by Amalie Coles
“Hi, I’m Michelle,” one of the girls said as we were trying to open our door.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rebecca. You can call me Becky.”
“I’m Katie.” Another girl joined us.
Not unlike at the Dan Gardens Hotel, the lunch at this kibbutz was organized in a buffet style and had an excellent selection of Mediterranean salads, hot plates, and desserts.
We had a brief orientation after lunch. I learned that the kibbutz was housing at least two more groups from different excavation digs. One was from Jaffa, and similarly to the Leon Levy team, it had to be moved away from the conflict zone. Another group was from Megiddo proper, and my new roommates were part of it. I got to meet Israel Finkelstein and Eric Cline, the two prominent scholars who were directing the Megiddo Excavations. The Jaffa Project was directed by Aaron Burke and Martin Peilstöcker. Our own directors told us more about the upcoming tour, which was to take place next day in the Golan Heights. They also informed us they would be leaving the kibbutz for Jerusalem in a couple of days.
After the orientation, I briefly checked out the pool and spent some time at the lobby texting Jason and my parents. Everyone urged me to be careful and to stay safe. In reality, I was only an hour and a half away from Ashkelon. Yet somehow, I felt secluded from the danger.
***
“Do you want to go out tonight?” Katie suggested after dinner. “This place has got a great bar.”
“Sure,” I replied. Since I didn’t have to wake up with the sunrise for at least two more days, I decided to give it a try.
“Then we’ll see you at the lobby,” Michelle said excitedly. “We are walking there together.”
“I’ll be ready in a few.”
At the bar, I met Karen, Janice, Madeline, and some other volunteers from Ashkelon. Quite surprisingly, George was not among them. We chose the biggest table available and quickly ordered drinks. One of the volunteers laid cards on the table and suggested playing them for a while. I was never good at card games, so I followed blindly whatever everyone was doing. To my surprise, I won a couple of times. Then we played another game, during which each person had to say, “Never ever did I...” and make a statement. The rest had to listen and fold their fingers if the opposite applied to them.
“Never ever had I lived in Canada,” Karen started. I folded one finger.
“Never ever did I smoke pot,” Madeline continued. Two thirds of the group folded their fingers.
The statements went on. The drunker we got, the funnier our statements became.
“Never ever did I have a penis,” Claire declared.
“Never ever did I have testicles,” Karen continued.
“Never ever did I go to a jail,” Luke said.
When my turn came, I quickly thought of what I could say and decided to go with something simple. So I said that I’d never lived in the United States.
In the meantime, I thought about all the things I had never done in my life. I had never skipped a class, smoked a cigarette, or had a one-night stand. The list could go on forever. At the back of my mind, I began to wonder if I had missed out on all the fun people often had in their early twenties. I chucked this thought and went on with the game.
A few games and drinks later, we all dispersed to our rooms. Although no one was terribly drunk, we were collectively worried about missing the morning alarm.
“I hope we can wake up on time tomorrow,” I said, entering our room.
“Are you going away?” Michelle asked.
“Yes. We’re going on a tour for two days.”
“Nice.”
“I think we had a great time,” Katie said cheerfully, taking out her blanket.
“I agree.” I smiled.
***
I ran into George at the lobby in the morning and immediately asked him why he had missed our outing at the bar. He always came off as an outgoing person.
“I had an important meeting with Daniel,” he said, looking serious. “By the time we were done, I was too pooped to go out.”
“I see.”
“By the way, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Really?” I asked, feeling a mixture of sadness and relief. Although I enjoyed George’s company, his leaving would certainly be for the best.
“Yes. We are going to work at the Albright Institute. You know where it is, right?”
Of course, I knew everything about the Albright Institute, the oldest research center for archaeology in the Middle East. Throughout my undergraduate years, I’d been dreaming about visiting it someday. I even tried to go there during our stay in Jerusalem four years ago, but the tour schedule got in the way and we never made it.
“What are you planning to do?”
“Lots of things. We’ve got tons of findings to enter into the system, reports to write, articles to publish. It will be a busy week.”
“I wish I could be part of it.” I sighed.
“Let’s go,” one of the tour guides urged us. “The bus is waiting.”
Thus we embarked on our journey to the Golan Heights.
Chapter 13
Our first stop was at Gamla, the ancient Jewish site famous for its role in the Great Revolt. During the first century CE, the town’s dwellers rebelled against the Romans and fought against Vespasian’s legions. In spite of an initial victory, Gamla eventually lost the final battle. As sad as the history can be, Gamla is a great site to visit.
The moment we received our maps, I became alarmed from seeing an area marked with mines.
“What is it?” I asked, pointing at the map segment that looked menacing.
“Don’t worry; we won’t be there,” George tried to reassure me.
“How do you know?” I was still unconvinced.
“Look, this is where we are now, and this is the mined area. We won’t even have time to reach it. Even if we did, we’d recognize the signs.”
“All right, kids, you should get going,” the bus driver told us. “Please be back in forty minutes.”
Having looked around, we realized we were the only people still standing at the entrance. Everyone else was already making a way through the site.
“Have you been to Golan Heights before?” I asked, while entering the hiking area.
“Only once, when I was still working at Tell es-Safi.”
“I see. So which places have you seen?”
“This one, Banias, Katzrin, and a couple of more. Anyway, let’s get going. We only have forty minutes to reach the Hasmonean quarter and come back.”
The hike through the site was a bit strenuous but totally worth it. We passed through a narrow trail that lay between lush, green hills. From afar, I could hear a faint sound of a waterfall hidden between the hills. The scenery hardly looked like Israel as you’d imagine from tourist commercials that always show desert and camels. It was so green, so peaceful, and almost surreal.
“Boy, it looks more like Scotland,” I noted, looking at the hills.
“Except in Scotland you hardly ever wear shorts,” George commented.
We laughed and continued walking. By the time we reached the ruins, I was close to fainting. Even excavating in Ashkelon was easier. After all, the hike was mostly climbing up under the scorching sun, while the archaeological work was done under a tent. I was glad I didn’t forget water, for without it, I wouldn’t survive.
“Sometimes I wonder why no one had written a paper about life in the antiquity without air conditioners,” I joked. That question had been bugging me since our trip to Eilat.
“Well, maybe it will be the topic for your paper.” George looked dead serious.
“I’ve been done with school for quite a while.”
“Never say never.”
A few photos and another trail later, we were back to the bus. On our way out of the park, I saw a few prehistoric structures known as megaliths, which looked like miniature versions of Stonehenge.
Our next stop was at the Nimrod Fortress, which was built in the thi
rteenth century by the nephew of Saladin. Historians believe it played a strategic role during the Sixth Crusade. Although this site also involved a lot of walking, the walk was much easier because the road was paved. Besides, the narrow stairs and corridors of the fortress provided everyone with a good respite from the afternoon heat.
As we were emerging from the fortress, I saw my three former roommates walking together with Luke and Karen.
“Hey, George! Where have you been?” Rachel exclaimed, running towards him.
“Hi!” he replied briskly.
“What’s wrong with you, honey?” To be honest, her constant hovering over him was a bit annoying.
“Want to take a group picture?” I suggested.
“Sure,” Janice replied.
We all gathered in front of a small fence with a castle in the background and looked at each other. My eyes met George’s, and I immediately felt those stubborn butterflies again. At least he would be gone tomorrow.
“You stand here,” Rachel commanded, pushing me aside.
“I can take the photos,” Madeline said. “Give me your cameras.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you!” Karen exclaimed.
“Here, you can take mine.” The rest of us passed her our cameras.
“Let me take a photo of you with the rest of the group,” I suggested after she finished.
“Thanks!”
“We should friend each other on Facebook,” Janice said after I finished taking the last photo.
After the Nimrod Fortress, we stopped at the Banias Springs Park, an archaeological site, also known as Caesarea Philippi, located at the foot of Mount Hermon. According to the Christian tradition, it was the site where St. Peter received his ordination to lead the Church. It’s also famous for a pagan shrine dedicated to the Greek god Pan. Today, one can still find small grottos carved out of rock that used to be mini altars. The actual park consists of small waterfalls and springs, one of which happens to be the source for the Jordan River. As soon as the grottos came into sight, I felt a twinge of excitement, for it was one of the places Jason and I had visited during our honeymoon.
Right next to the park entrance was a small picnic area, where we had our lunch. It wasn’t until I saw rows of salads and pita wraps that I realized how hungry I felt. Sometimes, sightseeing could make me forget about everything in the world, including food.
A group of Muslim women with kids was sitting at a table nearby and chatting happily in Arabic. One of them smiled at us and said, “Hello.” I replied with “Ahlan,” another word I knew in their language. The scene reminded me of summer picnics in Toronto parks, where political conflicts existed only in newspapers.
At last, we proceeded to the park to explore the ruins and enjoy the natural wonders of the Banias Springs. Tired of my old sticky running shoes, I took them off and slipped on the flip-flops, which I had shoved into my backpack last night. It felt quite refreshing not to heave those boots on my feet. After taking a few photos of the shrines, I followed the road leading to the springs. For a few minutes, I was completely alone in a dark tunnel of trees. Then I saw a group of girls from our team walking together with Luke and George.
“Look, this is the starting point of the Jordan River,” I announced. “We should all take a photo in it!”
“Let’s do that!” George jumped in.
In front of us was a place that could be easily mistaken for a cave. A small area of water was surrounded by low-hanging branches that cast a shadow on anyone who entered it. Having removed his shoes, George walked into the water, and I followed him. The water felt pleasantly cold against my skin. So here I was, flip-flops off my feet, walking into the source of the Jordan River, holding onto the branches, and trying my best to maintain balance. All of a sudden, I lost my grip and fell into the water.
For a split second, everything went dark. Then I opened my eyes and saw George, who was splashing in the water, trying to help me out. My first thought was about the camera, which I had luckily entrusted to Karen before entering the stream.
“Are you OK?” George asked.
“Better than in Ashkelon’s bomb shelters,” I replied, trying to shake off streams of water flowing down my clothes.
Suddenly, a hysterical laughter took over. Nothing could be more ridiculous than this incident. Karen, Madeline, and the rest picked up on my gaiety and also started to laugh. George tried to hold it in, but the laughter was contagious. We ended up fumbling towards the bus all wet and giggly.
The bus driver quietly drove us to Majdal al-Shams, a Druze town, and stopped by a small market.
“You have twenty minutes to find a change of clothes,” he commanded.
“What are we going to buy here?” I asked, eyeing a row of abayas and hijabs.
“Whatever will prevent us from ruining the bus seats,” George said.
“Now he’s trying to be funny.” I playfully poked him.
Having looked around, I saw nothing that would fit. All the modern-looking clothes were either too big or too small. Only one dress was of my size, and it was a black abaya accessorized by a white scarf. There were more options for George, who ultimately bought a pair of sports pants and a T-shirt. Not having much of a choice, I bought the dress and immediately started looking for a bathroom to change in. Sensing my concern, the seller asked me if I needed help. After I told him I was looking for a ladies’ room, he explained how to get to the closest coffee shop. George and I parted at the entrance, agreeing to meet in a minute.
“Please don’t let the bus leave without me,” I pleaded. “I have no idea how to get back to Megiddo alone.”
“Of course I won’t leave you, Becky.” The way he pronounced my name made my insides melt.
The entire time I was changing, my mind was focused on one thing—not to drop anything into the dirty toilet, which probably hadn’t been cleaned for ages. I still had a backpack full of things, such as running shoes, water, and, most importantly, the camera. If only I had packed extra clothes!
When I came out, George was waiting faithfully at the entrance, looking even better in his new clothes.
“You don’t look that bad,” he said, smiling.
“No comments. Let’s go.”
As soon as we boarded the bus, everyone clapped. I probably looked ridiculous in my long dress, but what choice did I have? So I tried to laugh with everyone else.
Our very last stop for the day was at Tel Dan, the site I’d been looking forward to seeing for the entire day. Despite feeling uncomfortable in my new, exotic clothes and having a few bruises from stones, I still enjoyed exploring the Israelite temple. I wondered what Jason and my Facebook friends would say about the clothes I was forced to wear during the last photo session. I would probably have to write a note explaining what had happened earlier.
In the meantime, George and I chatted about the structure of the temple and the Aramaic stela, which had been discovered in the area. It was one of the few documents that mentioned King David’s name.
“Do you think the stela gives enough evidence about King David’s existence?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” George answered frankly. “While I don’t deny the possibility, I don’t see enough evidence here.”
“But the stela clearly mentions the House of David.”
“So what? It could be anyone’s name, not necessarily King David’s.”
“True.”
“I think the archaeologists are often too eager to find something related to the Bible. As a result, they get excited too quickly and start ignoring the facts.”
To be honest, I always had a hard time accepting the fact that most of the Biblical narrative didn’t match with the actual evidence from the sites. With time, I learned to accept the facts and to acknowledge how little we knew about the past.
“However, absence of evidence doesn’t always mean nonexistence of a certain person or an event,” I suddenly added.
“Like I said, I’m not denying anything. I’
m just being critical.”
I felt his gaze and wanted to move closer. Instead, I moved away and pretended to be photographing the sacrificial area. I could no longer deny my attraction to him. Somehow, the incident at the Banias Springs brought us closer. We couldn’t stop talking to each other on our way to the kibbutz.
“So, where do you think the Israelites came from?” he asked at some point.
“Well, I’m not sure, but there are many theories about their origins,” I replied, trying to recall what I had learned at the Biblical archaeology course back at the U of T.
“They were obviously the Canaanites!”
“You think they were the same group that existed in the Late Bronze Age?”
“Of course! The same language, material culture, and even the same religion.”
“Well, I vaguely remember those theories, but, like you, I’m also being critical. You can’t believe in everything the books say.”
There was a moment of silence. Then he dropped a bomb. “I think you should seriously consider going to a grad school,” he said.
“Maybe one day.” I shrugged.
“You should consider it now before you have kids.”
“Maybe you are right,” I blurted out. “To be honest, I’d love to spend my life working with artefacts.”
“Then what is stopping you?”
“I don’t know.”
He later took out his music and offered me one headphone. At the moment, “Zombie” by Cranberries was playing. It was followed by a few songs from the Beatles, Queen, and Alanis Morissette. I suspected my taste in music wasn’t as refined as his, but I felt like sharing a few of my favourite songs anyway. So I offered him my iPod and put on “Yafa Sheli” by Eyal Golan. We later listed to “Kmo Sinderela” by Sarit Hadad and “Halom Matok” by Moshik Afia.
“Wow, you know Hebrew music,” he commented. “That’s amazing!”
“That’s all I’ve been listening to lately.”
Jason had known my music preferences for a long time and was already used to them. We even went to a few Israeli concerts in Toronto. To new people, my playlist still appeared a bit exotic. I hardly ever talked about my music to anyone, except for a few people I could trust. The moment I showed George my playlist, I felt like I had revealed a hidden part of me.