Love and Heartbreak

At the old Church Beyond the Walls (the Chora Museum in Istanbul), frescoes tell the story of Mary's life.  This includes the story of her parents, Anna and Joachim, and her own first toddling steps.  Looking back at my notes and pictures, I'm reminded that there are stories behind stories behind stories.  Many we know and many are hidden yet. 

Yesterday, in the Galilee, Ghassan Manasra drove me out to Saffuriya/Tzippori, believed by many to have been the home of Anna, Joachim and young Mary.  Just miles from 21st century Nazareth, Saffuriya (Sepphoris) was a vital, well-populated city in their time, and significantly larger than Nazareth itself.  Ghassan pointed out pomegranate trees, wild fields of asparagus and a well Mary may have used for fresh water.  It's a fertile valley even now, Saffuriya; and life grows easily and generously.

Pomegranate in Saffuriya

 

In the Roman and Byzantine eras, Christians built a large basilica in Seffuriya, and its shell stands still behind a smaller Italian church.  Over the years the proud city gave way to other trends and conquerors, and the basilica was transformed first to an Ottoman mosque and then a Crusader's fortified church.  And eventually, the city fell to disrepair and decay.

Through the middle part of the 20th century, Ghassan tells me, Saffuriya was a thriving, connected Arab village.  The lands around the village offered all kinds of fresh produce and good, sustainable work.  The people of Saffuriya were deeply connected to these lands, and to one another.  I'm always interested (and quite moved) to watch the way Palestinians I know describe the lands on tours and visits.  They step toward fruit trees reverently, touch a hanging pomegranate with joy and love, talk about the seasonal growth of crops with gratitude.  Ghassan is doing all this as we walk through the old part of Saffuriya.  Love and heartbreak in his eyes.

Ali, Susu and Ghassan at the Old Basilica

Looking from Saffuriya toward the Hills of Lebanon and Syria

Because Saffuriya suffered what so many Arab villages in the Galilee suffered in 1948 and 1949.  Armies moved on the village and its people, and Arabs here were forced into exile (Lebanon for some, Nazareth for others).  Most of their homes and much of their lands were bulldozed, destroyed; and they had no way of reclaiming these lands.  A village culture--so connected to land and crops and the rhythm of seasons--was destroyed.  It lingers still; I can see it in Ghassan's eyes.  But it was lost to so many families, to so many children, forever.

Now, a small Israeli village inhabits part of old Zippori.  The homes and cars are sophisticated and new, a bit of Tel Aviv in the Galilee.  I asked Ghassan if Arabs/Palestinians might buy property in the new village, integrate the village for a new generation.  And his expression fell.  No, he said, that could never happen.  It would never happen.  There is indeed a kind of racism involved.  Though Ghassan and his family are Israeli citizens, they would not be welcome to buy property in a Jewish village.  A clear and devastating divide persists.

On the drive, Ghassan describes to me his father's village not far away, and how the same story played out there.  How his father's family had to leave their beloved village and seek refuge in Nazareth.  How they never returned, could never return, to their beloved lands.  When Ghassan recently went to see the old village, to visit the cemetery there and the graves of his relatives, Israeli police denied him entry.  Again, he's an Israeli citizen; but there's a clear divide.  He's not allowed to visit certain areas that other Israelis visit.  And he'd never be allowed to buy property or live on the old Arab lands.

I'm amazed--moved to the deepest kind of respect, really--by Ghassan's grace and warmth.  Even in sharing this village with me.  Even in telling its story.  There's no malice, no bitterness in his eyes or his voice.  He loves his family, his children, his people, and yes, this country, his Israel--so much--and wants only for there to be peace with justice here.  It's a simple desire, really, and the most complicated yearning of all.