A short walk in the Holy Land

National Review, April 16, 1990 by Tom Bethell

WHEN YOU enter the Old City of Jerusalem, young Arabs immediately beset you, hoping to sign on as your personal tour guide. From Germany.?" they inquire, trying to finagle you into conversation. From England, sir?" A polite opening. Anything to wheedle a dollar out of your pocket. Sometimes they drop hints of danger, even veiled threats. "It will be better for you, sir. You have heard of the troubles? We do not wish to resort to violence, sir."

There's an element of quiet desperation because business in the Old City has declined, partly because of a decline in tourism (especially Jewish tourism from the U.S.), but also because of a partial Arab strike. The bazaars close down after about three hours' morning business. If you show up in the Christian quarter after noon the streets-passageways narrow enough for a cat to jump across from one window to another-are likely to be deserted.

"I close at 12," said a young man named Michael, whose store displayed a range of tourist trinkets for sale. I have to, otherwise they burn down the shop." "They" being shadowy, unnamed higher-ups in the Palestinian chain of command.

I traveled the five miles to Bethlehem in a tour bus, having been told at the hotel that this was one of the places -in the West Bank where it is not safe to venture alone. Almost all the shops along Manger Street were closed down; the town seemed deserted. But every few minutes the tour buses kept on rolling into Manger Square. Before descending into the Grotto marking the birthplace of Jesus, you must first await the departure of the tour group that is already down there. Christian seems not to have been greatly affected by the intifada.

On the way back to Jerusalem, our tour guide said we would be stopping at a shop on Manger Street-saca Brothers'united Stores Co., Ltd. The guide made the point that influential Arab traders not only stay open despite the strike, but are able to scare off the competition by threatening them with arson. Ostensibly, Saca Brothers' was itself closed. But as our bus drove up to within a few inches of its whitewashed walls, its door quietly opened and we made our way into a well-lit, modem establishment. The Saca Brothers greeted us with an opened bottle of Port wine and a pot of Turkish coffee. The exchange rate was favorable, American Express was acceptable, and electric adding machines stood on counter tops, ready to compute our purchases. Our guide stood by the entrance, in quiet conversation with the proprietors. I wondered if he received a commission.

In Jerusalem another tour guide, Jackic Feldman, told me that "the larger stores obviously reach some agreement with the PLO." One had thought that the intifada was a grassroots rebellion, originating with children. No doubt it started out that way, but it seems to have been exploited economically by more powerful interests.

Feldman told me that he was one of three or four thousand licensed tour guides in Israel, about 40 per cent of whom work actively at any given time. He had grown up in New York City (with a BA from City College) and was working on a doctorate in comparative religion at Hebrew University. He estimated that for those who travel ten-day or two-week Holy Land tours no more than 5 per cent of the tour has been curtailed by the danger of encountering stone-throwing Arabs. Nablus, Hebron, and Shepherd's Field are more or less out," he said. Most other spots can be visited without danger. I asked Feldman if there were Moslem tours. Not that I know of," he said. They come, if at all, more as pilgrims."

THE ARAB money changers inside the Damascus Gate offer a better rate of exchange than the Ying David Hotel. A small group of Jewish draftees in fatigues, little more than teenagers, sat on the steps outside the gate, idly watching the crowd. They carried M-16 rifles, one with a rubber-bullet attachment on the barrel. When I asked one of the youths how long his military service lasted he replied: Three years. Three long, long years."

Above the tenements of the Arab Quarter could be seen a spindly forest of TV aerials and haze of rising smoke from open-hearth cooking. An Arab was riding a donkey up the Via Dolorosa, a series of mostly scruffy alleyways with commercial storefronts, dirt deeply engrained, PLO slogans smeared on walls and then covered over with black paint, graffiti obscuranti, Arabian squiggles. Underfoot were spread-eagled collard greens, ground orange peel, and a thousand trampled tissues. One sign read, Cola, Flavor Gazeuse," another, 'Omar Ehayam Museum," another Mike Stores, Family Jewelry Work Shop," another Tlith Station, Jesus bearing his Cross went forth into a Place called Golgotha."

Always the voices call after you. From America, sir? From England? The slightest hesitation and you have a guide at your elbow, none, too easy to shake off. I made my way past several Money Changer signs to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Knowledgeable guides say that the Via Dolorosa is of doubtful authenticity, its starting point uncertain because no one knows exactly where in Jerusalem Pontius Pilate lived. But archaeologists say that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre probably really does mark the site of the Crucifixion. The church was in disarray, with construction materials and stepladders propped up against walls, halfhearted renovation plans evidently having been long ago abandoned. Greeks and Armenians were engaged in a competitive cacophony from different parts of the church. Sitting on a ledge, almost overlooking the site of the Crucifixtion, was perched a calico cat, alertly watching the tourists come and go.