6/4/98

The Pilgrims' Tale

    The Goldbergs decided to visit Jerusalem.
    Now, these are not your typical Goldbergs. They don't just jump into the family car and join the national traffic jam. The kids don't start to get impatient after 30 minutes and whine "Are we there yet?"
    These Goldberg kids know it takes time.
    About 200 hours, give or take a day.
    But you see, they're  coming all the way from the Galilee.
    Menachem Goldberg, of Hoshaya, set out eight days ago with his two sons, a dog and five donkeys, on a pilgrimage to the site of the Temple. That's what Jews did 2,000 years ago (except they had an actual Temple to go to), and Menachem wanted to know what it was like.
    The expedition is an extension of his livelihood -- he built Kfar Kedem, a recreated biblical village in Hoshaya.
    Menachem wanted this experience for his eldest sons, too.
    Other kids their age might be satisfied to make like pilgrims through computerized simulation, but not these Goldbergs. They can't just click on "Exit" when they get tired, or bored. On they trudge, either walking or on the back of a beast, day after day.
    Ido is only 10 years old -- and he's the older one; David is but eight.
    "The pilgrims 2,000 years ago also traveled with small children," their father says. "It's the same route, the same mode of transportation, the same weather: they also had rain on their heads."
    Ah, but the ancients didn't have a cell phone.
    "Neither do I," Menachem grumbled, trying in vain to call his wife. "The rain got to it."
    One may also excuse their compromise of flashlights and electronic hazard flashers on their backs, because those aren't other donkeys whizzing by them on the dark roads. (They had another source of light during their first day, a most unearthly one that added to the religious aura of their trek: flickering lightning.)
    You could even decline to criticize their untraditional supper the first night out: pizza. But a purist might object to his three-man film crew.
    "When they heard I wanted to do this, a year and a half ago, they said they want to come along. Mind you, if I do this again some year, I don't think they'll be interested again." By the looks of it, the film crew will spend the rest of their lives soaking their sore feet.
I HAD arranged to meet the trekkers at the village of Salim, near Jenin, where they camped the first night. I drove past them on the way there, and like other drivers, I slowed to gawk at this bizarre sight: six ghostly figures, in bright yellow raincoats, with red blips flashing on their backs. And donkeys. In the dark, in the rain.
    Their first day out, they had been cursed with rotten weather, which only got worse the second day.
    They arrived at Salim wet, beat, chilled, but quietly triumphant. It was 10 p.m.; they had set out at four in the morning, covering about 40 km in 18 hours.
    Menachem had no trouble getting his boys to bed that night.
    Rather than relive the experience of pitching tents and sleeping out in the open, the wayfarers chose a different custom long forgotten: the hospitality of strangers.
    Menachem had prearranged accommodations before they set out. He entered this Moslem village, where he knew no one, and came across an old man in the street.
    "Menachem came here," recalled that old man, Ahmed Ali Abu Bakr, "and asked if there's somewhere they could put up a tent. I said I have space, you're welcome to it. But with this rain, I said they should sleep in the house."
    "I found a good man in Abu Bakr," Menachem said. "And we know nothing is by coincidence -- everything is fate, decided by God. I discovered that almost 50 years ago he worked for my grandparents in Rishon Lezion in their cowshed. It's fantastic!"
    The following morning they would wake up in the heart of Arab Israel -- on Land Day. Menachem scoffed at any hint of danger, pointing out that the only one among us who even noticed the day's significance was a journalist. Abu Bakr himself waved it off as meaningless. "We must live in peace, we are all Israelis," he said.
    Salim was to be the only Arab stopover. Subsequent nights would be spent in Mevo Dotan, Sanur in the Shomron, Sebastia, Yitzhar, then Shabbat in the new settlement of Rehelim, yesterday in Ofra, and tonight, if all goes according to plan, they're going to pitch their tents at the entrance to Jerusalem.
    "What will you do when you get to Jerusalem?" I asked.
    "What does a Jew do when he comes to Jerusalem?" he answered -- or asked back.
    Tomorrow morning, they will arise with the new day, burden their beasts one more time, and enter the Holy City.
    The sun will be glinting off the golden stones, everybody in town will be bustling about in preparation for the festival, and the Goldbergs (and their film crew) will march up to the great Temple and proffer a sacrifice, 100,000 other happy Jews and their 100,000 donkeys milling about them with not a McDonald's in sight.
    Or more likely, everyone will point at them and say, "Look at the weirdos."
    They don't plan to stay long in Jerusalem. They will go straight to the Kotel, pray -- and unceremoniously load the donkeys on a truck and drive back home.
    Stay a while, I said, proud to offer my city to the weary travelers.
    Menachem laughed coarsely. "Stay? Like, for the seder? Are you inviting me? Aha, you see the difference? You come up with excuses. If your name was Abu Bakr, you would say to me fad'dal (welcome), eh?"
    But I'm not so sure Jerusalemites of 2,000 years ago would have either.
    Yesterday, sensing the nearness of the Holy City, basking in a glorious sunny day, the Goldbergs were walking on air. "I can't describe the feeling," Menachem said, in absolute elation. "We're right on time, everybody's been so good to us. My boys are strong, they came through. We're going to make it!"
    Fad'dal. Welcome to Jerusalem. Shalom aleichem.