Professor Omar likes the fact that I accept everything he tells me and don’t question him. He asks me if I would like to see a very interesting film about to be shown in the EU-renovating hamam of Al-Quds University.
I would love to.
The professor and I walk back to the hamam and I find a stone to sit on. Next to me sit a couple of German girls. They are here, they tell me, because they want to help the Palestinian people.
I chat with one of the German volunteers.
What made you volunteer for the Palestinians?
“Three years ago I volunteered for Israel and I fell in love with the Jewish people.”
And that’s why you decided to come again?
“Yes.”
Three years ago you fell in love with the Jews and that’s why you are now helping the Palestinians?
She looks at me in disbelief, very upset: “What are you trying to say?”
I should have drawn from my intellectual years before I made this beauty upset. Thank God the movie starts. Name of movie: The Land Speaks Arabic.
Using images from various sources, stills and films coupled with never-ending voiceovers by yet another professor, the movie asserts that “Zionists” came over to this part of the world for no obvious reason and committed countless massacres of innocent Palestinians, such as slaughtering thousands of sleeping civilians in the middle of the night. Those they didn’t kill, they expelled.
Thusly the Jewish state was created in the year 1948.
When the movie ends a professor explains to us, in case the movie wasn’t clear enough, the essence of Zionism: “Zionism is a colonial, racist ideology. No other way to explain this.”
Thanks to the generous funding of the EU, who sponsor almost everything here, I have learned two things today: the Israelis crucified Jesus and the Jews are brutal creatures.
Tomorrow, I decide on the spot, I’ll go to see the Christians of the Holy City, the spiritual ancestors of today’s European funders.
***
The Holy Sepulcher. Here the Son of God, Jesus Christ, was buried, and here is where he rose from the dead.
There are fourteen stations that Jesus went through in the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Suffering, and I’m now at the last few of them; the others I passed through on my al-Aqsa journey.
Books have been written about this Holy Sepulcher, widely known as the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, many of them discussing the various denominations that continuously fight over control of the area. The members of the various denominations, some of them monks, wear different clothes, but I can’t really tell the difference between them, except for the fashionable design of these habits.
I walk around, up and down, and fairly soon get lost. I see a door, behind which a man with a holy costume sits, and I enter.
“This is an office,” a bearded man who looks like a bishop tells me in broken English. In other words: Get out! But I am a dumb boy and I don’t get what he is saying. Do you speak Hebrew? I ask him.
“No.”
Do you speak Arabic?
“No.”
Do you speak Spanish?
“No.”
Lucky me, I don’t speak one word of Spanish either. Do you speak –
“Speak Greek. Only.”
I speak Greek as well as I speak Spanish, and so I try English and Arabic in a Greek accent. Maybe he will understand something.
I want to do an interview for the paper, big paper. In Germany.
He smiles.
Shu esmak (What’s your name)?
“Asimo.” he says.
Picture of you?
“No.”
Picture of you and I handshake, a la Rabin and Arafat?
“Okay. But only one picture!”
***
I walk down a floor and sit at a corner, only to soon be disturbed by priests walking by with burning incense. One comes, then leaves quietly. Another comes with little bells, stopping at certain spots where he shakes the bells. I calculate, though I am not sure, that those certain spots have some sort of wireless connection to certain heavenly entities. This priest leaves, and another comes. This new guy makes a bit more noise with some other bells.
If I don’t get it wrong, this place is where cell phones were originally invented, and each one of these priests is using a different app.
I go back up. To Golgotha, where Jesus was crucified. The New Testament says that Jesus was crucified outside the city’s walls, but if Professor Omar can make up stories, why not the Christians?
I go to see Jesus’ tomb.
A long line of people, which I estimate to be between one and six million, are in a queue to enter the tomb, perhaps hoping that they will rise to life after their deaths as well. There’s an entry point at one side of the tomb and a little room on the other.
In the little room they sell paper for those who want to write personal letters to Jesus, which many here do. Writing done, they drop their notes at the tomb for Jesus to read. I’m not sure why they are doing it, especially since Jesus got out of the tomb alive long ago and only God knows where he is today. The Jews who write letters to God are a bit smarter: they deposit their letters with His Wife, not at the empty tomb of His Son.
Some of the letter writers also attach money to their letters, obviously thinking that Jesus is in need of some cash. I’m not completely certain how the cash finally reaches Jesus but I can see the Greek monks faithfully collecting it for him.
There are other sacred things happening here besides cash.
An older monk approaches an attractive lady and, touching his head and his torso when he says this, tells her that he’s very happy because Jesus is in his mind and in his heart. He adds, speaking to the lady: “I can see that Jesus is also in your head and in your heart.” He gets closer to the lady, puts his lips on her face and her torso, exactly where Jesus resides, and kisses both with passion.
It is at this very moment of Holy Porno that I feel the need to butt in. This monk is more interesting than the man who looked like a bishop I met before.
Do you see Jesus in my mind and heart as well? I ask the monk.
“Yes.”
You sure?
“Yes!”
Would you mind kissing me too? On my head and over my heart, where Jesus is?
The monk gives me a spiteful look, but I insist that he kiss Jesus. He refuses. I raise my voice at him, for the Lord’s honor, and swear to him that I won’t leave the place unless he kisses my body with passion, “like you did the lady’s.”
The lady hears our exchange and promptly demands that he kiss me.
He does. Monks obey ladies.
The woman, who says her name is Olga, laughs loudly. I demand hotter kisses, as Olga looks at him with stern eyes.
As the monk brings his lips close to my head, ready to give me a hot kiss, a blond young girl passes by. The monk moves his head toward the new female in town while he’s kissing me. I can only imagine what this monk would do to the blonde if he were not busy kissing me by orders of Olga.
The sexual desires of monks standing guard at a tomb is a very interesting topic and I’d like to explore it in more depth. I write a note in my brain to meet more monks during my journey to this holy land. But for now, I just schmooze with some people around me. Interestingly, one of them tells me that this very place does not really contain the tomb of Jesus. The real tomb, I’m now told, is in a place called “Garden Tomb.”
I leave the Old City and walk over to the Garden Tomb. What a nice place! A real garden with trees and spotlessly clean pathways welcomes me as I enter. No monks here, only Anne, who is in charge of the place. Anne is a lovely lady whose husband, who lost his faith in Jesus, gave her a choice: him or Jesus. She chose Jesus.
Is Jesus buried here?
“Jesus has arisen and he’s with the Father.”
Was he buried here?
“Some say he was buried in the Holy Sepulcher, others say it all happened here.”
> And what do you say?
“I say: What’s the difference? Jesus is alive, and that’s all that matters. He got up alive from his grave, he is alive, and he is in heaven with God. Nothing else matters.”
***
I go out of the garden and take a look at the Old City facing me. The Christians have their Son of God, Muslims their Messenger of God, Jews their Wife/Presence of God. The Son was buried here, the Messenger flew up from here, and the Wife is still here. Any wonder that the three monotheistic religions fight each other to the death for this parcel of land? Their very spiritual life depends on a few stones in the Holy City, and each wants the whole pie.
But is this just a religious fight? Judging by the Europeans, many of whom are atheists and who are so excited to renovate a hamam here, it stands to reason that Jerusalem is also the capital of the Godless. Why else would their leaders spend a penny on a hamam thousands of miles away from their own homes?
To understand the secular mind better, I decide to meet some atheists, agnostics, and whoever is in between. Luckily, the Jerusalem Film Festival (JFF) is opening tonight. Israeli actors, directors, and producers are not known to be big followers of God; I shall join them.
But before I go and join them, I get myself some Israeli food and go to my Templar home to eat it. Have you ever tried Israeli food? If you are one of those people who eat not just to survive but also to enjoy, get onto a plane and fly over here. What wonderful food! Start with labane cheese, the one made of goats’ milk, but be careful when you put a spoon of it into your mouth, for your soul might melt with extreme pleasure. Cottage cheese, have you heard of it? It is only here, in the Holy Land, that you can get the real thing. Forget any other cheese that you have ever had; those are all fake.
Gate Two
Did you ever try Islamic beer? Would you like to be blessed by the rabbi of Auschwitz? Would you like to date a Jewish Taliban lady? How would a rabbi know that his wife is menstruating?
IN THE BACKYARD OF MY HOUSE, A REAL NICE BACKYARD WITH A VARIETY OF trees in multiple colors, I notice stray cats staring at me from behind the trunks. I think they are afraid of me. Somehow they smell I’m not a local. Stray cats of the Holy Land don’t like Europeans and Americans, I think. But it pains me to look at them, for they seem to be starving. What should I give them? I don’t have any bones, only cheese and milk. Kosher goats’ milk. You think they would go for it?
Look how I spend my time in the Holy Land: with graves and with cats. But the cheeses, and the milk, let me tell you, are already worth the trip!
* * *
Opening Night at the Jerusalem Film Festival entails listening to long speeches before any film is shown.
I sit in my chair and try to listen.
What can I say? If this can serve as any proof, secular people are quite dumb.
When the lights finally go down the opening movie starts. It’s about a group of aging grandpas planning to rob a bank.
It is an interesting concept, but when the plot thickens I can tell that the real robbers are the filmmakers: they are robbing my time.
Is this the extent of secular people’s imagination?
The Festival is produced by the Cinematheque of Jerusalem, located above the valley of Gai bin Inom, where in the old days people sacrificed their children to some gods, not far from the Hill of Evil Council, where the decision was taken to arrest Jesus Christ. Across the valley is Mount Zion, where King David’s Tomb is located, plus the Church of the Dormition, from which the Mother of God ascended to heaven.
I hope that the JFF will offer a film or two that are at least as half as fascinating as this city’s landscape.
I go to see another film: 10% – What Makes a Hero, a documentary by Yoav Shamir. Lights go off once more, images come up on the screen in the dark hall and I see Hamburg.
No. Not the Hamburg I left just days before with its beautiful Turkish Airlines lady. No. The Hamburg we are shown here is Hamburg of 1936. A different Hamburg. Instead of the smiling Turkish fan of an actor named Mehmet, what we see here are mobs of Germans giving the Hitler Salute. Soon the camera zooms in on the saluters and there, smack in the middle of the mobs, is one man who won’t salute.
This very man, a voice tells us, has triggered the mind of the director of this film, who is also its leading character, to wonder what drives a single man in a huge crowd not to follow the crowd and take such a risk. In short: What makes a man a hero?
The film goes on and, as you might expect, Germans feature in it again. We see for example the daughters of Georg Alexander Hansen, a man killed by the Nazis for his involvement in the attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. They are Dagmar and Frauke, one blond, the other not. They try to speak English, which is a bit broken, but the story they tell on the screen with tears rolling down their cheeks needs no words in whatever language.
The film drags on, but at the end we get to see the conclusion: Who is the heroic anti-Hitler of our day and who is today’s Nazi-equivalent.
The hero is Jonathan Shapira, a person I don’t have any clue about but this film explains. Jonathan comes from a distinguished Israeli family, was a celebrated pilot in the Israeli Air Force, beloved by all, but at some point in his successful life he decided to give it all up. These days he thinks the worst of Israel and declares that Israel commits crimes against humanity. And since this is a film, where mere words do not suffice, we are shown the Israeli army throwing tear gas canisters on what seems to be peaceful demonstrators near the West Bank town of Bil’in. The gas effect, especially in close ups, is not pretty. To Jonathan, this tear gas display squeezes out of him the “last drop of Zionism” he still had in his heart.
Guess who’s today’s Hitler? Obviously enough, our generation’s Chief Nazi is no other than the Israeli army, the IDF (Israel Defense Forces).
Had this film been produced outside of Israel, many would have said the filmmaker was an anti-Semite, but this film is the creation of an Israeli, of a Jew.
As the credit lines roll on the screen I notice that this film was given funding by companies from countries such as Germany and Switzerland. The face of a Jew, the pocket of the German: Who creates whom?
To get a better picture of the film and its people I go to meet Yoav.
Why did the Germans and Swiss fund this film?
“We live in a global world and international entities collaborate. You do movies here [in Israel] and you try to get partners. HBO partners sometimes.”
HBO is American, and Yoav is evidently trying to tell me it’s not the “Germans” alone doing these things, the American are doing this too. And Americans, as we all know, are Jew lovers.
Did you get financing from HBO in your career?
“I didn’t, others did. But in other movies that I did we partnered with international companies such as ZDF.”
ZDF. Also German. This man, the Germans, and the Swiss go well together, I guess.
Your movie starts with Nazis and ends with IDF.
“Those were soldiers, and these are soldiers. Those obeyed, and these obey.”
The picture you make of Israel makes me think that this country had reached bottom. Correct?
“Lower than bottom.”
I tell Yoav that I would like to interview Jonathan and that I’d also like to go to Bil’in. Could he help me? Yoav replies that he would be glad to help.
Great.
Interview done, I again go to the Cinematheque.
As customary at festivals, artists come to meet other artists and network. Standing near me is a director who is struggling to get funding for his next movie. I ask him why he doesn’t approach German or Swiss funders. Well, he says, this is not so easy. “If you want German or Swiss financing for your movie, you have to be critical of Israel and then they will sponsor you.”
Is this, by the way, what this festival is going to be about, political criticism of Israel? If so, I would rather spend the time I allotted for the JFF and go out to meet some real-life an
ti-Zionists, and perhaps of the non-secular kind. The most famous of them live not far from here, in the Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) neighborhood of Meah Shearim, right off the ancient Old City.
* * *
As I walk in this Haredi neighborhood I notice the “Yeshiva of the rabbi of Auschwitz,” a rabbinical seminary of the rabbi of Auschwitz. Auschwitz? I ask Hasidic people standing at the entrance to the seminary. “Yes,” they say. “Why not? Auschwitz used to be a Jewish town.” I can come inside, they suggest, and the Rabbi of Auschwitz, who is in heaven together with King David, would send a blessing my way. I burst out laughing, for some reason thinking this is the coolest joke I have ever heard, and they immediately join me in the laughter. We pose for pictures together, just for the fun of it, and think up a scheme how to send these pictures to Adolf Hitler in Hell. He should have a laugh too.
I keep walking the streets of Meah Shearim and a thought creeps into my brain: How come these people are so funny and the secular filmmakers so boring?
Whatever the reason for this little difference, I have a more burning need at the moment: Diet Coke with ice. There’s life after the ovens of Auschwitz and I want to live. Problem is, I don’t know where to find a Coke here, a neighborhood with many religious establishments but no visible Coke-selling stands. I spot two workers, non-residents, and talk to them.
What’s your name?
“Yekhezkiel,” says one.
And you? I ask the other.
“Israel.”
They don’t strike me as Yekhezkiel and Israel, two very Jewish names.
You don’t have to play games with me. What are your real names?
“Muhammad.”
And you?
“Also Muhammad.”
Nice to meet you. My name is Tobi and I’m a German.
Catch The Jew! Page 4