We are standing in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem; we can hear an Armenian quintet of priests holding their service in the back. Amal, a PhD nurse who is originally from Bethlehem, has just found her cousin, whom she has not seen in 25 years; they do not recognize each other at first.
"Come, come!" Somehow Amal has been able to shepherd us past the thronging lines of pilgrims who have queued for hours, from Spain, from Senegal, from Brazil, from Canada, to see the place where Christ was born. She holds back what looks suspiciously like a velvet rope and ushers us in to what is supposed to be the most inclusive club in the world - Christendom. Amal's cousin, a large, grave looking man in maroon robes, is flipping car keys around his forefinger like prayer beads - welcome to the modern world - whom we pass to enter the 4th century AD.
The Armenian monks swing their censers - the birthplace of Jesus makes me feel light-headed. A guard lets us pass in trios the wrong way in to the grotto where Christ's birthplace and the manger is supposed to be housed. A large, African woman is kneeling in front of the star on the floor that marks Jesus' birth - she has to be helped to her feet, and assisted up the stairs where she sits heavily upon what looks like a school chair, overwhelmed. There are the voices of the pilgrims, French, Russian, American English. The men, believers or not, speak in hushed and gentle tones.
We ascend back in to the chapel, where Amal's closer cousin, Linda, serves as our local tour guide. "You know, I am sorry - having lived here all of our lives, we don't know much about the history of this place! We have one cousin who has become an official tour guide, but he is too busy today!" She says this, leading us past a line of Nigerians who are waiting to enter the basement with the manger. "Come quickly!' She ushers us up a set of curving stairs to a quiet square on the south side of the church. She holds a set of keys and unlocks a gate - "come down here!" It's another grotto, but one that's not in the Lonely Planet guide. "This is where the bones of the children who were killed by Herod are kept when he tried to kill all the boys." It is cool and dank in this catacomb. We can see the bones through the gates that keep us from touching them. Like the morgue-man, I feel nothing. After a few minutes, Linda leads us back up the stairs and locks the gate behind us, returning the key to their cousin. We walk back through the church, exiting through the entrance door, violating every possible rule, but somehow we are excused.
They take us to the Milk Grotto, then through some more streets. "See? This is where Amal's grandparents lived!" We take pictures, and then try to pass through a gate that seems locked. Linda calls up in Arabic, and the window opens to reveal another family member, who drops money down to Linda; another older woman comes around the corner and embraces Amal. "We haven't seen each other in 25 years!"
Amal has been away, working; she received a PhD in America, and then worked in Jordan. She's back in Palestine now with the hope of reshaping the future of its healthcare. "Aren't you going to stay for tea?" Amal doesn't cry - we move on because there's no time. We come upon her parents' old home - "there are unpaid electricity and water bills stuck in the door!" We laugh and take pictures. Linda's son is graduating from a Jordanian medical school this year. "I hope he stays here, because so many of the young people are leaving to try and make a better life - but what do we have besides our land?" I try to tell her that that's what we're trying to do in Ramallah, make a place where a young, talented physician can excel in this country, but she doesn't hear me - she's trying to figure out where Amal has gone so we can get to the souvenir shop she knows.
It is dizzying, being here where Christ was born with someone else who was born here as well.
What's up, cousin?
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