Picnic in Israel

            I stared out over a yellow grass plain stretching for miles in three different directions. With the black top road to our backs myself and my German equal Julius marveled. Mordechai, our guide and personal family friend of thirty years, opened the tea-blotted road map. We followed his pruny finger slide across the canvas as it alighted on three scarred regions.

Mordi and Julius

            “That side is Lebanon. Over there is Syria, and here are we, in Israel.” This was 2012. Julius and I both finished a year of college. As a freshly turned nineteen year old geopolitics escaped me. Instead, I casually daydreamed about my next student film or ruminating over the breakup I still felt, nine months later.

            I don’t recall the minor pleasantries we exchanged. I’m sure they amounted to short platitudes like: “This is incredible.” Or “I’ve never seen something like this.” Truthfully, even though we were at the nexus of a thousand-plus year old conflict the view did not impress.

            I didn’t want to say the view was unimpressive. Small towns dotted the landscape interrupting the Midwest-Kansas feel of another unending plain. As far as meadows go they weren’t voluminous or expansive. They were there. Still, having just come from the River Jordan and Jerusalem it’s tough to compare grassy seas to the potential tomb of Jesus of Nazareth.

            Mordi brought out the bottle of red wine we purchased at the market in down town Jerusalem. Fifty shekels bought us the small cabernet sauvignon, a loaf of honey wheat bread, a pepperoni stick, some mozzarella cheese, olives dipped in olive oil with sun-dried tomatoes, and the classic pita and hummus. If only we had a straw basket. Then we could have a picnic  with a view.

It's common for soldiers to pose for photographs

            While Mordechai cut into the fragrant bread a camouflage colored military jeep pulled up next to our rental Toyota Camry. Nobody got out. The soldiers’ visages scanned past us, out into the open fields. Nobody hailed us, even though the mounted fifty-caliber machine gun spoke volumes. Nobody in our camp blinked. This was Israel. Armed guards were common.

            Quietly avoiding attention I poured us all wine.

            “They are here to protect us.” Mordechai sawed slices of pepperoni for the bread.

            “Protect us?” I glanced back up at the convoy, almost spilling wine on myself.

            “Of course. This is dangerous spot. On that side is Hezbollah. On that side – pfft – this is not safe. You see that town? There are terrorists.” I’ve never seen anyone point ominously with a pepperoni stick until that day he pointed to the small town immediately east of us.

            “There is Hezbollah. Snipers watch these cliffs looking for people to kidnap. Right now there is someone watching us with a rifle. He sees us. He sees the soldiers. He tells them ‘We cannot capture them. They have Israeli military.’ We are safe. Do not worry.” To conclude his argument Mordechai proudly laid mozzarella on his sandwich, and took a bite.

            Julius and I both took two full gulps of wine to wash the news down.

            “Did you just say Hezbollah is watching us?” Julius sipped once more from the plastic cup of wine.

            Mordi’s eyes rolled.

            “Yes. Just last week they kidnapped two of our soldiers. We pay the ransom, they give us back the heads. Right here.” Smile lines turned to frown lines across Mordi’s chin. Bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowed in frustration accumulated over sixty years’ worth of modern history. Just like every Israeli we met on that trip: he shrugged, but the frustration never really left his eyes. Such is life.

            “Who wants to eat?”

            Supposing that I’m more likely to die of hunger than Hezbollah kidnapping me I reached for a sandwich. I poured myself more wine. Out across the meadow a rifle barrel might glint in the sun. Could I see the slight optical flare? Would I recognize it for what is? Where does a sniper sit? Can these soldiers keep me safe? Am I overreacting? Is Mordi messing with me? The military convoy conveyed the gravity of the situation, but a pepperoni and mozzarella cheese sandwich under the soft Israeli sun soothed my wide-eyed glare. The wine helped too.

            The five days we spent in Jerusalem prior to our Kerouac-meets-Call-of-Duty travel taught me to trust the military guards. On the cobbled streets of the Old City guards smiled for pictures while carrying MP4s. A guard stationed every twenty feet prevented danger at Jaffa Gate. Hundreds of people crossed back and forth through the high stone walls of the Lion Gate. Expecting violence, how could the Israeli military not monitor the entry and exit points of their most important neighborhood?

The Wailing Wall

            The Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Western Wall, the Mount of Olives, the Western Wall tunnels, the Jewish Quarter filled my diary for pages. Those old entries describe men and women bowing before a stone slab, deigning to touch the smoothed rectangle, and even kiss it. Under the rock foundations of the Temple veiled women sobbed quietly in ancient hand-carved alcoves lifting up alms to the God of Israel. White grave stones lined the trailing hills best seen from high above in a double-decker tour bus. I’d never before witnessed the kind of worship a genuine holy site merited. That forehead-to-the-ground-not-pure-enough-to-touch worship only existed in National Geographic documentaries.

The Burial Stone of Jesus of Nazareth

            We traveled south as well.
         

            The desert that lifted and sank all the way to the horizon; white sands bleaching your corneas. The smell of roasted thyme chicken and tahini wafted past the three of us. A stop at Qum’ran enlightened me to the mysteries of the Dead Sea Scrolls. If I could reach out and touch those scrolls they would fall apart.  The clay leftovers of a Jewish monastic order too strict for John the Baptist lay before me, with the cliff caves behind inviting new discoveries.

The Snake Path up to Masada

Even further south to Masada. Julius and I hiked the snake path up to the fortress itself, mostly because we were too broke to afford the lift. Looking out from the plateau’s edge Romans struggled to penetrate, you can peer straight to the Dead Sea. Why did everyone at Masada kill themselves? The stone steps of the forum and market bore recent dust from the influx of visitors. No one knew the answer.

Finally south to the Dead Sea itself. The greatest geological marvel I’ve ever witnessed tantalized me. I nearly salted the inside of my nostrils trying to swim laps. Simply sit back and fall gently into the Sea. Let the Sea’s natural buoyancy carry you wherever you choose. The healing effects of the mud and the water wiped away our scars from hiking to the top of Masada. A sixteen-year-old girl used her Grandmother to convince me we should trade phone numbers.

            Israel guards the mystery of every nook and cranny with armed guards. Mordechai’s recount of the Six Days’ War included snipers on the streets of Jerusalem, dropping wine barrels that imitated the sound of bombs falling, and every Israeli pushing back against forces closing in on the potential borders of a nation-state. He walked the streets of Jerusalem at seven years old, he told us,, ducking and dodging potential sniper bullets. I couldn’t help but sympathize.

            The sandwiches tasted delicious, despite the appetite-reducing threat of a bullet  impacting my body. In fact, once I got past the initial fear I recognized something odd: our protectors were our age. Mordi told me once about compulsory military service for Israelis. The ramifications sank in on that hilltop while I snacked on an olive.

            I approached, sandwich in hand, offering a bite.

            Despite their polite decline to share food several soldiers got out, not to aim their guns or point it at anything in particular, but to chat. It turns out one of the soldiers lived in New Jersey before returning to Israel for his stint in the army. Like most teenage boys we agreed on a few things: Israeli women are beautiful, some of the best pizza is in New York, and the view was not impressive. Mordi joined Julius and I at the sound of our laughter. Finally I felt comfortable. Maybe there were men staring down riflescopes aimed at our bodies, but these soldiers agreed that English is a difficult language to learn.

            We finished our lunch, Mordi smoked a hand rolled cigarette, and the convoy followed us all the way to the Israeli-Syrian border. Julius fell asleep in the back. Mordi rolled another cigarette, while driving, and smoked it. The plains stretched on, a single road dividing Syria from Israel. I passively gazed out on to the uninspired scenery. I sat up, prompting Mordi to notice.

            On the Syrian side of the road several tanks perched, barrels facing Israel. We drove right past those tanks. I didn’t wake up Julius. A simple message: Do not enter. I had no idea of the implications those tanks carried years after we left Israel. Only in hindsight can I admit the eerie imagery carried ill omens, not for our road trip but for the country of Syria.

            Our road trip passed more eventfully, although with less danger involved. We slept on the banks of the Sea of Galilee. The soft sand soothed our misaligned backs after two nights of sleeping on the ground. I woke up to a rosy sunset, and swam from the shore to a buoy out in the distance, the waters quiet and calm around me. By the time we got back to Mordi’s apartment in Jerusalem everyone crashed. Only three days traveling the northern border of Israel, but more than enough to exhaust each of us. Julius and I debated leaving the apartment to buy dinner, but ultimately stayed in. We needed to process a lot. Mordi slept fourteen hours.

            Israel exists in a state of extremes to me. Extreme beauty, both in the people and in the land, and extreme danger. Israelis claim that because of it’s superb beauty it’s highly coveted making it the most dangerous piece of paradise ever. I would go on to argue with Mordechai about whether or not to nuke Syria, the benefits of organized religion, and the merits of pita bread without hummus (Mordi’s stance: you can’t eat pita bread alone. It’s sinful.) Combative, delightful, and selective describe Mordi the best. As a representative of his nation he’s a fine example of a people born into conflict for thousands of years. Despite the incredible dissonances the people of Israel live, work, and play like the rest of us. They, just like us, enjoy pepperoni and mozzarella sandwiches on a nice hill top view even if they can’t accept them from American tourists.