Read Ebook: Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine) by May Karl Schoonover James D Translator

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As if to ask forgiveness, he blushed and cast a pleading glance toward his father when he answered his own question: "I love my Father and my Mother, but they're both mistaken. I have no affection for my teacher, but he's right." I was unable to respond-I could only pull the boy to my side and kiss him on his unpainted forehead. My heart wanted to overflow, and I also saw how deeply my wife was moved-her eyes filled with tears. It was nothing short of a sacred moment. All the while, his father sat next to me. Mustafa smiled at us, and yet he didn't have the slightest notion about the depth of innocence, the pure candor, and the spell-binding magic of the child's soul which had become so palpably open to us. "So, give me a little time, Thar. When we see each other again, you'll be different than you were previously. On that date, I'll form my opinion of you. Before I leave Jerusalem, I'll tell you what I think."

"Really?" he begged. "Yes, really," I answered. At that moment, his hand gently and tenderly touched my cheekbone as he solemnly declared: "Make no mistake; I also love you. This I know for sure. Do you want to see something that I've created, that I've actually painted?" I said "Yes."

"When are you coming again?" I responded, "Tomorrow at the same time." He quickly chimed in: "Well then, before noon. I must begin my work and finish the pictures this afternoon!" He thought for a couple of moments. A mischievous snicker quivered across his green cheeks and over his blue moustache. Then he asked his father: "May I have your permission to redecorate the garden house today?"

"What do you want to do there?" inquired Mustafa. Thar answered: "Paint two pictures; tomorrow, I'll show them to Effendi." "Good, you may." Thar insisted: "But no one may disturb me. Unless I so desire, no one will be allowed to come into the garden house." "Not even I?" asked Mustafa. "That includes you," said Thar.

That's certainly interesting. I hope that you will be successful in showing Effendi something that's really good; so, I have nothing against your project. "The boy exclaimed: "Thanks be to Allah! I'll begin right away!" In joyful anticipation, he turned a somersault and shot out of the shop. After a few minutes of silence, Mustafa Bustani asked: "Now, what do you say to him? What a good lad! An artist, right?"

"Wait," I answered. "First, let's see. Such judgments should be weighed and regarded closely. I've prayed for an extension of time. Tomorrow will be the next time I see him."

This gave us the occasion to take our leave, so we parted company. It was close to noon, when the hottest time of day begins and one best spends time in the coolness of a room. When the heat was past, we hiked towards the Mount of Olives in order to walk towards Bethany, and then return back to Jerusalem via the sites of Bethphage and Kafr et Tur. We took a photograph; my wife almost never travels without a camera. Due to the fact that carrying photography gear on a tour requires so much time and trouble, I'm always concerned that dealing with such things can greatly interfere with my personal and natural mobility. Yet my wife loves to bring home souvenir-photos that make her happy when she reminisces later on. So today, she also took a couple of pictures in Bethany; I've included one of those, because it shows the remnants of the city's stone wall. We climbed to the summit of the Mount of Olives, upon which there are places where you can see not only the mountains of East Jordan, but even a part of the Dead Sea. As we enjoyed this rich view, we talked about our visit with Mustafa Bustani. Contrasting his earlier, sad appearance, we knew that the years would actually pass quickly as he aged. The death of his wife had very deeply gripped him, which another Muslim might be capable of handling otherwise.

Add to this a second, almost equally deep sorrow and inner-soul- excitement which we were yet to discover. Up to this point, our attention had almost exclusively been directed to the East; we now turned to the West, to the city that lay before us. There in a secluded area near a carob bush, we saw a man sitting with his hands folded as if in prayer-staring motionless at the horizon. This was some time before the shadows of evening. We were compelled to look at him. When we came nearer, he stood up. It was our friend Mustafa Bustani. We mentioned how we had just been talking about him. However, he seemed to be self-conscious about our coincidental meeting. It was as if he were feeling caught in the act of doing something that no one was supposed to know about. His words, which shut down after our greeting, sounded as though he felt that he had a duty to apologize.

He told us how this place has been his favorite spot for some time, one which he visits daily as he looks towards the East. Instinctively, I had to think about his missing, banished brother who had disappeared in the East. We sat closely beside him and soon noticed that he thought it necessary to speak in a peculiar frame of mind which had an exceptionally soft-hearted undertone, one that gave the impression of emotional helplessness. In our enormously scene- gripping, surrounding locale, I didn't pry further. In his psyche, he himself was used to doing a lot of soul-searching.

I was right, for he very soon directed the conversation to his previously mentioned favorite subject, to the connection of the visible and invisible world and to the biblical claim that there are in fact miracles. Regarding this, he confessed to us that a dream drove him to this conclusion, a dream that had been so certain and so clear that it seemed he was awake and not sleeping at all. This clarity had been so great and so convincing, that he had written down its exact date: the 15th day of the Month of Adar. Half-way apologizing and half-way questioning, he added that he would not take on too much by being preoccupied with his dreams. We assured him that all of us were greatly interested in everything that concerned him, especially in matters of his spiritual life.

"Effendi, you know that my brother was cast out because he had become a Christian, and that we all rejected his attempts to reconcile, for he had even married a Christian woman. Ever since, no one has heard from him. Later on, no one could find out where he went. The events that followed even extended to our family's inheritance. He had the very same rights as I had. I became the sole heir; he was poor, poor as a beggar!"

I tried to soften the harshness by noting customary laws and governing families' rights. He pointed this out to me: "You are a Christian and therefore think differently when you try to make me feel better. For a full year, I felt no sense of unfairness about what we had committed against him. After all, possessions and religion are different matters, right? As a believer, am I permitted to change the order of things whenever my wealth changes to poverty? No! Even for such a little thing as wanting to become a Christian and not remain a Muslim, one can be pushed out of the family's circle of inheritance. However, this last thought did not come from me; rather, it came from my wife. In her heart, there lived a love and a kind-heartedness which were not present in me. Her graciousness began a difficult and heavy labor in me-but she succeeded. My hardness became softer, always more tender; and when the mother of my son passed away, she died as the victor. I promised her that I would search for my brother and share with him everything that I own. She thanked me, blessed me-then closed her eyes and departed.

He covered his face with his hands and became silent for a while as he tried to master his emotions; then, he continued: "In vain, I searched and searched. My brother had simply disappeared. Constantly, I thought about him and even more about my wife, whose death had taken even more away from me. Effendi, you probably know this already. This question came to me: 'What if my brother had already died, and he and my wife had found each other on the other side of this life, where they now talked and looked below?' I brooded over such thoughts. I awoke with these ideas, and I fell asleep with them."

"On the 15th day of the month of Adar, I dreamed that I was on my knees, praying in the mosque. Opened before me was the First Kiblah of the Holy Koran. My brother appeared to me and led me forth, wanting to help me realize what he wanted to say to me: 'I'm dead, but I live. You have not pardoned me, but I've forgiven you. I'll send you my forgiveness. She approaches from the East. Daily, keep a look-out for her and restore again what you have perpetrated against me!' His words resounded. Then, he disappeared. The Koran closed itself, and I awoke from the dream. This vision appeared to be so clear and so true to me, that I left my store for the entire day in order to ponder its meaning. Almost daily ever since, I am driven to come here as I look towards the East to see whether the dream is being fulfilled."

"Regularly, I sojourn for a short time in Bethany where I visit the grave of Lazarus. Why? I don't know. For me, it's as if this is the only place where I shall somehow meet with the messenger of my brother. Effendi, what do you say about this dream?" "Listen to what you yourself are saying about your brother. Truly, your own feelings can lead you better than any separate perspective that I could give you." "So, do you think that I should continue to take my daily walks to this place?" I replied: "Through someone or in some way, will they forbid you to visit this site?" He answered, "No." So I assured him, "Well then, there's no real reason for you to stop."

Relieved, Mustafa confided in me: "I thank you. At first, it was hard for me to tell you and your wife about these matters. Now that I've told you, I feel that my heart has grown much lighter. So, come! Twilight is coming, and we must go-otherwise, the darkness will overtake us on our way back.

He stood up, and we followed his example. He was right; the evening sank lower, so we hurried towards home. Along the way, he told us how he had taken care of some business for us. In Hebron, he had located an expensive, Arabian Pasha-saddle which was for sale. He would send a messenger to pick it up, then show the saddle to me. Just then, I remembered: "Oh yes, I personally must go towards Hebron. I want to show my wife the Grave of Abraham, Abraham's Well, and the famous Oak of Mamre, where the three angels appeared to the Patriarch."

He happily called out: "So, if you'll permit me, I'll accompany you. Since I have many important and pressing things to do there, it would be best if we could travel tomorrow." I agreed: "Yes, we can do that. Any time that suits you is OK for us." He seemed pleased: "Really? Then tomorrow is OK? And may I bring along my son Thar? It will be a real treat for him to accompany you and me, riding in a beautiful carriage to see an unknown part of the world. In that direction, he's never traveled farther than Bethlehem." We were happy to oblige: "If it's OK with you, we have no objection to Thar coming with us."

"Good. So it's decided that we'll make the trip; I'll make the arrangements for a carriage. Since you're now on your way to my home, please stay awhile longer at my house. I want you to see the joy which your invitation will bring to my boy." Before we reached our destination, it became completely dark. Mustafa Bustani knocked on the inner gate's locked door.

When the master of the house saw her, he cried out: "Maschallah! Look at you!" As she proudly answered, a most satisfied grin almost doubled in size as it spread across her face: "This is art!" Bewildered, Mustafa pressed further: "Art? How so?" Maschallah replied: "We are painting the Red Sea. We began right after lunch, and we're still not quite finished."

"Upon the wall? Where then?" She answered: "In the garden house." Mustafa cried out: "Allah, Allah! On the wall in the garden house? That is outrageous! What will I see there? I must go there immediately." He hurried away from the gate where he had been standing all this time. At this moment, the cook saw my wife and me. Her face lit up like a search light when she recognized me.

"Effendi!" she called out. "Already here today! The 'Chosen One' said that you were coming tomorrow. Hurry and follow me. The 'Favored One' said that you may see it, but his father is still forbidden to view it. We must quickly send him away. He may not come in!" She jogged along with her lantern as we followed more slowly. It was not far-hardly twenty paces. The main residence lay in the middle of the garden, and the garden house stood along the outer wall. Mustafa Bustani had not yet caught up with us. He would not have been able to restrain himself from entering into the room wherein we now set foot and saw "the art." I remembered its former decor. I had often been inside of this little house. Its construction was square, with the doorway facing the garden. Without windows to offer a view to the outside world, the other three sides were painted ivory-yellow-white and decorated with gold-lettered maxims regarding cures. Due to its seclusion, cleanliness, aesthetic stillness, and modesty, this garden house had always impressed me as soothing. Not so on this night.

Suddenly, the door was jerked wide open. In front of it stood Mustafa Bustani. He had not yet entered, because his son resisted his doing so. From the ceiling hung a light fixture whose lamp burned with a bright flame. In the center of the room, we saw the artist. Before noon, his form and his shirt had been in two colors-now they appeared to be immersed in four: namely in sky-blue, poisonous green, sparkling yellow, and in scorching red. Such intensive, screaming- colors are upsetting to one who is highly sensitive about art. Amid all of this, it is no wonder the boy was not in a good mood. As we came still closer to the garden house, we heard Thar's angry voice as he shouted to his father: "No! You promised me!" Mustafa Bustani answered: "But as you see, Effendi is here." "Where?" As the father pulled me to his side and showed me to his son, I announced myself: "Here." Thar wondered aloud: "Today already? You were supposed to come tomorrow. Nevertheless, it's good that you're here now. It's true that I have not yet finished, for you see that the sharks are still missing; but in due time, I'll put them in-this will go very quickly. Both of you, please step in and-" His father interrupted: "And I too?"

"I wish to be kind and also allow you to enter, because both of the chief guests are present. I'm doing this only because you are occasionally lenient with me." Mustafa agreed: "Unfortunately so! Allah knows that I am." So not exactly in a mood of harmony and not quite used to this feeling, we got ready to enjoy the work of art. I have to note the plain truth about these circumstances-neither before nor afterwards did my eyes grasp the painting's depth of understanding and the height of its elaboration. Its impact made us feel that we were standing in front of such an enormous, astonishing, unparalleled achievement. The absolute least I can do is to give a brief sketch of the situation. Like a painting by Rafael Santi or a masterpiece by Rembrandt van Rijn, it's absolutely impossible to describe fully.

According to oriental custom, the garden house entrance was only open by way of the garden and thereby closed to the outside world. When we stepped through the open door, there were three walls that closed off the room-to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. As mentioned earlier, the walls were once painted ivory-yellow with gold-lettered claims concerning advice on healthy living. Now, these no longer existed. The middle wall was masculine-blood-red, or perhaps more of a scorching reddish hue. Both of the side walls were painted in a shade of ultimate-manly, juicy green color. Above these hues of red and green, everything was painted blue. High above on the ceiling, where the light fixture cord was attached, there sat a large yellow spot. At first, the blotch was probably round, but this form no longer held its shape as it ran together with the blue. On the right-hand wall, in the middle of the green, there stood a white house; it had two doors, a window, and three chimneys. In the middle of the green left-hand wall, a black house stood; it had three doors, no windows at all, and two chimneys. To the left of the mid-field of vision, where the red butted together with the green, one focused below on a black human heel that stretched upwards to half of the leg's calf. Midway and at the bottom portion of the right-hand wall, where the green jostled against the red, our eyes saw a white human instep that was connected to half of a shin bone, which appeared to extend out of the red. Thar had already announced that sharks were supposed to be added. Even if he put forth all of his effort on the three walls, I found only a narrow place where a shark would feel at home.

With a kind of superior look, his eyes glided over us: "All of you simply stand and marvel! Don't you know what it means? Effendi, do you know what it is?" Since he so directly referred to me, it was best for me to blur my judgment of the painting's merit. I was very diplomatic, mentioning nothing objectionable as to what the picture was supposed to be. In any case, I wanted to keep the artist's high esteem. For this reason, I simply answered in general terms, yet with a practicable enthusiasm for this artwork: "It is the pure Blue- green-red-yellow Wonder!"

He agreed with me: "Right! You never say something false. It has cost us a lot of effort and color. Just look this way!" He pointed down towards the floor, where half to entirely empty paint cans stood. All sorts of paint brushes lay scattered around, and it was impossible to count the number of clean-up rags and sponges. "We fetched these from the white-washer," he continued. "Since the time was too short and I would not be able to finish the work alone, the cook had to help me. She just painted the land, which is easy. As for the rest, I had to do this by myself; she has no talent to do more."

His father was extremely upset. With a great deal of effort, he suppressed his anger and asked: "Well then, who gave you permission to paint over these walls and the expensive inscriptions?" His son answered, "Of course, it was you!"

"Still more pictures? Like these? Are you crazy? Well then, which ones?" Thar answered: "Tomorrow, we are painting in the harem- the trumpets of Jericho and how the city's walls collapsed." Mustafa sighed: "Allah have pity on us. And the day after tomorrow?" The boy didn't hesitate: "The day after tomorrow, we are painting the bedrooms."

In disbelief, Mustafa asked: "But what?" Thar was quick to answer: "The downfall of Sodom and Gomorrah, complete with smoke and fire, lightening and thunder. I've already ordered the colors." Mustafa was dumbfounded: "Already ordered? This too? Lightening and thunder, smoke and fire in the bedroom? As for your art, it seems that nothing is impossible. I realize that I must set limits. What then is portrayed here? There is no train of thought in that!"

With his use of the word "limits," the father had again set something in motion-just like this morning when he wanted to take Thar across his knee. In spite of this threat, the boy had to laugh as he answered: "No thoughts? In there, we find all of the People of Israel, King Pharaoh, and all of his Egyptian soldiers!" Incredulous, the father inquired further: "How so? On the contrary, I see nothing of them!"

"That's because they're in the water! This picture shows the Children of Israel's passage through the Red Sea. Don't you see the Red Sea that is right in front of you? And over there is the blue air; directly above your head is the yellow sun, because the time of day is exactly noon. Here to the left, the green land, that is Egypt; and the house, that is the Palace of the Pharaoh. And here to the right, this green land is Palestine; the King of the Jebusites lives in the house that stands there. In between there lies the Red Sea. The Children of Israel were slaves in Egypt. Moses helped them break away. He fled with them into the Red Sea. Even now, all of them are stuck in there. With all of his armies, Pharaoh hurried after them. Look here! The last one of them has just now disappeared. You can still see his heel which is still above the water. On the other side over there, the Children of Israel are just now coming out of the water again. Already you can see the first one's toes which are half- way out of the water. As soon as all of them are high and dry, I'll paint in my sharks; then you'll see that Pharaoh and all of his soldiers will be devoured-not a single one of them will remain. More or less, aren't those the approximate ideas?"

He stretched himself out in front of his father and watched his dad's face as he thought about these explanations. Behind us rang out the reproachful voice of their African cook. She was standing next to the door with her wind-lantern. She had heard everything: "It was my hand that produced the entire green land of Egypt and all of Palestine's greenery. Tomorrow, I'm painting Jericho!" At that moment, the good Mustafa Bustani could no longer control himself. All of his temper burst forth. His voice thundered at them: "Tomorrow, you will learn what you can paint. March! Come away with me into the house!"

His angry voice shocked the African cook. She let loose of the lantern which shattered and extinguished-running away as fast as her feet would carry her. Realizing the impact of his wrath, the merchant immediately tried to take back its harsh impact. He addressed us in an apologetic tone: "Forgive me. Such anger is never the right thing. Please allow me to accompany you."

We understood and gladly embraced him. He led us towards the gate through which we had come. It still stood open. There, he said this to us: "We'll keep our plans to travel early tomorrow morning. I'll pick you up at seven, European time. I don't yet know whether I'll bring my son along."

My wife then asked about his son whom she had grown so fond of: "Will you punish him very severely?" Mustafa answered with an unusually solemn tone: "In this situation, I'll have to think about who deserves the punishment here. With both of you here, it's as if a light has come to me. Since this morning, it seems as if I now have entirely new eyes and ears. How did it happen that you, without any kind of perceptible reason, came along the same path leading to the heights of the Mount of Olives-the one which I daily climb-precisely at the same time?" I gently tossed out this word: "Coincidence!"

"You say that without personally believing it. I know all too well that you consider the word "coincidence" to be an embarrassing fabrication. However, for now that's unimportant. Above all else this evening, I have to think about my son. I would like to be alone this evening. And without feeling ashamed, I can say to both of you that I must pray. This thought has come to me: I have placed the soul of my child upon the wrong path. Allah alone knows the hidden depths of our hearts. He wants to show me what is correct and what is false. Please, do not concern yourselves about the boy. He won't receive punishment which he doesn't deserve. Good night." Extending our hands to him, we also said "Good night." We were eager to see how tomorrow's affairs would develop.

Oh what memories are connected to the name of this old and famous city of kings and descendants of Levi! Located just twenty miles south of Jerusalem, Hebron may be the oldest city in the Promised Land. It existed three thousand years before the birth of Christ. According to the traditional teachings of the Middle Ages, it is in this vicinity where God created Adam.

Seventeen miles southwest of Jerusalem, there's the city of Kirjath-arba, where mythical giants once lived. Later, Hebron was the capitol city of the Hittites, whose princes resided there. After the Children of Israel's conquest of Canaan, the city fell to the Family of Caleb. Later, King David spent the first seven years of his reign here. At the city gates, David's General Joab murdered Abner, the Commander-in-Chief of King Saul's army. Upon David's orders, it was here that the men who assassinated Saul's son Ishbosheth were hung. From Hebron, Absalom launched the rebellion against his father, King David. During the Israelites' captivity in Babylon, the city fell into the hands of the Edomites, Esau's people-which Judas Maccabaeus drove out. The Romans destroyed the city and sold its inhabitants into slavery. The Crusaders made Hebron their Bishop- City. It has also become ever more holy to Muslims, because it was the dwelling place of the Patriarchs. In the past, Abraham lived there, and Jacob's caravan to Egypt began at Hebron. The Muslims call Abraham the friend of merciful compassion; from this title, Hebron received its current Arabic name, El Chalil.

So, Hebron is highly revered-but unfortunately, the city is not friendly toward strangers, particularly Christians. In the entire land, Hebron's population is the most bigoted. There are approximately nine thousand Muslims and five hundred Jews, who in fact want to earn as much money as possible from a Christian-yet they consider him to be inferior and even an unclean enemy whose mere touch can make them dirty. Through Hebron's lanes, a Christian pedestrian gets along OK if he tries very hard to avoid looking into the eyes of "the true believers." Otherwise, trouble can easily happen. At the least, youth who follow him will not just shout out curse words-they will also throw solid objects. The most pronounced expression of this hostile relationship is evident in the fact that Hebron's inns are not open to Christians-even though the city's well- traveled roadway connects to Jerusalem. Today, it may be different; it was in the year 1900 when I last visited Hebron.

In light of Christians' common veneration of the patriarch Abraham, Europeans visit this city of historical names-in spite of its unfriendly population. When his wife Sarah died, Abraham purchased the double burial cave called Machpela; the Hittite Ephron sold him this grave site. Thus in a burial chamber, she was transformed. Some say that the following famous six are entombed here: Abraham. Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah. Among the Greek-speaking Jews, some say that the Byzantine Emperor Justinian lies here. Above this spot, a church was once established-which the Muslims converted into a mosque; unfortunately, Christians are not allowed to visit this site. Christians are only permitted to come near the outer perimeter of this shrine. In order to go beyond that limit, one must be a high-level, princely person-especially one that holds a firman, a royal decree from the Ottoman Empire. In this same region, upon Der el Arba'in, one finds the grave of Jesse, King David's father. A half hour from the city stands Abraham's Well, where some claim that this is the scene where once the Oaks of Mamre stood. Almost every place in the surrounding area is intertwined with some memory of the patriarchs. So for this reason, it was also a desire of mine to visit Hebron as often as I was in Jerusalem. So it is now.

At exactly 7 o'clock the next morning, a comfortable, fully covered four-passenger carriage arrived at our door. Therein, sat Mustafa Bustani and Thar. When my wife saw them, she said: "So, he's allowed to come after all." I too was pleased about this. The boy sprang out of the carriage. He was festively dressed: golden shoes, white stockings, white pants, and a white Bedouin-shirt with a red vest that had Hungarian Hussar gold-braided cords. Upon his head sat a red fez, to which a white, silken neck-scarf was fastened. Today, the boy looked exceptionally distinguished. "We are here. Father bids you to come," said Thar. His voice had an official and powerful ring to it. In a softer and more confidential tone, he officially put forth this question: "Yesterday evening, did you also think that I would receive a good thrashing? No? I've thought a great deal about it. I wish that he had whipped me." For a moment, he pondered over this-then he repeated these words: "Yes, yes, I wanted it that way!" "Why?" "If the beating were over, my father would no longer be angry and sad. It would no longer be painful for me either. As long as I have to await punishment, even as I do right now, he still has the sad eyes-and that causes me twice the pain." I wanted to know the reason: "In what way is it doubled?"

"First, I'll tell you about his eyes, then secondly about the thrashing which is yet to come. Due to the fact that the punishment usually never happens, I ceaselessly and hopelessly feel this way in advance. So today, it will perhaps be the same. Since yesterday evening, his sad eyes have hurt me. Mostly, he doesn't say a word-not a single thing. Early today, he personally woke me up and helped me get dressed. When he stood so silently in my room, I could no longer bear it; I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, begging him to punish me-soundly and vigorously. He just gently smiled and shook his head. Do you think he is doing the right thing?"

I gave him this advice: "At all times, what your father does is the right thing. You must come to understand this." Thar questioned me: "Even when I regard his actions as wrong?" Here was my reply: "Then too! When you grow older, just as he is now, you will have an experience that will convince you that he was right. Oh well, come on! Your father is always so punctual-we shouldn't keep him waiting."

"Now just a moment,"he pleaded. "I still have something to tell you; today is Friday, a holiday. It's forbidden for me to get dirty. For that reason, I didn't bring along any colors. Nevertheless, I am a hero. You see, it isn't required that a hero be painted up when he wants to conquer his enemies. There are also cases in which-" At that point, my wife jokingly added this line: "-the victor actually has no paint at all. Yesterday, you told us that you wanted to paint the first storming of Palestine's City of Jericho. Didn't you think about that project on this special Friday?"

The boy answered her: "Anyway, nothing could be done about Jericho. I lack the means to capture the necessary noise. I can paint the trumpets and also the walls; but how am I supposed to insert the loud racket when I can't portray that part of the picture? It's really too bad-just a crying shame. So, now I'm ready. Let's go."

We broke off our conversation and went to the carriage. Just as we were climbing in, Lord Pasha Osman Achyr interrupted his morning excursion and came riding upon his fat donkey. For a moment, he reigned back on his steed, gave us a friendly greeting, then directed this question to the boy: "Well then, which hero are you today?" With his usual presence of mind, Thar answered: "I'm Joshua the Conqueror. I'm going into the Land of the Canaanites in order to show them that we are not afraid of them." The Pasha played along: "Where does this land lie?" The boy replied: "In Gilgal." The Pascha cautioned him: "My boy, be careful then. Without asking first about your reason for being there, the people will cut you down." With that parting advice, he rode off.

Regarding what was necessary for our journey, Mustafa Bustani assured us that he had taken care of everything. Thar leapt onto the seat beside the coachman where he felt more free and higher than in the deeper part of the carriage beside us. The horses then began to pull forward. Our steep path went from the Jaffa Gate into the Hinnom Valley, which carries the Jewish and Islamic references to "hell." We traveled farther to the Sultan's Pool; and from there, again upward to the high and level Bethel. Thereon lies the Cloister of Rabbi Elijah, from which we could admire a broad and outstanding view. This monastery is associated with the Prophet Elijah, and nearby is a spring where the Holy Family reportedly drew water.

Beyond this monastery, you'll find Rachel's Crypt, the burial site of Patriarch Jacob's wife. At this holy site, we read these words: "On the road to Ephratah, which is now called Bethlehem, Rachel died and was buried. So Jacob erected a memorial upon her grave; to this day, Rachel's monument is still there." The road divides at this place.

To the left, it goes towards Bethlehem; straight ahead lies Hebron. We took the latter direction. After forty-five minutes, we came to the Three Pools of Solomon. Long before the Christian era, these aqua ducts were constructed in order to supply water to Jerusalem. Even though these pools and the region's small castle hold historical and architectural significance, they have no bearing on our story-so for now, we'll bypass them.

Of more interest to me is the broad Wadi a-'Arish; midway between Jerusalem and Hebron, a "caf," was erected, a place where men and animals can find a place to rest themselves. Don't picture a European-style caf,. Instead, imagine a narrow, low-quality, jagged stone building wherein a rather squalid fellow boils dirty water in a filthy pot as he makes a brew which he calls "coffee"-a drink that he sells to European passersby, all at sinfully expensive prices.

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