I'll finish the story of "Getting here" in another post. They have been written out of order. sorry! However, this is long, so feel free to read it all at once but you'll probably want to get cozy with some coffee or tea first. 

On Thursday morning I woke up more than once. I stirred at one and two and four. The whinny of a horse, bray of a donkey, and bark of a dog joined the chorus of the wind. The final time I woke to chanting on the dawn wind. I lay still, wondering if it could be the Muslim call to prayer, though I'm in a Christian town. Yes, I concluded. Slowly, I rose and slid back the window. Pressing my ear to the screen, I heard the eerie call.  I have been told that the modern call is ugly because itis mechanized. Here that is certainly not the case.  The call traved to me from a distance on the force of the ancient wind rushing through these mountains of substance.  This land breathes meaning.  The wind speaks secrets. 

As teh call filled the mountainside, thousands upon thousands of Muslims woke to bend their bodies and whisper submission to Allah.  They are up now, bodies aching and eyes tired.  Devotion to religion. May this land—the whole land—be someday ringing with devotion to Jesus alone.

These past two days, though both terrible and wonderful, have been some of the longest days of my life. After leaving the airport at 7 I walked (maybe stumbled a little) outside and found a sherut (a public taxi).  Here the man asked me where I was going.

"The Damascus gate."

He pointed to a bus and I pulled my suitcase over to throw it in the back.  I climbed in and found one bag in the first single seat. I took the second.  The sherut filled up with people—all quite Jewish—and luggage.  I laughed at how full a bus could get. 

This ride to Jerusalem showed me the political chargedness of the land.  An Orthodox Jew behind me asked me question after question: "Where are you going?" "Are you Jewish?" and finally, sadly, "Are you going to secure land for Israel?" He was asking if I was going to live in a settlement. Land for the settlements is illegally confiscated from Palestinians and then built upon for Jews.  Taybeh has three settlements on its land.  In fact, one of the settlements took land from Maria's husband and built on it.  There's nothing he can do.  They are slowly squeezing the people in. 

I replied to the man, "No, rather I'll be working in an elderly home and teaching English to kids."

Another man on the sherut spoke kindly and knowledgeably with me. He told me about irragation of the olive groves.  Hardy, old, sometimes sinister in appearance, the trees grow all over the countryside.  I have learend elsewhere that these are teh livelihood of Palestinian dwellers.  For many it is the only work they have (some places in the West Bank and Gaza have 50% unemployment, like Taybeh).  Families own the groves for generations and each year they harvest olives for oil and sometimes the trees for wood. 

I saw a terrible thing yesterday: hundreds of olive trees chopped off at the stump. This is brutal for the Palestinian people.  Apparently the Israelis do this to punish them for an attack that happened in the countryside.  It is unfortunate that for the stupidity and hate of a few, an entire nation of beautiful people is punished.  

There are also walls built within the holy land that are for the so-deemed protection of the Israeli people. These walls are about 18 meters high and a foot thick. Cement.  (Check out my facebook profile picture) Brooding and demoralizing, the walls split cities from side to side, mother form son, family from olive grove (remember how important the olive groves are?) and even lover from beloved.  I saw a cry painted onto the wall Wednesday: "There is no wall high enough to keep a girl from the one she loves."  Whenever I drive by these walls my brow cinches, my eyes close, and my hand flies to my chest what for the aching in my heart. 

more tomorrow.