Mohab-bi

I met him late this afternoon on the very top of the Mt. of Olives. I had finished the climb to the peak and was taking in the view, waiting around to watch the sun set behind Jersualem over the Judean hills. A very pretty and calm time of day where the city is bathed in extraordinary light, making it look serene in a pallette of beige, peach, tan, and grey hues.

He came over trying to sell me a colorful picture book of the Holy Land. For those of you that don't know, I came here with the equivalent of a steamer trunk full of books. The last thing I needed was another book. Of any kind. He could have hawking a new find of Dead Sea Scrolls for all I cared and I wouldn't have been interested. I quickly said "No" and turned back to watch the city. Ignoring the marketing approach of these salesmen with haughty indifference is the best way to send them off looking for the next prospect.

Instead of moving on as most vendors and peddlers do (these guys are EVERYWHERE) , he leaned over the railing next to me for a few moments. Didn't say anything, but just looked west with me.

After a few seconds, I asked, "How's business?"

In a new relaxed voice of pretty good English, he said, "Not good. The winter is always slow. No one comes. Now with economies bad, even less come. So with all that, now we have the fighting and maybe a war, and no one is coming at all. Not good. Who wants to come with all the fighting."

"Yeah, I can imagine", I said. We kept looking out over the Kidron Valley toward Jersualem a 1/4 of a mile away. Just hanging out, not saying much.

After a minute or two a young college-aged kid walked by and I asked him if he would take a picture of the two of us together. Might as well document the visit for the blog.

"You could argue about who took the first shot" I said. "But people have been shooting for a long time, I guess." From there, we moved into a fifteen minute conversation about the war. He was a Palestinian, and he couldn’t figure out why America wasn’t putting more pressure on Israel to stop the bombing in Gaza. He talked about how every Palestinian has great sympathy for the residents there, and how it seemed so unjust. I wasn’t going to start a heated debate with him, but I talked a little about the principle of Israel’s right to exist and live safely without rockets falling into their clotheslines in the backyard. I sensed he was rather even-keeled, and he listened and didn’t try to argue much.

“Everybody has to figure out how to live in peace, otherwise this will never end and we will always fight over everything, you know? It is all crazy.”

We talked some more, and I listened to him, and shared some more of my own thoughts. Finally, we both agreed there was no simple answer. Both sides had reasons they could defend to the death if they chose to. And what a waste that was.

Continuing, he said his name was Mohab-bi, and that he was a life-long resident of Jerusalem. I asked him where he lived and he pointed over at a not-too-distant hillside in East Jerusalem.

“Right over there, behind that hill” he said. I asked him about his family, and he mentioned he had five children: four daughters and a son. Out of both friendly interest and wondering if I might call his bluff, I asked if he had any pictures of his kids. He smiled, pulled out his cell phone, and proceeded to click though about thirty pictures of five of the cutest, most photogenic little kids you'd ever see, all under the age of eight. Each had a name and a story that he had to share. I asked him about what they did, what they played, what their school was like, and he went on and on with great paternal enthusiasm.

The sun was settling behind the far ridge now, and we leaned over and stared out again over the city at sunset. I told him it was a beautiful sight, and he agreed. Told him where I lived (he had never heard of Minnesota) it was snowy, bitterly cold, and that my kids had had a skating rink in their front yard when they were young.

“You freeze the grass, and they want to go outside?” Mohab-bi couldn’t quite envision it. I told him it was true. Besides, kids LIKED it, usually. That at times they would even go sledding down snow-covered hills. That then, in the summer, we played soccer.

“We don’t have snow, not very often, hardly never here. But, where I live in East Jerusalem, they can’t go outside all the time and play. Too dangerous at some time and in some places. No parks. No. One soccer play area, but no grass.”

We kept looking out over the railing on the top of Mt. of Olives and silently looked at the city. The sun was gone now, and while it was not dark yet, the lights were coming on all over the city. This would have been the peak where Jesus crossed at the end of the day when leaving Jerusalem to head over the other side of the hill to Bethany, where he usually stayed when he was in the area. I wondered if it was the view he would have had when walking “home” at dusk, seeing Jerusalem and its gentle colors. It probably would have been. Walking over the top of the hill here, looking back west before going over and down to the east side of the mountain. Maybe right near where we were standing. Who knows. It was a pleasing thought.

It was time for me to head back to the city, back to St. Stephen’s Gate. I suppose he would be going home to East Jerusalem.

“Hey, Mohab-bi. How much was that book you were selling.” I figured it would go for maybe about ten to fifteen dollars in a local store. It was pretty nice quality. Large. Picturesque. But still, just a an oversized travel book with lots of glossy pictures of places.

“Seventy-dollars” he quickly said, shifting into his peddler-marketing voice. “American dollars. Or 250 Shekels.”

I was sorry I had asked.

“I don’t want a book. And anyway, that is ridiculous.”

“OK, you are a good man. Fifty dollars or 200 shekels.”

I started to walk away with a smile, wishing it would have ended with our talking about our kids.

“Mohab-bi, I don’t want a book. I’ve got too many already. I don’t want another one. Besides, that is not worth that much. It’s not worth more than sixty shekels (fifteen US dollars).

“OK, you are nice and good man to visit with. Here you go”, he said, placing it in my arms before I had a chance to turn away. “You also get my last Jerusalem poster I have left. No charge, free, because you are nice.”

I gave him a 50 and 20 shekel note, and he started to give me a 10 shekel coin back.

“I don’t need this book, I don't want this book. And I have no place to pack a poster. But keep the change (I figured for $2.50, I didn’t want to even consider this some type of haggled sale I had been involved in, anyway.). Go buy something -- soccer balls or something for your kids."

I leafed through the book all the way back to St. Stephen's Gate, at which point it was too dark anymore to read. I really like it. I like the way I came to own it, I guess. There was a picture of the gate in the book I didn't need to see it. I didn't want to see it. I was there, walking right through it. Back into Jersualem.