Vic Socotra

20 December 2008

Come, All Ye Faithful

(Manger Square, Bethlehem)

Saturday morning normally starts with the shows about pets and young children, since it is the people who have both that are awake at the same ungodly hour. There is news about Bernie Madoff and his scam, and the bail-out of the car companies that Mr. Bush has announced to prevent General Motors checks from bouncing all over town at the end of the month.

The car guys normally come on when I am wrapping up the morning and launching on something else, and I listen in the car.

I reached over and turned the station. I was starting to analyze the Somali threat, and what we got wrong in our adventure in Mogadishu a decade ago, and the sponsored Ethiopian invasion to overthrow the Islamic Courts, and the pirate threat and the missing young men from Minneapolis who have returned to their birth homes in the Horn of Africa for training in all manner of nasty things.

Then I sighed. There is plenty of time to wonder what we are going to do with a failed state with deep connections to States and plenty of expats, from the Horn, including some who work right in Big Pink.

I settled on the classical station, since there is no advertising to make me feel bad, and they have abandoned the lesser works of obscure Scandinavian composers for a menu of Christmas Carols. There is considerable comfort in the ancient melodies, and it might actually lurch me into the holiday spirit.

I like “O, Come all Ye Faithful,” along with the all the classics, and that was the first one that erupted from the little Sony on the desk. Catchy tune, though I have never placed myself in the ranks of the faithful, and marching toward Bethlehem was not how I did it the only time I made it to Manger Square to adore anything.

It was March of 1990, and still cold in the Holy Land.

We rode with an grizzled Israeli by the name of Svi Ginsberg. He was, a Sabra of Polish-German extraction who ran a tour service to occupy his retirement days. He was a secular Jew with 67 Christmas seasons under his belt. His grand-daughter was doing her obligated service in the IDF. His daughter was 42. His son was killed in a tank engagement with the Syrians at eight o’clock in the evening on the sixth of June, 1983.

Svi had a nine-millimeter pistol in his pocket, just in case, since we were way off limits. The West Bank was not a place the US Government wanted us to be, but Toad and Doc were of the same mind as me. We were not likely to be back, and the hell with the rules.

We did the usual Jerusalem things, with furtive shopping for souvenirs since the shops were officially shuttered by the PLO.

Gethsemane, the Via Dolorosa, Calvary, Golgotha and the Holy Sepulcher were all behind us. Our speed tour of the life of Jesus was running backwards as the light began to die. There was less than an hour until full dark, but we were overcome by the city and the story. Svi offered to drive us into to the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem to conclude the day.

The passenger side window had been shattered by a rock earlier in the day, and the chill winds of sullen March roared through the sedan. We were the last car of the day in Manger Square, since few tourists dared defy the edict of the Intifada.

Palestinian kids swarmed over us, tugging at our coats as we entered the Church, stone blocks narrowing an ancient arch so that no unbelievers could enter on horseback.

We are nearly the last of the day in the Grotto where Mary gave birth to the Risen Lord, and we knelt to touch the spot as long-bearded Greek Orthodox priests in white cassocks swung censors burning clouds of aromatic incense.

We could not stay long in the Church, nor in Manger Square. We sped away into the darkness toward the coast and Tel Aviv.

The images of that day rolled through my head as we passed old check-points abandoned by the conquering Israelis. I tried to reconcile awe and reverence with distaste and disbelief.

I could not.

I talked to the Air Group Commander about it later. He was the best Navy pilot who ever lived, and you did not have to ask him directly about it. he was a modest man, and his associates did the talking for him. I said I could not figure out how I felt about the experience.

He smiled that wry grin of his and said: “If you ever do, Vic, there are a couple million of us who would be real interested.”

I haven’t managed to unscramble it yet. I do like listening to the carols. Did you know that “Come All ye Faithful” is actually a coded message to the Jacobite followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie to rise and restore the House of Stuart to the British Throne? That is what they tell me, anyway, though they say a lot of things. Almost all the Jacobites are dead, faithful or not, and there is no one to ask.

do ever get a clue, rest assured you will be the first to know.

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