Two years ago on this blessed day:
I remember the walk from Jerusalem to Bethlehem.
I remember the young couple from South Korea who joined me on my wander.
I remember crowded security lines and barbed-wire fences;
I remember an advertisement from the State reminding us tourists that Israel stands for peace.
(How else can commerce continue?)
I remember Taxi Loui: a young man and father with a bachelors in computer science and IT who must guilt Western foreigners into a Holy Tour for a bargain price of 150 New Israeli Shekels so he can feed his beautiful boys.
I remember blockades and Holy Land tour busses with images of doves carrying olive tree branches in their beaks.
I remember a woman of elderly age carrying a basket to collect food for the day forced back from entering the main part of town by young Jewish boys with American manufactured automatic rifles.
(How else can commerce continue?)
I remember the Church of Nativity.
I remember steep climb and falafel carts.
I remember Nigerians, Ghanians, Taiwanese, Philippines, Germans, Brits, Americans, Israelis, and many other faces from around the world wealthy enough to make the pilgrimage to the Holy Hotels.
I remember Patriarcha Hierosolymitanus Latinorum.
I remember the liturgy in Arabic and the Eucharist,
although it was difficult to hear over the thousands of worshipping shutters and flashes.
I remember the four-hour line to kiss the Manger.
I remember Disneyland: fast-track passes and all for an extra shekel.
(How else can commerce continue?)
I remember the Wall.
I remember a desecrated graveyard.
I remember evicted businesses and homes.
I remember ‘Ayda.
I remember the abandoned UNRWA building and the abandoned bank.
I remember old men with mustaches inviting me to share tea and shisha.
I remember three little boys, a deflated soccer ball, and a competitive match beside the Wall.

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