It was hot that day in May, I stood in the dusty square and gazed at the lengthening queue of tourists that was now forming outside the old church. An elderly Arab man approached, one hand outstretched, his mottled teeth stained in the differing hues of the olive wood rosaries that he carried on the other. "Shalom!" he cried, as his teabag eyes beseeched to buy another unwanted souvenir. So this was it, the Church of the Nativity, the cradle of Christianity and the birthplace of the person who shaped my beliefs and conscience. The old man followed me along the square, pleading with me in a lamenting tongue long cultured by generations of hagglers in the schools of time. I shook my head again, annoyed at his intrusion in my private moment of wonder and then took the opportunity to escape into the midst of an American tour party closest to the tiny door of Humility, the main access to the Basilica. Nobody breathed, the tour guide looked incensed at my place of refuge, my heart quickened, as she became slowly mindful of her surroundings and then continued,
"In de fourth century, dee Emperor Constantine built a magnificent basilica on the site of de manger where Jesus Christ was born. Sadly thees church was later destroyed and in dee sixth century another church was built on the foundations of dee old one. When the Persians invaded here in de year 614, dee were amazed to see a beeutiful mosaic of the Magi from Persia on the walls of de building and from respect for der ancestors, they spared thees building. Eet was the only church in de Holy Land to be saved. Later, the church was taken by the Crusader armies and dees this explains the fortress-like appearance of de building!"
One by one, we bent over and passed singly through the small entrance that had been made during the Ottoman era to prevent mounted horsemen from entering the Basilica. For a moment there was stillness as the smell of incense invaded my heightened senses and I made my way to the place of the Nativity, which was located in a small cave beneath the apse. The interior of the church was impressive, the central structure supported by four rows of Corinthian columns that had been painted during the Middle Ages with frescoes of the Apostles. The roof was fashioned from cedar wood that had sheltered the Crusaders from the midday heat and in front of the central apse, stood the Iconostasis, erected by the Greeks in the 17th century. As I looked around, I was reminded by the iconology that the present basilica belonged to the Greek Orthodox, with visiting rights reserved for Roman Catholics and Armenian Orthodox. My sense heightened as I tried to push my way through an unruly minestrone of tourists, hopefully moving closer to the flight of stairs that led to the Grotto of Nativity and the fourteen-pointed silver star that marked the birth place of Jesus. There are few moments in the canvas of this life that one feels close to the spirits that forged our very existence, but this was one. My head swirled, the crowd stopped moving and in the distance I thought I could see the top of the white marble altar that had been erected over the birthplace. My heart beat widely and the voice of our guide faded in and out as she agitatedly explained to one of the more persistently inquisitive members of the American party that the altar in front of us was erected near the site of the Manger and dedicated to the Three Wise Men who had followed the star to Bethlehem.
"Yes, thees altar is built opposite the site of de Manger!" she tensely continued.
Then the infuriation in her voice faded completely and there was total quietness. For a moment my head swirled and from the depths of the stillness an orchestra of secret sounds slowly came to me, carried on the wings of time to the church from somewhere out in the surrounding hills. Was that the bark of a wild jackal or maybe the laugh of a striped hyena that I hear in the distance that’s causing the sheep to stir. Through the mists of time, a guard rises and moves along the outside edge of the flock. For a moment he hesitates and gazes into the night sky, watching as a bright star moves through the indigo heavens. His watch will then be over and then he will wake his friend. He walks back and looks at a reed pipe, his father has given him, to pass away the hours spent guarding the flocks. On the other side of the valley, three men halt for a while to water their kajin, swift camels that are rarely seen in these parts. The travellers are weary, having journeyed hundreds of miles across the desert from their home in Parthia. They chat together, for it has been prophesied that the moving star will lead them to Jerusalem to find a new king for their nation. A gentle breeze gets up and the lights of a small village flicker from a hill beyond. The men remount their camels, passing by the green hillsides, terraced with pomegranate trees, until they reach a small roadway where they walk in single file, for soon their long journey will be at its end. They pass some empty cornfields, until they reach a place where the narrow road forks off towards Hebron. Here they tie their camels to the branches of some trees and make their way up the hillside to a small cave where some shepherds have gathered. The star they have being following, stops moving and appears to light up the entrance to the cave. A young couple huddled together in the cave, stir, as they turn to view the visiting strangers. The young mother adjusts the shawl upon her forehead and turns instinctively towards her newborn child, sleeping peacefully on some warm straw in a manger closeby. Then, one by one the men fall on their knees in front of the newborn. One of them takes some gold coins from his long yellow cloak and leaves them lying by the child in the manger. The mother clutches the edge of her shawl so it falls around her face and the light of a small fire dances around the cave, casting its flickering light on some animals, standing motionless in the background. Then, suddenly the newborn child stills from his sleep and begins to cry as his mother lifts him in her arms to comfort him. His cries soften, as slowly through the swirls of time, the noises around me begin to change again and like a black and white television that has recovered its sound, I become aware once more of the loud voices of the people around me.
The guide has become more infuriated and she squints as she fixes her eyes on the irritating tourist,
"Yes, I tell you again that this altar is built opposite the site of de manger, why you don’t believe me, what ees your problem with what I am saying?" she angrily questions.
"Oh, I really do believe you and I really see the altar, but I just can’t see where the manger is!" the tourist replied.
