At the Bedouins

The word "Bedouin" means something like "beginning", says Nedal our host who will walk with us on the next day through a desert valley near Jericho to the Auja Bedouin Camp.

He and his family live in a village near Nablus that is also called "Camp" because it was established after the Arab-Israeli-war of 1948 as a camp for the refugees. They had fled from the war in the coastal region which is now part of Israel. 

Nedal’s children have secretly prepared a celebration for my 70th birthday and they set the beginning to the night before my birthday "originally" begins. The lunar calendar of Muslims and Jews sees the beginning of a day already at sunset, not at midnight.

The three school girls lead me into the living room, light a table firework, present me a big cake and begin to sing and dance. When I object that it is still too early for my birthday they stress firmly that we are now under the rules of a lunar calendar. I give in - and are glad to gain a second night for celebration. 

70 years ago Nedal’s Camp was a mere tent-site, hastily constructed after what is remembered as the Naqba, the disaster in the Arab memory and what is remembered as the founding of their State in the memory of the Jews. 

Israel’s independence was declared in May 1948. That was about the time when my mother told my father that she was pregnant for the first time. So, the history of Nedal’s Camp and my life are oddly intertwined.

On the next day the way through the desert is blocked in an unusual way. It has rained and the canyon is full of water. So instead of taking the regular way through the canyon we decide to walk over the round hilltops of the area. That gives us, once the rain has stopped and the sun comes out, a brilliant view over the Jordan Valley and into King Abdullah's country of Jordan on the other side. 

A rainbow appears, one foot in the valley and one foot in the hills, and reminds, us of the life-protecting covenant between God and men. I had a lot of protection in my life and I am thankful to have this brilliant reminder today.

Later in the camp we meet our host, the bedouin Ali and his family. They own a big square tent with a concrete floor where they give hikers on the Abraham Path bed and food. They have prepared a special meal for my group consisting of layers of chicken meat and vegetables, prepared over an open fire in a round hole in the ground.

Songs are sang, speeches are hold, fairytales are told, all to honor my birthday. In the end Ali wraps my head in a red cotton Keffiyeh, the traditional Arabic headdress.

I am a Bedouin now, I am back to the beginning. But I am - without sadness - aware that it is the beginning of the end of my life.