More of Israel: Eilaboun Near the Sea of Galilee, Tel Aviv, Jaffa, Bethlehem and the Dead Sea

Jelly filled donuts to celebrate Chanukah

Palestinian Christian Hospitality in Eilaboun

An enthusiastically friendly man in the convenience store prefers to speak German and this we do so that I may explain our dilemma:  We are attempting to meet Rafat in the town of Eilaboun so that he can escort us to his friend’s house where we plan to rest our heads for the next five nights.  However, our cell phone conversation with Rafat was cut short when our Greek SIM card ran out of pre-paid minutes.  Furthermore, because all the signage in the town is in Arabic, we are unable to tell Rafat where we are, other than “by the tree with a trunk brightly lit red with Christmas lights”.  No worries; the gentleman knows Rafat, calls him, and within two minutes we are making introductions.  We decline the offer of a coffee from the helpful convenience store owner because Rafat seems to be in a hurry to conduct his hospitality responsibilities.

Eilaboun is an old Palestinian Christian village near the Sea of Galilee, only 4 kilometers from Kana, where Jesus performed the miracle of turning water into wine.  Most of its housing has been re-built in contemporary style since the 1960’s.  Yet, our hosts, (in their 30’s and 40’s) are attempting to motivate more considerate renovation of the beautiful and simple centuries-old stone houses.  For example, the house where we are staying had been the grandfather’s, rebuilt in the 1990’s with new rooms and modern conveniences to accommodate the growing family.  Younger members cannot buy their own land, given legal limitations against Palestinians acquiring land in Israel.  Thus, the original simple house was built out within the family compound, and up by another two stories.  Rafat tells us about the “apartheid” suffered by the Palestinian Israelis, who are governed under a separate set of laws from the Jewish immigrants to Israel.  He also describes how Palestinian Christian lands were confiscated and 12 men executed in Eilaboun as immigrant Zionists made a stealthy land grab and ethnic cleansing in the late 1940’s, (http://sonsofeilaboun.com/ ).  The affected families in this town can never forget, even if they have forgiven.  He points to a valley seen from the rooftop of our exchange house where Jewish Israelis confiscated land from Palestinians in the last 20 years.  The land hosts a water pipeline that transports sweet water from the Sea of Galilee to support the actively growing areas of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa and beyond. 

Eilaboun house: new atop old

We are living in the expansive ground floor apartment that Rafat and his friends proudly renovated, (http://www.homeexchange.com/show.php?id=147953 ).   One hundred and twenty year old vaulted arched stone walls and ceilings were uncovered by chipping away layers of plaster.  The current store room had been the grandfather’s inherited home and still boasts the original rough wood ceiling.  Upstairs are the modern new apartments in which the brothers’ families live.  Rafat explains that it was not until 1962 that electricity was brought to the village, not until 1965 that the first water pipes were installed so that the women didn’t need to port water from the village cistern, and not until 1967 when the first car and TV arrived.  In the 1990’s a U.S.-based Christian group built a local school so that students didn’t need to travel as far as Nazareth, (40 minutes commute), for their school day. About 40 Muslims migrated to Eilaboun in the 1980s. When asked about the odd observation that there are two mosques to serve so few people, Rafat explains that the Muslim community is largely represented by two families who don’t get along with each other, thus each preferring to build and maintain their own mosque.  Today, the village appears to be experiencing an age of prosperity and our exchange home contains all imaginable modern conveniences and then some.

The narrow streets, originally only wide enough for a man walking astride his donkey, have been broadened by encroaching upon family courtyards, and still are narrow enough that one must politely wait one’s turn if encountering a car coming in the opposite direction.    Rafat guides us on a walking tour through the town of 5,000 people so that we know where to buy our food supplies and eat a simple meal.  Along the way he is greeted by everyone, and we are introduced to shop owners so that our way is smoothed when we return for purchases.  We are invited, “just knock on our door when you have a minute”, for coffees by his extended family members who live throughout the village.  We are especially grateful for these introductions since our German, English, French, Chinese and Greek will not go far in this dominantly Arabic speaking village.  As we travel, Wazzid, his 10 year old son, keeps disappearing then re-appearing.  His father seems to be quite unconcerned about his whereabouts, suggesting that Wazzid feels that he belongs everywhere and the villagers are vigilant protectors of their youth.  We stop at Rafat’s own home where his wife hosts us for Arabic coffee, dried fruits, tiny cookies, and fresh fruits.  Clueless about Arabic hospitality, I exclaim pleasure over the cardamom-infused coffee and find myself disallowed refusal of the gifted package of freshly ground coffee.  They teach me how to make the coffee, which I am sipping now as I write, pleased with my new skill. 

Karo's marzipan creations during a workshop at the Marzipan Museum, Tabor Winery 

Over coffee we learn that Ramat is a licensed electrician.  His immediate family lives in a ten year old apartment that he built himself on a second story within his father’s compound.  His three bedroom apartment is surrounded by his three other brother’s apartments, also built around their parents’ original house on the ground floor.  Ramat’s wife comes from near Lebanon, just inside the Israeli border, and thirty minutes north.  In Arabic tradition, they dated for a short period, seeking parental pre-approval, then married and a year later their son was born.  Unlike tradition, both were “very old” when marrying in their early 30s.  In addition to raising their 10 year old son and 5 year old daughter Sama, Rafat’s wife manages the office of her father’s furniture making factory.  Rafat is the Maintenance Manager for the largest tahini making plant in the world.  He also maintains the local schools as a charitable service.  By “maintain”, he means keeping the electrical and mechanical equipment in operating order.  We exchange notes, comparing the Arabic tradition of living within multi-generational family compounds versus the American habit of families separated by yards, fences, and long distances, (usually due to the pursuit of economic opportunities, am I right?).  Rafat’s wife laments that she can’t even sneeze without others in his family knowing about it.  On the other hand, she benefits from free childcare support from her mother-in-law who lives only downstairs, (and, as needed, from other family members living in the compound).  They think we Americans do it better, while we admire their close knit communal way of life.   

This is the land of olives.  With the local harvest completed only a couple of weeks ago, we exchange notes about technique and we sample their edible olives that have been curing in salt and sun.  Ramat is also proud to show us their other produce grown on the family’s property.  This is where Africa meets Europe and the bounty of the land is overwhelming.  He invites us to harvest the herbs and fruits growing in the courtyard of the house where we are staying.  At this moment I am brewing spearmint tea for Karoline’s breakfast from one such harvest.

Fireworks for the New Year

Today is a new day and we celebrated Sylvester with Rafat’s family.  Most definitely this was the most unique New Year’s celebration I have yet to experience.   On the walk to Rafat’s house, we found ourselves “Mahaba, mahaba”, and “Happy New Year!”-ing past clusters of family and friends surrounding their grills on outdoor patios.  At Rafat’s apartment the extended family had gathered around a temporary table filling the entirety of their kitchen, dining and living room.  Four types of meat and an array of vegetables from the grill joined four salads on the table.  Most unique to me were the homemade pickles, grilled eggplant topped with lemon juice and tahini, and the dessert of pumpkin preserves.  What space remained on the table became the spot to place a drink bottle. 

Rooftop view if New Year's celebration in Eilaboun

A few minutes after eleven o’clock the fireworks began.  We climbed to the rooftop.  The ubiquitous BBQ grills had thrown up a cloud of aromatic smoke that had settled over the town.  Fireworks from each family compound competed for our attention. We learned that the fireworks are sold by the owner of the convenience store who had helped us to meet Rafat when first arriving in Eilaboun.  He acquires them illegally from the West Bank.  Military flares and rounds from AK47s shot into the sky added to the scene.  The police, in full visible attendance at every street corner, turned a blind eye.  Most uniquely, paper bags inflated by hot air from attached candles rose into the sky, looking much like fast moving stars.  Just below us, villagers gathered around the main square waiting for the municipality’s fireworks display to begin at midnight. Bells from the town’s two Christian churches incessantly rang in competition with one another.  In the near distance was the five story house recently built by Rafat’s employer and owner of the tahini factory.  He had built 45 square meters of living space on each of the five stories for himself, wife and son.  To share in his good fortune, he promised to host a magnificent fireworks display from his new rooftop.  He did not disappoint us.  As the fireworks faded away, we settled back at the table for more food, drink and stories. Reflecting on this year’s fireworks displays, Rafat ironically noted that, while it is like pulling teeth to convince villagers to invest in a new school building, they enthusiastically spend many times more shekels on one-upping each other in firework displays each year.  Interrupting our conversation, a crowd of raised aggressive voices on the street below drew us to the windows.  From there we witnessed a brawl between twenty or more young men.  Screams from the womenfolk joined in as girlfriends, sisters, mothers, and even fathers arrived to pull apart the adrenaline-rushed young men.  Rafat had left the apartment in a rush, returning with one of the hotheads.  He forced the young guy to sit at the table, refusing to let him leave the apartment until he had fully cooled off.   No one in our party seemed unfazed by the ruckus.  Instead, they explained that this scene replays every year.  Apparently, there is an ongoing feud between two Christian families that triggers the young men to seek revenge through fist fights and heated words.  We waited until the tension on the street had died away, and then headed back to our beds, once again wishing the revelers sitting on their patios a “Happy New Year”.

Meeting Old Friends in Tel Aviv

Tel Aviv:  shopping on Allenby street

Prior to arriving in Eilaboun, and before leaving Jerusalem, we took a convenient public bus ride for a day’s excursion to Tel Aviv and Old Jaffa, enjoying the beach scene, searching for the Bauhaus buildings, marveling at the recent growth in urban architecture, and people watching in the bustling shopping districts.  As luck would have it, we were able to host colleagues from Gerhard’s Stanford Uni. days (over 30 years ago!) for a South Sudanese dinner in a restaurant recommended by Dani and Avi.  Dani told us about the unpleasant side of Israel’s entrepreneurial mastery, (well defined in the book Start Up Nation), as he lamented about his decade long effort and ultimate failure to generate a profit from his own start up firm.  Both of us, having been in similar U.S. high tech start ups, could relate.  Recently, in his late 60s, he is remaking a career as the head of the Energy Department in the engineering school of a municipal university.  Meanwhile, when also raising their three children, Avi pursued a career as a teacher, then administrator, of a non-academic program for the Tel Aviv municipal school district until her retirement at 65.  She has been courted back into the position, which she agrees to perform on a very part time basis.  We agreed that her role has no comparable one in the U.S. school system.  She establishes the curriculum for the arts and culture, sometimes teaching poetry and creative writing courses herself in an after school program.  Her favorite benefit is the free tickets that allow them to attend more Tel Aviv performances than they have time to enjoy. 

Bauhaus building in Tel Aviv

The South Sudanese dinner of falafel, humus and pita prompts Avi to describe the significant challenges that Israel faces with the ever growing number of immigrants who stay illegally and are draining use of real estate, schools, healthcare, and welfare programs.  In this case, the South Sudanese, who were not welcome in Egypt, escape northward to Israel where Jewish values empathize with the political refugee needs.  Despite the drain on public services, Israel’s lowest historical unemployment rate of 5% suggests that there is room for more people, should the visitors find a way to become legalized workers.   With high income taxes (70%, I read) and escalating real estate costs, it is increasingly difficult to lead a healthy middle class life in Israel.  Our guests lament that the wealthy few Israelis corruptly control the governing of the many, yet we wonder where in the world this is not the case?  Non-violent protests, lasting for months in the major cities, make these points apparent.

Upon our return from Tel Aviv we are surprised to see crowds of Orthodox Jews, (men in black top hats and suits; women in long skirts and heads wrapped in scarves), flowing through the bus terminal in great numbers.  We come to learn that in a village between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv a clash of beliefs has generated a popular uprising within branches of the Orthodox Jewish community.  An 8 year old girl was spit on by adults and called a “whore” when she arrived at school, apparently not dressed conservatively enough for this particular Orthodox school.  Less conservative Orthodox Jews are protesting:  “Stop imposing your ultra Orthodox beliefs upon us.  We don’t wish to be treated like Iranians”.  The Orthodox people we saw in the bus station were returning from the day’s protests.

A Scary Security Checkpoint in Bethlehem and the Dead Sea

Bethlehem's Manger Square

We departed from Jerusalem in a rental car and visited touristy Bethlehem and the dead Dead Sea before travelling northward through endless fields of hot house vegetable and palm tree farms to Eilaboun.  Towards Bethlehem, it was quite the experience finding, and then passing through, our first police checkpoints in and out of Palestinian territory.   Despite the polite inquires and pleasant faces of the young attractively uniformed Israeli guards, their automatic machine guns, and the pervasive barbed wire are intimidating and worthy of bad dreams.  

Kayla Beach on the Dead Sea