Story of Israel is one of immigrants and dreams
If I had to boil down a trip to Israel to a few impressions, a major one would be how many of its citizens are recent immigrants, not post-war refugees or their Israeli-born offspring.
That was both surprising and impressive. Waiters, politicians, museum officials and tour guides readily spoke of their clear-eyed aspirations. They’d left the countries in which they were born, including Spain, Australia and, many of them, the United States, and chosen Israel.
Among them were children of immigrants. Their parents were drawn to the young nation despite the fact that their sons and daughters would face mandatory military conscription in a volatile region of the world.
The young Israelis struck me as impassioned by a call to protect Israel from all of those who threaten it.
Young soldiers were present everywhere — in plazas, open-air markets and near tourist areas like the Old City in Jerusalem. Their assault rifles were long ago normalized.
My group from San Antonio, half of us Mexican American, quipped that soldiers carried guns over their shoulders like purses and backpacks. It was the closest I’ve ever come to such weapons, and the scenes were just as jarring as those I’d experienced in parts of Mexico and Central America.
Everywhere I went in Israel, I felt secure. But armed soldiers weren’t what made me feel that way. It came instead from seeing ordinary life among ordinary people.
It was in the hustle of people going to and from work, in the bustle of those shopping for food, clothes and household necessities; in the steady movement of buses, taxis and light rail; and in the personal interactions with warm, friendly people in the universal nature of retail.
It was a curious time to be in Israel, arriving a few days before national elections and in parts of Jerusalem squarely behind Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.
His supporters knew it was going to be a tight race but were confident “Bibi” would produce a miracle. In his second attempt in six months to stay in office, he failed to gain a majority.
Wire services reported Monday that Netanyahu was negotiating to remain in power “only by sharing it.” Also Monday, U.S. Ambassador to Israel David Friedman met with Benny Gantz, the former Israeli military leader who bested Netanyahu.
The Jerusalem Post reported the meeting was held in “the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv.” In political flourish last year, the Trump administration moved the U.S. Embassy to Jerusalem, an appeal to the country’s hard right. The embassy in Tel Aviv is now called the branch office, but it’s where the diplomatic mission continues to operate.
Some of my fellow travelers didn’t seem interested in all this, nor in the short drive to the Palestinian border. One strongly cautioned against it. I was compelled to make the 5-mile journey, which is all that separates Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
A border guard’s casual wave allowed us into the West Bank, no questions asked. The concrete barrier on the Jerusalem side was devoid of graffiti, while the Palestinian side of the wall was filled with images. One depicted the legendary U.S. boxer Muhammad Ali, who converted to Islam in the 1960s.
Directly across the wall stood what our guide gleefully called “the Waldorf.” That was a bit of Palestine humor. The small establishment’s real name is “Walled Off Hotel.”
Like the Old City in Jerusalem, Bethlehem was beautiful, warm and spiritual. Pilgrims from all over the world were there to see the site of Jesus’ birth, now inside the Church of the Nativity. They waited in long lines for a glimpse at the glassed-in spot and were visibly moved.
I felt that way about the Shepherds’ Fields, where the Bible says humble herdsmen looked to the night sky and saw a bright star. These locations are no longer fields, but small chapels in the middle of neighborhoods. In one chapel, a portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe surprised me.
As I stood before her, as if on cue, a group of Mexican pilgrims arrived. They were led by a man carrying a Guadalupe banner. They looked at me, and I looked at them and recognized our connection.
Several of us were moved in that space, by each other’s presence there and that of Guadalupe’s — at the same time so at home and so far from it. The Mideast left me with so many more impressions, of which I’ll write about again. But that day in a dusty place in Bethlehem was a perfect, safe day.