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| Sunday, 19 December 2004 |
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Nostalgia in the Holy Land by Karel Roberts Ratnaweera 1967 the year before the seven-day war that tore the Middle East asunder. Yasser unheard of, Gaza still not stripped. Old-fashioned days only the Beatles, our staple. There was a trip to the Holy Land on offer, but those were the days of travel restrictions. The pilgrimage was to terminate in Rome where Pope Paul V1 was reigning. Only Roman Catholics were permitted to go to Rome on the pilgrimage which was organised by a Catholic group with a Spanish name; Christians why the differentiation between the 'other believers' in God always baffled me had to terminate their pilgrimage in Jerusalem no Rome for them. To touch on a personal note, this writer's future husband and his sister were well-qualified for the pilgrimage and were getting their acts together for take-off. This writer had been invited by the organisers to join the tour, but there were many snags in the way. Number one,I was not a Catholic; number two, baptised, through no fault of my own, within 24 hours of coming into this world - a baptism which has to this day never been confirmed. So one hurdle after another. How to go to see these places which most see only once in a lifetime and which one had read so much about in school. Thinking caps of various hues were tried on but none seemed to fit. Then someone had a brainwave; let her go who knows, she may become 'convinced' and be baptised in Jerusalem itself! The Immigration Department fell for it. Actually, it was proposed by a highly respected high-up of a church I did not belong to, which I thought was brilliant. I lost no time digging up the baptismal certificate earlier referred to,produced it with the other necessary documents Immigration needed,and was passed. But Rome was the fly in the ointment. And that's where the brainwave came in and satisfied the Authorities. Someone said it was a miracle I was allowed to go others that it was sacrilegious! But the fact is that there were two Buddhists Buddhists do not have certificates to produce, they can only say they are bad because it has nothing to do with pen and paper - who were an absolutely delightful father a doctor and daughter from Kandy. Don't ask me how they got passed, but I am sure it was not the same wizard who got me through! Actually it was this writer's first flight. At the small Ratmalana airport, red and green lights blazed. Almost midnight. 'Nerves' were somewhat soothed by a small sherry. Everyone on board. One of our group wrapped her head in a scarf because she said it was pini baanawa (dewing). Flying through the night; no mobiles to tell the home people that you were safe (so far!) No sleep. Suddenly it was dawn and Lebanon. No wars anywhere. Then on board for Jerusalem. One of the most delicious omelettes I have ever eaten was served by the Lebanese stewardess. But it was Jerusalem, not omlettes, that our sights were set on. A small, bit of a run-down airport, something like our Ratmalana. Trundled into a bus like our old buses used to be, we were on our way to the small inn at the foot of the Mount of Olives, run by Greek Passionist priests. It was lunchtime, and cold. Chunks of chicken doused in olive oil, a flavour we found difficult to get used to; preceded by vegetable soup, home-grown vegetables and fruits for dessert. Bottles of home-grown wine were on the table at about one rupee each and the size of a good old Sri Lankan arrack bottle . From our rough dormitory this was a pilgrimage organised by a religious group, not a luxury tour in luxury hotels could be seen the City of Jerusalem, and what a thrill it was to gaze upon it. The Dome of the Rock one of Islam's most hallowed shrines shone in the afternoon sunlight, its dome covered with silver and blue mosaic. It is to be seen from any point in Jerusalem. Quick coffee with goatmilk tea was an unknown word and the highpoint of the visit the trip to the Church of the Nativity, birthplace of Jesus Christ in Bethlehem of Judea. The rickety bus took the sharp bends in stride. Our Arab Christian guide, a personable man immaculately dressed in Western attire pointed out things we had never seen before in our lives but only read about.Bedouin tents down below the road; shepherds tending their sheep in the pink and blue evening. A terrible wave of nostalgia engulfs you when you think of home. I even asked whether I could take a flight back to Colombo the next day! But then as evening deepens the lights of Bethlehem get closer. They are different lights but they are lights, nevertheless. The bus puts you down at the small door of the entrance to what might be called the church of all churches. It is said that in the early days, the entrance door was low as horses and other animals would enter the church. The Church of the Nativity was built by Queen - later Saint Helena the mother of Emperor Constantine who became a Christian. This church belongs to the Roman Catholics the main body of the building - the Greek or Eastern Orthodox church whose marvellous chapel I wandered into while the Catholic Mass was on and, believe or not, the Anglicans, which quite delighted me! The last Amens and then the descent down a tiny staircase to the Holy of Holy's the Grotto of the Nativity which looks anything but a stable! It is a small space and pilgrims crowd in to kneel and kiss the Star of Bethlehem a silver star embedded in the marble floor, said to mark the exact spot where the child of humble parents yet, descendant of King David of Israel saw the light of day, so to speak. People touch the opening in the middle of the star as it is said to be the original stable floor. It was night, actually, and the stars of Bethlehem were out, with The Star shining over the spot where he lay, with his mother Mary and father Joseph tending him,while shepherds sang a desert song extolling the birth. The grotto is adorned with silver,copper and bronze lamps and draped with rich curtains; it has to be seen to be believed. Incense fills the air, as do chants in languages that could have come out of the Tower of Babel. The fire from the incense is warming, but out into Manger Square and your teeth are chattering The sky is now a deep pink and there is time to do the small boutiques down the lanes. You even meet a boutique-keeper who says he had been in Ceylon, as Sri Lanka was then called. You cant wait to bundle into the bus for the ride back to Jerusalem where more olive-oil doused chicken, mutton and barley soup wait to be washed down with rough red wine before you blanket yourself against the chill for dreams of home. |
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