I looked at her surroundings, at the rest of the leaders of the ancient world, and remembered how Anwar Sadat, Egypt’s assassinated leader, took offense with this display of royal remains. Being a spiritual man he thought it disrespectful for the public to view them. They were removed and put away secretly for twenty years. It wasn’t until Hosni Mubarak, Egypt’s last “Pharaoh,” took Egypt’s reign after Sadat’s death and had them all reinstated back into the museum. Can you imagine, being in one room with so many of the great Pharaohs of Egypt’s golden past, protected in a room with all your relatives? I was elated by what surrounded me. It was overwhelming.
My journey complete, I knew I would be back. I decided my next exploration would be the route that the Holy Family took in Egypt after escaping Herod. His edict had stated that “every male child be put to death” after he found out that a new king was born. For three and half years they roamed the Nile until Herod’s death. Today, monasteries, churches and sacred wells have been acknowledged and established by the many miracles that have taken place. I will be expecting my own and why not, isn’t life a miracle?
On top of Deir El Bahri in Luxor. (Author’s Collection)
The Great Escape
Inside Gabal al-Tayr Church, Egypt. (Photo: Jack Betts)
Arise and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt,
And be thou there until I bring thee word.
For Herod will seek the Christ child and destroy him.
—Gospel of Matthew, 2:13–15
The flight of the Holy Family was understood to be a fulfillment of biblical prophecy, “knowledge that comes before its time.” Egypt was a place of refuge for iconic figures like Abraham, Joseph, Moses and now the Holy Family.
I was intrigued with their sojourn ever since I read in the year 2000 that Pope Paul defined their route as hallowed sites and was now considered an important part of Christian legacy. Up and down the Nile they hid for almost four years, escaping Herod’s secret police. Their presence in Egypt created the Coptic religion and Egyptian Christianity was born.
But how did this flight begin? Astrologists and scientists have placed it between 8 and 4 BC. In the city of Saba, north of Persia, three priests, Balthazar, Melchior and Caspar (dream interpreters for the King’s Court), were struck by an unusual occurrence in the universe—the eclipse of Jupiter and the Moon. They interpreted this as a sign that something extraordinary was to take place in the location of Judea. A new king was to be born, whose presence would change the world. It would take them three months to prepare for this pilgrimage. Together they placed in three boxes gold (divinity), frankincense (holiness), and myrrh (to anoint the dead—sign of the physician) and departed for their journey 750 miles away from Babylon. It was to become one of the most famous pilgrimages of all time.
As they entered Judea on their way to Bethlehem, the Magi crossed paths with Herod the Great (37 to 4 BC) and proclaimed the birth of a new king. He became terrified, knowing the Jews were eagerly awaiting their Messiah. Had he already arrived? His fear of being dethroned by a new king and answering to Rome enhanced his paranoia. In his devious manner Herod asked the Wise Men on their return to inform him of the location of this newborn so he could worship him as well. They agreed to respect his wishes.
The prophecy came through when they met with the Holy Family and presented the Christ with their valuable gifts. The Wise Men, fulfilled and enlightened by their pilgrimage, began their voyage back to Persia. But one of the Magi had a dream. A professional dream interpreter, he saw “the danger of being arrested and Herod’s attempt to assassinate the new Messiah.” For their own protection they decided on a different path. Upon hearing this, Herod grew insane. Feeling threatened, he presented an edict calling for “the massacre of all newborn males.” Hundreds were slaughtered.
And so here I was in Cairo in July 2010, hoping for a miracle. Pilgrims for centuries have flocked here in large numbers to pray at these sacred sites, to ask for miraculous healings or to simply connect for a sensory experience of their faith that brings the mysterious within reach. Mothers bring their children because they believe that a baptism at a pilgrimage site will bring extra blessings for their child, and for them it is about the direct connection between the believer and creator. And because of their faith, much has been answered to these believers. But when a miracle takes place that is psychological it doesn’t sustain, whereas a true miracle like the boy in the wheelchair who got up and walked for the first time at a church in Samanud sustains forever. For centuries miracles have taken place and the Christian church has noted these divine blessings. But in this scientific world, unless it is proven it simply boils down to faith, and that I was willing to have.
Summer is typically not tourist season, so that’s my favorite time to travel to the region. It also gives me greater bargaining power when dealing with Arab businessmen. I love playing this little game in the Middle East, getting them to the point of exasperation and their final (final, final) offer. Just when they think they’ve got me on the hook for a purchase, I walk away. The trick to winning at bargaining is knowing when to move on, and those are the times they come chasing. And lest you think I’m devious, rest easy knowing they expect this. It’s their version of a game of chess or poker. It’s serious business with a dose of folly and wit. And when they lose, by letting something go significantly lower than they’d like, it only makes them hungrier for another opportunity to be the victor.
The downturn is the heat, which at times can be overpowering. Your mind is not always clear when temperatures become that intense. Men of that region are in their element and use it to their advantage. They quickly size you up and go for the kill. I had to learn that the hard way through experience, and that way it remains.
Across the street from me was a hotel with a travel agency where a solitary, bedecked and bejeweled woman held court. I was tempted to ask for a date, just to see her reaction. Women, serious and untrusting in a man’s world, grab one of the few opportunities they have of holding on to power. And apparently this job was her power. We discussed day trips and journeys, and I respectfully engaged until the fees were presented. I believed that this was where the bargaining would begin, as the prices seemed overly inflated. Especially for summertime when tourism is lean. But there was no bargaining with her. It was a one-offer deal. So I stood, thanked her politely and left. No bargaining, no chasing, not even an on-the-spot deal, popular with her male counterparts. Nonplussed, she returned to her phone, jewels flashing. She didn’t get a client but she maintained what she considered to be the upper hand, and that was more than enough for her.
Earlier that morning in my meditation I had asked for guidance about my search, through a sign I would recognize. Exiting the agency, three men were standing by a desk. As soon as they saw me they quickly approached. At first I thought they were secret police until they asked, “Could we be of any help? We drive to any place in Egypt, and offer good prices.” They were hungry and anxious. I asked them for a map of their country and they spread it across the desk. My first question was “What kind of cars are available?” They showed me photos of their vehicles, and I ended up choosing a tinted-glass jeep.
We strategically mapped out the best route to take, following in the Holy Family’s footsteps. I told them I would return that evening after giving them a chance to think about a price that would satisfy us both. So later that day the agents presented the fee for the journey. The number brought a smile to my face. They smiled back, breaking any barrier between us. No negotiation was necessary. They were as reasonable as their fee, and my prayers were answered.
The next morning we would begin my sacred journey—Muslim and Christian together exploring places that can be seen, experienced, but never fully explained. That is where the imagination can soar.
In the world of Christianity you have to have faith for the experiences to have meaning. And when you return through the door you started from, something about you will have changed
. And that’s what my journeys are about: stepping into the unknown and filling a void with things that help me better understand the reasons why I am here.
At dawn I meditated on one of my favorite prayers to get my mind clear, so I would begin this journey in harmony. It’s also how I try to look at life in my missions of discovery:
Salutations to dawn.
Look forward to this day, for it is life.
For in this brief course, the bliss of learning,
The glory of action, the joy of knowledge
For yesterday is only a dream and tomorrow is only a vision;
But today well lived, makes every day a vision of happiness
And every tomorrow a dream of hope.
Look forward then to this day.
Hani, my driver and guide, picked me up from my hotel at 6 a.m. with food and wine to celebrate our beginnings and discoveries together on what would be my ninth trip. He was a sweet human—he reminded me of a big bear. He saw me as a big brother who had arrived at his doorstep with blessings from Allah. Hani was respectful and never presumptuous. He seemed happy that he had work in this scarce environment, to put food on his family’s table and to have a client who seemingly knew more about his country than he did.
On this morning our first holy stop was El Ashmunein, 250 kilometers south of Cairo. I didn’t know what to expect, except that it was famous for its thriving port on the Nile when visited by the Holy Family. The Greeks—who built the tall Corinthian pillars that still stand proudly today as well as the massive underground basilica that was built in the 5th century—called it Hermopolis.
With my guide Hani in front of Farouk’s Palace. (Author’s Collection)
Through that maze of traffic and pollution we eventually got out of Cairo and were in an expansive desert. Thank God the roads there are decent. The only issue holding up traffic is the occasional Bedouin and his herd drifting across the highway with all the time in the world. We stopped numerous times for coffee, asking authorities for directions to Hermopolis.
Despite the heat, the starkness of the desert landscape was hypnotic. There were miles and miles of nothing but sand. I wondered if any ancient ruins lay beneath it as only thirty percent of Egypt’s history has been discovered. Hani and I sang along to Western music to keep us entertained, until we arrived at our first village four hours later.
The residents are always curious and amused by foreign dress, the perennial shorts and designer clothes festooned with expensive toys while the villagers here are all covered up in their simple “Galabeyas.” The average wage here is so small that ways of making money through foreigners are aggressively played. They cheered our arrival, but there was nothing we wanted or needed to buy. We got out of the car and gave the children some candy, which delighted them. We quickly drove off toward the Nile River, with the children running after us, shouting, “Bakshis, bakshis, money, money!” Fifteen minutes later the Corinthian columns appeared in the distance, standing majestically since ancient times.
When we arrived I was a bit surprised how small the place looked. I even walked and jumped into a hole where a posted sign read “Basilica.” The earth had fallen in over the years, and the entrance was covered. This was a sacred place? Hermopolis was far from being the most zealously excavated site of Egypt, and the ruins here were to a large extent pulverized. I was not impressed except for the columns that were barely standing. There was a small sign made of tin, that had now rusted, hidden among overgrown weeds, stating “the Holy Family was here.”
Really? It was something to see that this ruin, once a thriving center for the Cult of Thoth, the god of wisdom, healing and writing, and where the myth of Jesus walking through and the trees bowing in his presence, had all but disappeared.
No miracle here, I thought. And when a journey starts like this you begin to have doubts about what’s waiting for you next. It felt empty, disbanded. But I reminded myself about my purpose here, as a voice kept whispering into my mind, remember, faith.
I sat on a broken column for a while taking it all in. I wondered what it was like for the Holy Family during those ancient times, under those conditions—the fear of being chased by Herod’s soldiers, the amount of time it took to travel by donkey and on foot in this blistering heat. It was simply their faith. So what did I have to complain about? At least I had the luxury of riding in a comfortable car trying to imagine their path and the struggles they went through to save the Christ child, while hiding in caves and meeting the occasional generosity of villagers along the way. I had no fears; all I was doing was conducting, hardly a pilgrim. It was time for my next destination, Gabal al-Tayr, the Mount of the Birds, one of Christendom’s most sacred spaces.
With Ashmunayn behind us, we drove for the next two hours in search of a village by the Nile where the Church of the Virgin Mary was situated. The villagers gave us many directions, all ending up nowhere. But then one man who spoke some English reminded us that the Nile in ancient times had been flooded but now it had receded for about half a mile inland. If we followed this particular road to its end we would find the church situated at the top of a cliff. Finally we saw it above us and climbed the 166 steps to the courtyard. No one around except children playing ball, we knocked on the church door. When it opened, there stood a Coptic Christian elder in humble dress, smiling and inviting us in. He proudly showed us around the enormous columned church while my driver, Hani, translated for me.
The church and its entire structure were carved out of a single giant rock, and that’s what made it so amazing. The thick columns were fascinating to touch, blackened by the hands of thousands of pilgrims; again I felt I was part of this church for having walked its path. I put my arms around the pillars and embraced them, trying to sense the vibration of those who came before me. Later the keeper of the church told us the stories behind the icons that hung on its walls, many depicting the Holy Family’s flight into Egypt.
Behind the altar was a locked door which is opened only by Father Matta during times of ceremony. I donated some money to the church, and I was rewarded with a chance to walk inside and explore its contents. In the middle of the room was a large piece of red velvet covering an object the size of a head. Was this something sacred? I’d read that when the Holy Family came to this spot, a piece of rock had fallen off the cliff and would have killed them had Jesus not lifted his hand and protected his family. His little hand left an imprint on the rock, and that is why the area is also called “the mountain of the palm.” Is that what this was? I asked the keeper but he would not answer. He went off to reward me with something made by the church. My curiosity soared. As soon as he left I put my hand underneath the cloth to feel, and as I’ve said before, I have to touch to know it’s real. It was something solid, covered also in plastic and revealed only by Father Matta on very special occasions. I felt a little guilty when the keeper walked back in and handed me some beautiful handmade candles. I had come so far searching for God.
Did it matter that I could not see the hidden treasure that lay inside the church’s private quarters? I did touch it, and maybe that alone was a blessing. All I know is that during the summer months, thousands of pilgrims come here searching for answers, just as I did. And the answer for that search is revealed when we are ready. I thanked the keeper and went outside toward the cliff’s face, overlooking the lush Nile Valley.
A sign posted on an outside wall by the Egyptian Antiquities says that Helena, the mother of Constantine, the first Christian emperor, founded the church in 328 AD. What a coincidence, I thought. She was the first pilgrim who visited Jerusalem, searching for relics of the Holy Land, and she eventually found the Cross of Jesus’ crucifixion. She also discovered the Magi’s remains in their tomb in northern Persia. The Cross was split into many parts and sent to churches of the known Christian world. Even the Crusaders of the late 12th century led their armies with part of the Cross—as their symbol of God’s blessing. This powerful force led them to conquer Jerusalem in 1192 AD.
Helena took the Magi’s remains and other religious relics back to Constantinople. They eventually disappeared during the Crusades under the German crusader Barbarossa, and the skeletal remains of the Three Wise Men ended up in a magnificent cathedral in Cologne, Germany, where they are still interred today.
Suddenly many Christian children bombarded me with their hands open, screaming for money. Hani started reprimanding them, but children always have a special place in my heart, especially the poor ones. They always remind me of the many struggles in my youth. I told Hani to have them earn bakshis (money) by telling me a story about the church I didn’t know.
One young volunteer said confidently, “It was a cave where the Holy Family stayed as they fled upriver from the pursuing soldiers, and the church was built over it in the 4th century. But beneath the church lies a Pharaonic temple that has never been excavated.” When he proudly finished I applauded and rewarded them all; their smiles were worth it.
Money in Egypt has a different fabric. The children looked at it as a blessing from a stranger. They hugged us, a long goodbye, and I knew we were on track. It was time to move forward to my next destination, the Church of the Holy Virgin at Musturud, known for the cave where the Holy Family hid from their enemies, as well as the blessed well that was created by Mary. It was a two- to three-hour journey south of Cairo.
On the way we stopped at numerous villages, all painted bright colors, their floors covered in dirt. The only form of transport was the donkey and the cart, and on the Nile an occasional felucca would sail by on the smooth waters. We saw children who looked like paintings—so beautiful, shy and untrusting with foreigners, they would hide behind their mothers or their animals. I saw a young boy pulling at a water buffalo along the water’s edge, and I thought it would make a great photograph. We stopped the car immediately so I could capture the moment, and as I took the picture the boy screamed at the top of his lungs, letting go of the huge buffalo, and ran for his life. The animal, now loose and dangerous, went off on its own. It was total chaos. The men ran after the buffalo as I tried to explain to the families that I only wanted to take a picture. Hani helped quiet them down. Hani translated to me that the boy had seen men kidnapping children on television and he thought I was out to get him. It really upset me that I caused that much fear in a child. So I went over slowly to apologize and handed him some money, which he then handed to his father. What more could I do? We all took a deep breath, smiled and moved on.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 13