Maggie's Farm

     I spent Midnight Mass with Mahmoud Abbas and a few thousand close -- that is tightly packed -- worshippers in the Church of hte Nativity in Bethlehem.          
The trip to the Church of the Nativity -- up and back from Christ's birthplace -- was too adventurous. Eyal, the concierge at the King David Hotel had arranged, it seemed, everything; fax my U.S. passport (no Israeli citizens allowed into Bethlehem); pay the driver.  Mordechai, the driver called that he was out-front, but I saw no noe;. He called again and I found him down teh street. He drove me and Rolando (visiting from Milan) to meet with another driver (Palestinian), Golani; head shaved and polished. His car had the overly sweet smell to disguise the cigarettes. We head down the tunnel road, not the direction that i knew to Bethlehem; Golani knew an indirect route into Bethlehem to avoid the Bethlehem checkpoint on the road to Hebron, perhaps five minutes due south from my home. Instead, we headed into the West Bank.  After the first checkpoint, Golani pulled a U'ey and we entered Beit Jala, the village that once launched rockets in the Gilo neighborhood of Jerusalem. Gilo built its own wall (before the notorious Wall), which the children in the neighborhood decorated with paintings and murals and vistas of forests and flowers; no more rockets hit Gilo.  Beit Jala is darkness; few cars; signs are in green Arabic lettering with small English translations; at Golani's speed I could not read the English.  Bethlehem is entered from the south and lights appear on the streets. Police in military dress with machine guns, often in trios also appear. The Bank of Palestine is well guarded and lit as if it were day.  Although Golani has a special pass signed by the mayor of Bethlehem to take two detours, the first policeman shrugs dismissively and sends him snaking slowly with the rest of traffic. Naively, I ask if Rolando and I could walk from here; Golani says, "It's twenty minutes." The second juncture, the first officer dismisses Golani's silver-embossed pass, but he persists and the second officer waves us through, saving an hour in line.
    Things get Middle-Easty when he parks near the Holyland Hotel across from the Bethelem Bus Terminal, where later I see a couple platoons of officers marching with rifles aloft into the Station. Golani tells us to notice the sign above the tourist shop; in front, a well-dressed, suit-and-tied and groomed fellow pours tea from a long-spouted faux silver pot into dainty porcelain cups held by idle cab drivers.  Golani will go meet his contact who will walk us up the Church and guide us through the queue. Wait. He returns and mumbles something about our just walking up the hill 100 yards, then turn right to the Church. Alone.  He will be here at 1 a.m. after the service; he will wait and promises again that he will meet us. He doesn't. But, that's later.
    Rolando and I walk uphill a road lined with tourist stalls. There is a loose lawless atmosphere. People, locals mostly, stroll the street, ignoring cars, although the official cars wedge their way through.  Rolando agrees that we should stay together. We spy the first right alleyway upwards, continue to the second, reach the zenith of the road before it spills into a dark abyss, then see the police station on the corner. As we stop to ask about the Church, we also see the queuless mass of people before the lit Church. This must be it. We see three helmeted guards behind the barricade and press to the front; ticket, no entry (although we see that somehow those without tickets get through. We wait as shapely dark-haired woman in front of us is trying to negotiate her way in. She makes the moves of seduction, finally engaging four guards while hundreds behind us press into us. I, feeling very much the naive American, loft my embossed ticket towards one guard who reluctantly lifts his eyes from the womans decollitage (her winter coat unbuttoned).  He raises his left hand briefly, thumb and two fingers pursed, wordlessly saying, "Wait."  When the woman reluctantly gives up (When she reveals that she was trying to get three men with her to enter, the guards lose interest), the officer looks at my ticket and waves southwards to Gate 4. There are no numbers. People are pressed more firmly against us and the barricades as some official dark Volvo inches its way into the crowd. People slow, but do not stop this driver. He keeps pressing the crowd against the barricade adn there seems to be no room to move.  Counterintuitively, we press towards the car, and like some slipstream are able to slide rearward, around its fender and make for any possible opening.
    It is Gate 4. We get through.  At the metal detector there appears to be two lines, yet lines are fuzzy here, millings of people, out-of-focus, hazy linearities.  People are selected to enter by the female, burka'd guards; they tend to pick women with large purses; each checked slowly.  (I think to myself: should there be a bomb in these sacks, I would not plunge both my hands and my nose in to check them as Burka ladies were.) We are in the Church courtyard by 1130 for midnight mass.  We snap the creche before we enter the Church.
    "Enter"is barely done. The pews are reserved for Mahmoud Abbas and special guests, many of whom have not arrived; pews emptied up front; prayer hymnals warming the seats.  The remainder --the more truly faithful (and myself as an exception) are packed in the side aisles; some slump against the wall; some sit with their babies asleep in their arms; some set their children asleep on the floor.  Cameras, like space creatures, stand on spindle legs or suspended from booms, blocking sight-lines. Perhaps more because of the news cameras than for the lightness of atmosphere, the chapel is brilliantly lit.  The blinding light shows freshly painted apricot walls, starch-white vaulted ceilings, although the limestone arched windows and structural struts lend a medieval dinginess. Christ is multiply crucified here. On columns, in paintings. One creche of the infant is hidden from most in the front of the base of the dais upon which the Archbishop and other 'prics will be sitting: he is an idealized cherub, one hand extended and looking upwards to the Father who will forget him ("lama azavatani") and crucify His incarnation to redeem our sins. In this town, in this land, especially as the thuggish, kaffia'd ensemble accompanying Abbas enter shortly before midnight, it feels as if one crucifixion just won't suffice redeeming our sins.  The broad-beamed torsos stretching the black suits of the guards reveal the shoulder holsters of their guns beneath.  These contrast with the flowing brown or mostly white flowing robes of the priests.  One smartly-dressed, slim, elegant young woman alone is among the toughs who line both sides of the pews and the center aisle. Diminutive, elegant, hair uncovered she seems accustomed to guiding special guests to their places; seems unbothered by the passel of ear-phoned, black-polyester suited muscle heads standing stolid, occassionally talking into their left wrists.
    There is no joy in Bethlehemville tonight. I see not a smile for much of the next two hours. There seems little Joy to the World, which is not sung.  When one priest rises periodically to conduct the crowd, periodically looking down at his hymnal, as if he had forgotten the verse (" Benedictus dominus Deus Israel," Dominus vobiscum"), he tries episodically to elicit more feeling from this audience, amplifying his jerky arm conducting, imploring with his lifted face: as if to say, "More feeling."
    Even after the processional of archibishop and others (see photo), Abbas has not yet entered. The service continues, Archibishop and Bishop removing their collapsible miters, revealing red skullcaps. their dress is of purity --white with slight gold embroidery, the Archbishop wearaing an apron with two lambs embroidered. To their far left is a sea of white-gowned priests, apparently of many different countries, or at least ethnicities. No women. A few nuns have been seated back in the pews; many more in the aisles with me. The choir enters later with some women in the far end of the Church, barely seen. The organ has pipes at both ends and overpowers the choir on most occassions.
    Abbas enters with other male elderlies and a few of the kaffiya'd select, younger fellows, well-suited.  Little fanfare, but the Archbishop now arises and greets in French, English, Latin, German, Spanish and Arabic. Not the language of Christ; not Hebrew. He says the same words in each, ending in blessing or praying that this will be a year of peace; words spoken with as little persuasiiveness as possible. Almost as if this were a CPA reading off the figures; because he has to give an accounting, and the numbers aren't good.  Later he gives a long dissertation in Arabic.
    The crowd about me has a mixed feel. Directly before me, briefly, is a willowy blond who mostly sings and recites. When a space opens to her left, I begin to move into it, hoping for a view of the nave. She elbows me quite sharply, much as might be seen by female roll-derby contests. At first I think an error, a joggle of her arm. But, when I try again, the elbow checks me in the sternum. I whisper I want just to stand over there; she replies that she is standing over there; apparently she has a holy ghost who also needs space. I finally succeed in the shift to her consternation; she gives eye jabs to a fellow to her left, another to a fellow a few persons to my right -- enlisting their gaze, then stabbing me with hers. While I think of asking her to be the presence of Christ, to embody his spirit, I remain silent; no reason to ruin her Christmas further. Fortunately, my place as an object of her scorn is taken by a short, irritating Italian woman behind the willow-blond.  Mrs. Sicialiano has her husband in tow and her technique is simply to lean forward, continuously, persistently into the body before her, trying to peer through their shoulder blades and periodically, tugging her recalcitrant hubby behind her.  Ultimately, I image a space elsewhere and shift, fortunate to find a place before a transcendant soprano. Rolando eye see spying the crowd to his right, not finding me. I call over to his left shoulder; relieved he returns to hymnal.  The woman of wonderful voice attracts my eye and attention to left and a bit behind. She is below fresco of Madonna and child. I gather later that it is her more-than-teen age daughter, a girl of fresh beauty, sitting against the wall with stylish high-top punkish sneakers and most likely her mother, a cherry-cheeked woman with short-bobbed white hair and a smile that rests comfortably on her. She has a wedding ring; Ms. wonderful voice has a signet ring where a wedding ring might once have sat.  Her sight is an odd admixture. Dressed in an elegant loose-weave black dress -- plunging decollitage, which despite her flat-chestedness bids come hither --with black shawl, she has black elastic wrist bands studded with rhinestones, high-heeled black boots that poises her with a slightly chilled sensuousness. But her face belies the dress. There is a stolid, stone-like immobility, except for the lips that as they emit song create beauty; I think of paraphrasing Sappho, "Mere air these words, until heard by you."
The face has a cold deadness, particularly around the eyes. But, this does not seem a Botox-kind of gal; the deadness sinks down into her cheekbones, the cheeks, the jawline, which is firmly set. I create fictions of her life; a husband dead, but no wedding ring, so perhaps a husband she wished dead.  The contrast between the soft happiness in her grey-mother's face, the patience of her daughter and this woman's simultaneous marbled face, yet enlivened song.  I wished her the joy she seemed to be reaping from being in Bethlehem, and moreso from feeling in the presence of her god or Madonna.
    I did not do this. I did not turn to her to say how her singing moved me. I also did not do this. I did not turn to her to ask what was "off" about the Soprano in the choir. The choir was so-so; again, little or no joy. But, like a lark rising, episodically, a soprano flew forth, stood out, when it might have been the better side of prudence for her to not stand out. I couldnt detect what seemed to my ear so wrong. In tune, she seemed, a bit too forte, perhaps, but it was something in the timbre that sounded odd; as if an adult castrati were singing the solos. I tried to see, but cameraman, columns and crowds left me to my blind imaginations.
    After 1;30 a.m, I thought it time to exit. We had not heard the "Adeste fideles, aleti triumphantes; Venite, venite in Bethlehem."  I had already "venit'ed" and was looking to exeunt.  Rolando looked relieved when I waved to the exit. Getting out was easier, although we had to watch for children abed on the floor.
    The descent from the Church was more Fellini than Christmas. The square outside was strewn, fiilthy; plastic bags (like emptied, discarded placentae), juice boxes, straws, flimsy plastic cups, wrappers. Exiting the Square, we march down an avenue of taunting teens with ragamuffin pre-teens following and pestering the mostly American tourists. We followed perhaps six Americans in their late teens who, thinking that the taunts of "Merry Christmas" were sincere, flashed back smiles and Merries in return, missing the grimaces and universal hand gestures of disgust that were echoed back. The pesterers chorused "One Shekel, just one," with a common gesture: holding aloft below your nose, a forefinger, with the thumb resting just below the second joint of the finger, as if to say, "A tiny one."  The Americans tossed shekels to the perhaps seven-year old; which brought forth a flock of older, twelve, thirteen-year olds. The Americans chorused, "We just gave to your friend; ask him." When this does not disperse the clowd of beggars, the teens respond, "You're not as cute as the little guy." One boy retreats to me, begging, then poking me on the arm when I don't respond.  Tourist stalls line the street, their wares organized cheek-by-jowel on the sidewalk. Sidewalks are for wares, lounging teens; streets for walking.  Aross the way is a Star & Bucks Cafe, with the same green logo as the better known corporation; I mention to Rolando that I do not image Starbucks will soon be sending a corporate attorney to file suit against infringement. I can't imagine their going to court in Bethlehem or Ramallah.
    We approach the corner seeking out cabbie. Drivers on the corner mutter almost beneath their breath, "Taxi? Taxi?" to the crowd of us. Feeling certain and a bit relieved that Golani is waiting, Rolando and I turn the corner, a few steps down to Mr. Sweet-tea's emporium.
    No Golani. I am sure, certain that the clean Mercedes parked here is his; must have stepped away. Then another couple and a driver get into the car. Mr. Sweet Tea (the one who was supposed to have walked us through the queue), asks our driver's name. He gets on his phone, invites us into the shop. We demur. Golani is right over there, right there (he points up the street); this driver will take us to him. Saleh appears. We follow him, now both of us uneasy. Rolando tries Golani's number with his international phone; no answer. I have borrowed my buddy Alfi's phone, as I have no cell phone. Saleh reaches a cab and insists,  "Get in!"  I am imagining headlines about ancient Hebrew University professor and Italian businessman kidnapped in Bethlehem. I hurriedly punch in the number Rolando recites, he both slowing the pace, hestitating to enter the cab, even as we both seem not to want to offend this fellow, who is getting firm with us.  No answer; then Golani answers and the line is cut-off, then, after I seat myself next behind Rolando, Golani is on the line. "Everything will be fine, fine; had to leave because of the police; Saleh will take you to another driver; let me speak to Saleh." Feeling clever, only slightly, I ask the driver his name: Saleh, he says, and I hand him the phone. Rolando and I are silent as we leave the populated, lit area of Bethlehem and enter roads with no cars, no people, no lights. I breathe a brief breath of relief when I see the Bank of Palestine and as I see a bit further on three helmeted Palestinian police with ever-present automatic rifles (the forefinger, I note, rests parallel to the gun bore, at the ready), I hear a thought, "You could always jump out, ask for help." Yes, of Palestinian booted, helmeted officers.
    At another dark juncture, Saleh tells us "Get out. Go there."  I see an over there in a bit. Another white Mercedes. This is not our first driver, but he introduces himself as Doron and his accent is Hebrew. He takes us through the checkpoint, asking, insisting that everything went smoothly. When I hestitantly mention the slip-ups, our concerns when Golani was not there, Doron dismisses this.
    He asks Rolando what he thought of the Mass. Rolando says, "Cold." I am recalling a Midnight Mass done in New York, possibly at Riverside, by Dave Brubeck. Brubeck entered not only with his quartet, but wearing a sombrero and accompanied by a Mariachi band, brasses brassing and guitars strumming. The performance was a kind of jazz/mariachi. Musically, didn't touch me. But Brubeck's joy and the audiences response did. There was joy in Riverside that night over the birth of Jesus. There was little joy in the manger of Bethlehem in 2009.