Tuesday June 16
By the time I hike from my hotel to the dig site on Mount Zion at 6am, the workers are already assembled for their morning instructions from the head of operations. There are more than I remembered – at least 40 brave sunscreened souls ready to get down to business. They are praised for their clean-up work yesterday, when a bobcat was excavating huge rocks from the site and opening access to the vaulted ceilings of the former home beneath. The real fun won’t begin until tomorrow, when they can begin to dig in earnest. We are so close to the wall surrounding the Old City that it is likely this was a palace inhabited by the wealthy – they anticipate many valuable finds here. I put on thick gloves, and set off to work.
It is a back-breaking undertaking. We are filling black buckets with earth and rocks and hauling them 2-by-2 to the other side of the site, where we take turns filling large white bags and tying them off with heavy string. A mergers-and-acquisitions-man from Miami and I become a tag team, holding and filling, filling and holding. “Turn your face” he warns me, as dust from the 1st century flies around my head. What ancient muck or disease could be in this swirling earth, heaven only knows. I meet several dozen people – most speak English but there are also some speaking Arabic and Hebrew. Among the assembled workers: a perky blonde musician from upstate New York, a young father from North Carolina missing his wife and kids, a pretty female professor from Rhode Island who was published books on the topic of women in the Bible, a serious 20-something documentary film-maker from the University of Chicago with his HD camera ever in hand, a shy female Asian student, a vivacious African-American woman who performs medical and meal assistance for the group at large, and dozens of others bound together in this amazing common experience.
Checking the time after what feels like at least half a day’s work, I am stunned to find it is only 9:45 am. No one pauses to use the restroom on these sites, I discover, because everyone sweats so much the body has no need to urinate. At 10am, tea is served and it is time for lunch break. Boxed white cardboard lunches come out, filled with tuna sandwiches, or hummus and pita with veggies. Food is passed and shared here, and the camaraderie is contagious. I bite into a tomato like an apple, and am offered a crunchy pickle someone doesn’t want. “Hey, reciprocity!” I am reprimanded; I offer him a portion of my cheese croissant. Hearty laughs abound and it is as if we are all old friends. The workers love to tease (“Hey, watch out, I think you just crushed the arc of the covenant”, and “Wow, I wish we could find some dirt around here….seems to be running out!”)
I leave at noon, bone tired but paradoxically energized. I estimate I have carried more than 50 buckets of heavy rocks and dirt across the site, as well as assisting in other stooping and gathering labor. I head to the Mount of Olives for a brief hiatus and am disappointed to realize the garden of Gethsemane closes for lunch from 12-2:30. I am too tired to wait it out, so I grab a cab and head to the hotel. When I shower dirt puffs off every item of clothing I wear, head to toe, like Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons. I’ve worn brown and beige, which helps, but those white socks may as well go straight into the trash bin because I’m pretty sure there’s not enough Clorox on earth…
From 2-4 I enter a deep and necessary nap. I have been invited by the head of the dig to join them again for their afternoon field trip into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City. We visit the Wohl Museum and the Burnt House. I learn about Caiaphas’ home and likely trial-place for Jesus after his arrest. I stand in the courtyard of a 2,000 year old Herodian mansion and am told that it is possible, even likely, that I am standing on the exact spot where Jesus was brought to trial. I look at the lay-out, imagining Mary, Peter, and Mary Magdalene just outside the stone entryway. The familiar feeling I’ve juggled all week moves me once again – my intellectual investigation gives way to spiritual contemplation and emotional release. Surrounded as I am by thinkers, I discreetly wipe the tear and take notes into my little purple notebook.
We end our tour at the Wailing Wall. A lovely 24 year-old archeology student from Florida walks with another new friend and me. At the wall we write the names of family members and friends on tiny slips of paper and tuck them into the wall – the holiest site in the world for Jews. My prayers join thousands of others as women cry on the right side, men on the left. The wailing is almost universal – the bobbing and reading and sobbing are very moving. I look up at a very blue sky, and silently pray the Our Father (not kosher to be sure, but hopefully not an offense to those around me.) I ask for mercy, for forgiveness, for grace. For some: healing. For others: hope. I pray and pray and pray.
Walking backwards from the wall is the respectful practice here. I suppose the idea is to never turn your back on G-d. I walk backwards as far as I can, then turn and face my life in forward motion. I’m hopeful the grace I have sought here will follow and propel me like a warm tailwind.
For dinner, I am taken to a Georgian (Russian) Restaurant hidden from the beaten path and known only to locals. My dinner companion is a brilliant man who is one of the world’s leading authorities in the area of Biblical Archeology. I feel fortunate indeed to have had the introduction through mutual friends -- we talk all night of the state of affairs in his field and the many changes that have come and gone in his lifetime, but we also talk about film and music and life in America (where he was born) versus life in Israel. He asks me about my faith background and I tell him I was raised by a Roman Catholic mother but later converted to non-denominational Christian faith. He smiles and we are kindred: he was raised Catholic also, converting to Judaism as an adult. He even grew up in a state where I once lived. There is much common ground between us and he feels like a long-lost family member to me – that really smart uncle with whom who you love to talk.
After dinner we walk through neighborhoods in the New City of Jerusalem where he lives. He brings me to the home he shares with his wife and offers me mint tea. He gives me a copy of a DVD on Magdalene which he recommends. He is, as they say in Yiddish, a real mensch. He walks me home to my hotel well past midnight. It has been a marathon day, but there is no rest in sight. I have been invited back on the Mt. Zion dig tomorrow morning and wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Wednesday June 17
Today is my last day in Israel. I sleep later than yesterday but make it to the dig site by late morning. I am tickled to be greeted by “Hey, Pamela’s here!” from several workers. I jump right in, and notice they have unearthed a beautiful mosaic floor with carefully cut square stone pieces. It was probably the entryway to a foyer of some sort. It is marked off with dirt bags like the ones we filled yesterday. I greet everyone, and jump down into the pit. I am about 10 feet below ground level with a pick, a sturdy nylon brush, and a metal dustpan. Painstakingly, I help two men sift through what we come to realize was the kitchen area of the home. How can we tell? There is charcoal here, which we carefully bag and label, there are bones of animals presumably slaughtered and consumed on this spot. And there is a black type of pottery stone commonly used for oven purposes. We fill a green “find” bucket with shards of pottery from dozens of vessels. The dirt and rocks go into the black buckets which we periodically sop and empty up above. It is quite the little village of cooperative workers. I am moved by the efficiency and generosity of everyone I meet. The big find of our section this day is a small copper coin. A supervisor comes with a metal-detector to help us find it. Everyone gathers round and takes pictures. The site experts feel this item dates to the early 1st century. My mind is boggled; I want to know more about how they can know such things.
Near the end of the dig, a group of several dozen Texans and an archeology tour guide come onto our site with the blessing of the head honchos. I happen to be in the front-most pit, and before I know it I am being photographed by a bunch of strangers as if I’m some sort of actual archeologist. Pushing my sense of misrepresenting myself aside, I look up from under my camouflage bandana and smile, pick in hand. As my 3-man team works, they watch and shoot us. Every time we find a jug handle or any little item of interest they lean over the edge to get a look. I feel super cool. I feel way cooler than anything I’ve done in ages, in fact.
By 2pm we are clearing the site – all tools have to be brought down the steep decline to waiting vans, if left outside they’d be stolen. I join a long line of workers carry boxes of hoes and gloves and picks and sifters like ant marching down a hill. I am invited once again to participate in the evening’s activities - -this time a lecture 20 minutes outside Jerusalem. I meet them at Jaffa Gate at 6pm and we ride in rented vans, chatting all the way. By now everyone knows I am writing a screenplay about Magdalene. There is heated debate among the men who should play the role. Several want Angelina Jolie but there is a heated Latina contingency that would prefer Eva Mendes. By the time I get home, the role will have evolved so substantially that neither may be suitable. But what a tour de force for the right actress!
I listen to an hour-long lecture with power point on the topic of several digs in Moza, about 6 kilometers outside of Jerusalem (have I mentioned yet how annoyed I am with the metric system? How many kilos are in a mile is something I haven’t had to really think about since 5th grade and I am one dog who doesn’t enjoy new mental math tricks.) The lecturer is the head of the Israeli Antiquities Authority and I am somewhat lost in his professional lexicon. He is sincere but perhaps lacking in what one would compassionately call charisma. But I catch the gist, learn a few things about Iron Age scepters and silos, and get to view boxes of artifacts from the cave at Suba (which is a very prominent topic of conversation among archeology aficionados.)
When I get back from the lecture it is late – already 8pm. My friend and I decide we want one last trip to the Wailing Wall. We go, we pray, I write more little notes with the names of any loved ones I forgot yesterday. I want to write one that says “and anyone else I am forgetting” like a little kid saying their nightly prayers (“and God bless the whole wide world, amen” was a favorite when I was a little girl.)
Dinner is at 10pm, late indeed for this LA lady. But I am delighted when my dining companion from the night before invites me and my friend to join in with him and a business associate of his. We meet at a very upscale hotel called the American Colony in Jerusalem. They are shooting a movie outside the gilded entryway, and the list of people I am told have recently stayed here is like a who’s who of the world stage: Jimmy Carter, Tony Blair, Netanyahu, the oh-so-hip director of the film out front and his oh-so-young Moroccan lady friend…the list goes on and on. I make friends with a woman who writes for several national magazines in the U.S. and who has published a book about the topic of greed in the world of biblical archeology. It turns out she is leaving for New York the same day I am. She asks for my email and we plan to meet on the other side of the pond to chat and get to know each other. Then off I’ll fly on Saturday to rejoin the previous program of my life, left behind as if via a pause button on the VCR in my mind, but no doubt welcoming me with unknown developments during my absence.
The many new friends who’ve shared their hearts and smiles with me, I will bring along as I board my flight back home. I will tuck them in my carry-on, and keep their memory close at hand.
I have learned many things on this trip: things about serendipity and synchronicity and life. But the main thing I’ve learned is this: never never never underestimate the flight that follows a big ole’ flying leap of faith.
