entering the temple, and taking a Jewish vow at the end, right near here in Jerusalem.”

  Jim shook his head and laughed, turning to Ashley. “Fatima just scrambled my whole theology.”

  “What do you mean, ‘scrambled’?” Fatima asked. “I thought that’s what you Americans do to eggs.”

  Back in the hotel lobby, Jim and Ashley sank into the overstuffed chairs. Jim shook his head with a chuckle. “It could have gone on all night. We had so many questions. My brain is loaded with still more.”

  “I found Majid’s story sad,” Ashley said. “He and his parents, like so many of the students and their families without work, live in these tiny apartments referred to as ‘refugee camps.’ I didn’t realize what all these shabby buildings really represent, some with holes in them from the war.”

  “Yeah, he called it ‘Ayda camp.’ Majid said it’s one of three camps here in Bethlehem. And Majid’s father is an unemployed engineer, Ashley. He explained it while you chatted with the girls. He can’t get into Jerusalem to his former company. They have exhausted their savings and live on what they can sell in the open markets. Majid, fortunately, is on a scholarship.”

  “Did you realize, Jim, that one of the girls we met is Jewish?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she lives in that beautiful settlement off to the east, high on the hill overlooking Bethlehem. It has a wall around it and the highway below that you can see from the street.”

  “How does a Jewish girl happen to come to the Bible College?”

  “She met Fatima somehow.”

  “Her parents let her come?”

  “Apparently they don’t mind. Her father’s a wealthy businessman in Jerusalem, and her mother is a busy socialite. So they’re too busy to object. They’re not ‘observant Jews.’ Besides, Adala says they have a Palestinian nanny who really takes care of them. Their gardener drives her to the college every day.”

  Ashley checked the time—midnight. “I’m not even sleepy. Too revved up I guess.”

  “We’ll be having breakfast around eight. Then the team will have time to explore Bethlehem and visit the college. It would be good for them to meet some of the staff and students. We’ll leave on the bus after lunch. It’s only about one hundred miles to Galilee.”

  “I won’t be at breakfast, Jim. Fatima invited me to meet her parents at nine, for breakfast. But I’ll check out early and meet you all here at least right after lunch.”

  Chapter 29

  Ashley watched the small Fiat drive up to the hotel with a distinguished looking gray-haired gentleman at the wheel. Fatima jumped out, her head covered with a lovely red-flowered hijab. Ashley realized she should have one ready to throw over her head, particularly when visiting a church or a mosque. Fatima introduced Ashley to her father, Saleh bin Tariq.

  He bowed, but didn’t extend his hand. Ashley understood that Muslim men would not touch a woman outside the family.

  “Asalam alekum,” he said, smiling.

  Fatima explained: “That means ‘Peace, to you.’ You can address him as Saleh. That’s his name. The ‘bin Tariq’ means son of Tariq, my grandfather. I can translate for you.”

  “Asalam alekum, Saleh. Tell him I am delighted to meet the father of such a lovely daughter.”

  Fatima blushed and laughed. She said something more than that to her father in Arabic, and he laughed. “He says I kept you up too late last night.”

  “Well, it was great fun. I enjoyed the Church of the Nativity earlier in the day. But you know what I loved even more?”

  Fatima repeated Ashley’s question to her father.

  “I loved being with you students. You are the hope of your people of Bethlehem and the West Bank. I am so excited about what I am learning. I couldn’t sleep much last night trying to remember what you all shared with us about reconciliation.”

  Fatima placed her hand over her heart, while translating for him. Then her father spoke. “He wants to know what you do in America.”

  Ashley explained her role at the University of Washington, and then asked about Saleh.

  “He manages a company here that distributes food and sells cooking ware. I think that’s the right English word,” Fatima explained. “He used to manage a large import-export company in Jerusalem, but since 2002, he is not allowed into the city.”

  Saleh swung into a pa
rking area on the broken-up asphalt road, passing a large pile of stones and broken pieces of concrete blocks.

  Ashley furrowed her brow and pointed to the rubble. “What is that, Fatima?”

  “That used to be our neighbor’s house. Israeli soldiers demolished it.”

  “Why.”

  “We never know. Another family a few hundred meters from here have a demolition order on their home. They are trying to fight that in court. But it’s expensive, and they usually destroy the house anyway.”

  “I’d never heard of such a thing, Fatima! What gives them the right to do that?”

  “We don’t know. Israelis are not allowed to come to the West Bank in Area A, except for the settlers on their own highways. But soldiers come, every night, and sometimes during the day. They drag young men out of their houses and take them to prison.”

  Saleh cleared his throat as he stopped the car, getting out to open the car door for Ashley. Fatima’s mother opened the door and smiled broadly. She wore a lovely hijab of tan and purple, her head covered with the scarf extending under her chin. Two younger sisters, bareheaded, dressed in jeans and looked like typical pre-teens. Fatima presided over introductions with the mother and daughters.

  They sat on plain chairs around a low table. The room contained a low sofa and a bookcase. Windows opened on the two outside walls, both covered with a steel grate. Her mother spoke to the young girls, and they disappeared into the kitchen bringing back platters loaded with fruits and breads of a wide variety. Ashley had not tried pomegranates. Naan and hummus, dates and figs followed, along with tea. Then the youngest daughter brought out a “dallah,” an Arabic coffee pot steaming hot. The coffee was rich and strong.

  Fatima chuckled. “We don’t usually drink coffee, but we made it just for you. We have water again.”

  “What do you mean ‘again’?”

  “Oh that. We get used to it. The Israelis turn off the water, sometimes for weeks at a time. We don’t know when it will happen, so we store water. But it’s hard to wash the clothes.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “We don’t know that either. My friend in the settlement on the hill up there tells me they have plenty of water for their swimming pools.”

  “It’s water from here, from the Palestinian territory?”

  “Yes. We have underground water, but Israel takes eighty percent of it. It’s part of the ‘Nakba.’ Do you understand that term?”

  “Gamal explained that as ‘catastrophe,’ right?”

  “Right. Maybe it’s to punish us or just make our lives difficult. We don’t know.”

  The conversation grew animated. Ashley wanted to know how they survived the war in 2002. Fatima translated for the family. The younger girls understood more English than they spoke. Being Saturday, they had no school. Fatima’s mother spoke no English, and her father seemed to understand some, but spoke only Arabic. But they each talked excitedly and all at once, apparently to be sure to get in their account of the war into Fatima’s summary.

  “Our young men threw stones at Israeli tanks that moved into Bethlehem, with IDF soldiers behind them.”

  “IDF?”

  “Israeli Defense Forces,” Fatima explained. “There had been several incidents of suicide bombings in Israel by radical Muslim terrorists. Prime Minister Sharon forced his way up the Temple Mount with many soldiers, to the Dome of the Rock, insulting Islam. Those incidents, along with failure of the Oslo peace talks, began Palestinian resistance, mostly throwing rocks at soldiers and tanks. This second intifada began in Jerusalem.

  “The riots spread. Israeli troops invaded Bethlehem and other West Bank towns. Our people had almost no weapons. When soldiers came into Bethlehem, our young men threw rocks to try to stop them. They turned off everything in Bethlehem. For weeks we had no water, no electricity. With the curfew lasting for forty-two days, we couldn’t get out for propane or food.”

  Ashley sipped her Arabic coffee, surprised it tasted so good.

  Fatima continued as the family all contributed their accounts to her. “The helicopter gunships came first, then the tanks with big guns. Bulldozers blocked the road to Jerusalem at Rachel’s Tomb. The soldiers invaded homes to imprison ‘terrorists.’ My father fled. He ran with crowds of men to Manger Square, fearing death. They escaped into the Church of the Nativity, and the Israelis then shelled the square and even the shrine itself. They said the men must be terrorists. They seemed to use that term for most Muslims.”

  “So what happened?” Ashley asked as she scooped out another spoonful of the colorful red pomegranate seeds.

  “We had some fighters with guns. Most of them died. Others threw stones and were shot. Israeli snipers shot anyone walking out on the street. Several priests and nuns died from bullets fired into churches. Bethlehem was surrounded. Israeli soldiers blocked ambulances from getting to the wounded, even women and children.”

  Ashley had never even heard of this war before Marie had mentioned it. “How long did this last, Fatima?”

  “Father survived somehow in the church for over one hundred twenty days. They killed some of the men. The Israelis finally deported several of the men they called terrorists to Cyprus or elsewhere. Others were released. We didn’t dare go out for many days. We lost count how many. Then they built the wall and our people lost their jobs in Jerusalem. It separates us from Israel, but also from each other in many places.”

  The family kept urging Ashley to eat. She didn’t fear missing lunch at the hotel but realized she needed to get back in time for the bus trip to Galilee. Her head swam with impressions of life in Bethlehem. She tried to answer their questions about her life in Oklahoma—for them a world away. She remembered the words again: “Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.” Not anymore.

  Fatima’s father presented Ashley with a carved wooden replica of the Church of the Nativity and drove her back to the hotel. She wished she had brought a gift for the family. He took her on a short tour with Fatima explaining the sights. Just prior to a checkpoint with an Israeli armed soldier blocking the way, Saleh turned off to a back road, bumpy and with twists and turns that made the journey interesting for Ashley.

  Fatima apologized. “We are not allowed to drive on the highways reserved for Israelis.”

  After saying goodbye at the hotel, Ashley stopped in the lobby, staring blankly, shaking her head, having no idea how to put what she had just learned into the context of her belief system.

  Chapter 30

  On the small bus traveling north to Galilee and its largest city, Nazareth, Ashley leaned her head back and tried to sleep, but couldn’t. She opened her eyes at a checkpoint, reentering Israel from the West Bank. The green countryside of hills and valleys with farms of olive groves and various citrus trees flew by out the window. She turned to Marie.

  “My brain won’t slow down. I’ve had so many experiences in Bethlehem that I didn’t expect. They don’t fit with the mindset I’ve always had.”

  “What doesn’t fit, Ashley?”

  “Well, for example, Palestinians and Muslims as our enemies.” She paused. She had forgotten momentarily about her experiences on Herodian and at the wall. “I met a beautiful student, Marie. She and others follow Jesus without leaving their Muslim culture.”

  “That sounds pretty controversial. I think many converts close the door to their past when they become Christians.”

  “I suppose,” Ashley said. “But Fatima enjoys such a great relationship with her Muslim family. She wears the hijab when out and about to not offend her parents. She doesn’t take on the culture of ‘Western Christianity.’ The family expressed such hospitality, such gentleness, such kindness.”

  “What else doesn’t fit your usual thinking?”

  Ashley paused and shook her head, gazing out the front window of the bus. “Demolitions of houses. No water for weeks. Curfews. Arresting young men. Soldiers shooting civilians.”

  “I remember your saying you had not heard
about Israel’s incursion to find terrorists in 2002.”

  “No, I hadn’t, Marie, and certainly not from the Palestinian point of view. I’ve only read and heard of ‘Palestinian terrorists,’ rockets that Israel’s Arab enemies shoot from Lebanon and Gaza, suicide bombers of a decade ago. They claim they built the wall to stop them. Perhaps, but it seems to be incomplete. And now Palestinians promote nonviolent resistance to the military occupation. What really stopped the bombers from Gaza?”

  Ashley paused to ponder and visualize the city they had just left. She felt sickened by the contrast between the partially destroyed buildings they called refugee camps and the spectacular Israeli settlements on the top of the hills. And roads on the Palestinian land reserved for the exclusive use of Israelis. And demolitions and curfews. “So much is new to me. We never hear any of this in our church … or in our news media for that matter.”

  “You have a lot to process, Ashley.”

  “I do. Do you suppose we’ll have a chance to hear what the Israelis think of all this? I hope we can make some Jewish friends and learn what they are thinking.”

  Chapter 31

  Ashley used her cell phone with the new SIM card for Israel to call Najid’s family from the Nazareth Tourist Hotel.

  “Hallo,” a man’s voice answered.

  “Hello, this is Ashley Wells, Najid’s friend—”

  “Ah! Moment.” Then Ashley heard a shout: “Sami!”

  After a few seconds and sounds of footsteps, a male voice came on the line.

  “Hello. This is Sami. Welcome, Ashley.” He spoke just like Najid and even sounded like him. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Nazareth Tourist Hotel. It’s so good to hear your voice. You are Najid’s brother, right?”

  “Yes, he’s number one; I’m number two. My English used to be better than his, but not anymore. Can you come visit us?”

  “I’d love to, Sami. Maybe tomorrow. Najid said he arranged for you to come pick me up. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right, Ashley. We have a car and I will come and pick you up after church tomorrow. How about at eleven? We have early morning mass.”