A warm welcome on returning to South Africa after being denied entry by Israel

My friends Carol Martin, Clint le Bruyns and Terry Crawford-Browne and members of the Action Forum for Palestine and surprised me by being there when I arrived at Cape Town International Airport.


I also received many, many messages of support from all over the country, even from people whom I do not know. How very wonderful to experience such comradely support!

If you’re interested, click here for a short video clip recorded by the Action Forum for Palestine on my arrival, and here for some photos.




Allenby Bridge: 11 hours of detention before Israel denied me entry

On 1 December 2014 the South African Ambassador to Jordan accompanied me and two colleagues as we travelled to the border between Jordan and Israel-Palestine. We were on our way to the Kairos Palestine conference in Bethlehem.


All went fine on the Jordanian side. As we crossed the Allenby Bridge and entered the Israeli controlled border post, I remembered images of a murdered judge at this very same border crossing:

On 10 March 2014 Raed Zuayter, a distinguished judge and PhD holder, was killed by Israeli soldiers while crossing in a similar bus to the one I was sitting in. Zuayter was a Jordanian citizen of Palestinian origin. He was unarmed and a-political. His family is part of the Palestinian diaspora—refugees who had fled ethnic cleansing in 1948, war in 1967, and the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982. “How is his family and especially his wife coping?” I wondered. Judge Zuayter had travelled across the border to collect rental money to cover the medical expenses of their sick child. He never returned home and the child passed away in the same week. (Click here for more information.)


You may find the style of this blog post to be mechanistic, staccato and distanced. I am sorry about it, but right now, I struggle to phrase the unfolding events differently.

At the Israeli border post we had to put our luggage onto a conveyor belt that led into the building. Those of us from Africa had to remain outside to undergo Ebola virus screenings. After waiting for approximately half an hour an official told us to stand on the central ridge of the road. It felt odd: a number of people standing in the sun for a number of minutes before being summoned back. We returned to our seats and were called one by one. A doctor took our temperatures. Those who were declared healthy could enter the building.

At the counter on the inside I was asked where I was heading to, why I wanted to go there, and so forth. Behind the glass screen the lady pointed to something on her computer screen whereupon her colleague said “She should be screened.”

After waiting for about an hour I was taken to a room. They locked the door and asked me to unpack my handbag and my daypack with my tablet and a few personal items. A female soldier did a body search on me. I was told to keep my purse, to hand over my phone, and to leave everything else in the room. A man guided me to another room.

The fairly polite man made lots of notes on a computer while a young woman with an incredibly smooth, beautiful cappuccino-coloured skin questioned me. She kept her hands in the pockets of her jacket as if she was cold. It was winter, but I could not feel any cold. “Why are they not googling me?” I thought. Before leaving South Africa I closed my social media accounts, but I could of course not shut down the internet. They asked lots of things such as why I visited Israel for a third time, what I did on my previous visits, who I know in Israel, and what I had in my luggage. There were many questions, but I think I’m blocking some of them out of my memory.

The man called another young woman. She ignored me and they spoke in Hebrew. She left. The questions continued. They wanted to know what I do for a living. I told them I am a researcher and I spoke about the essay on policy making processes in South Africa that I finished days before my departure. They did not know that South Africans still struggle to build a better life for all. The questions continued. I felt calm knowing very well that they were constructing a profile of me on their system.

The second woman re-entered. Her tone was markedly different. She was visibly angry and irritated. It is perhaps correct to say that she was hateful. She fired groups of questions at me. When was the last time I saw so-and-so (random names on my phone)? Why do I have only stamps of Ethiopia and Namibia in my passport besides those of Israel? Where was my old passport? Why didn’t I have it with me? Whenever I answered, she interrupted me or sneered at what I had said. It was clear that she had done an internet search whilst the other two had recorded my personal details. Still, she wasn’t sure exactly where I fit in. She knew about NC4P (South Africa’s National Coalition for Palestine) and the Cape Town March for Gaza. They were also very aware of BDS (the international boycott, divestment and sanctions campaign), but said nothing about our local boycott of Woolworths.

She wanted to know exactly what roles I play. I told her that besides being a member of Kairos Southern Africa and a researcher at Stellenbosch University, I hold no other positions. She was doing her best to intimidate and unnerve me. I remained calm and polite. She was so very desperate to find an enemy in me and I refused it. All of this went on for about four or five hours. I don’t remember how it ended or at which point they gave up on me. However I do remember asking if having my profile on their system meant that I cannot enter Israel now or in future. The man said it is not up to them to say, they are just doing their job. He offered me something to drink and I asked for tea.

With my phone, but without my passport, they took me to a narrow corridor with a row of chairs. After a while someone brought me about 100ml of weak tea in a white plastic cup. A Palestinian woman with two young people – perhaps her children – sat waiting on the chairs. When the woman asked me if I was cold I realised that my legs were shivering uncontrollably. Even with effort I could not still them. I was still not feeling any cold.

The woman was summoned inside. A man shouted loudly at her and the young woman stood listening on our side of the locked door. The woman came out, went back in, came out, went back in, waited once more and after a while the three of them were taken away. They received no tea. I don’t know where they were taken to.

All the while soldiers entered the doors to the left and to the right of the corridor. They slammed the doors loudly. We seemed to have been reduced to invisible particles of dust.

More time passed.

I sent a text message to the South African Ambassador in Jordan to say that I might need his help in fetching me and/or my colleagues later that night. At that stage my biggest worry was about them. Where were they? What happened to them? We agreed beforehand to refrain from texting one another in case one or more of us were interrogated.

At around 22:00 yet another woman instructed me to fetch my handbag and backpack, to follow her out of the corridor and to sit in the hall. The welcoming image on the wall was to say the very least, totally out of place and deceiving – there was nothing normal, free or colourful about the situation:


I went through my hand luggage. My tablet was switched on and my book mark was missing.

I now started to remember my two pieces of luggage that entered the building on the conveyor belt when the sun was still shining. They were nowhere to be seen on the moving belt. By now I was indeed shivering from cold. I asked an official how and when I could try to find my bags and she opened a side gate and accompanied me to the other side of the hall. Finding both pieces and being able to put the luggage on a trolley that I could push gave me a sudden sense of belonging. I had stuff. I had a life, a history, a place, a face.

During the course of the eleven hours they detained me, I passed through the hands of fourteen or more people. All seemed to just do their job without anyone accepting responsibility for the person or the situation. A Palestinian friend who is well acquainted with the process of interrogation later described it in an email to me as “a sea of uncertainty, temporality, emergency and hopelessness.”

I texted my colleague Rev Edwin Arrison in South Africa. He told me that my two colleagues went through after seven hours of interrogation. Two more sets of people came to ask questions. I was relieved to hear that my visa was about to be issued. I waited.

Then a young man summoned me abruptly to follow him. As I stood up to follow him I realised that he was walking in the wrong direction. With a voice like the bark of a dog and without eye contact he said I was not allowed to enter Israel, but must wait outside the building. And there I was, a middle-aged woman with no sharp objects or explosives in her luggage (they searched my other bags too) under the guard of five armed soldiers, waiting outside in the winter’s night for the shuttle to return to the Jordan border post.

It felt as if everything happened in an abrupt, disjointed way. Perhaps similar to the way I am telling the story. But actually it was a carefully orchestrated process, designed to humiliate, to provoke, to intimidate and to punish. Why not refuse me from the start and let me go? They seemed so desperate to find an enemy in me. Yet I refuse to allow the behaviour of others to dictate my own.

I do not hate anyone. I am convinced that not all Jewish Israelis are bad people even though so many of them do bad things to other people. I hate and oppose systems of privileging one group of people over another, but I do not hate Zionist Jews. I see the desperation of Zionists to cling to the idea of a small, threatened people in a sea of hate when Israel is in fact a military superpower that routinely violates international laws. Their minds and lives are held captive by their own perspectives.

It was cold outside the building. I asked to use the bathroom. A porter with an Arabic accent, someone who is no longer young (perhaps an Arab Palestinian Israeli?) rushed to my side from nowhere. He insisted on taking my trolley as a gesture of help and directed me to an opening in the wall of the building near the conveyor belt. He rushed to part the plastic panels so that I could walk through it, he helped me pass the security gate, and he watched over my things when I was in the restroom. On my return he helped once more in a gentle manner. He made me feel as if I was the most honoured person to have ever visited that border post.

When the bus eventually departed, I was the only passenger. Dr Molefe Tsele, South African Ambassador to Jordan, and one of his colleagues, met me around 01:00 on the Jordan side. He brought me a flask of hot tea and some biscuits.

By that time my passport carried two red stamps, but it was back in my handbag. I am still South African. I am free.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAmbassador Dr. Tsele Molefe and his wife graciously and generously hosted me for two days in Amman. I am infinitely grateful to them for their wisdom, their warmth and their practical help.


If you have read up to here, you probably realise that this post is a raw account. When I’m ready I shall try to reflect on the experience more coherently and perhaps also share some details of my simply wonderful encounter with family members of the murdered Judge Zuayter on my second day in Amman.

Finally – here is a short video recording made at Cape Town International Airport on my arrival – click here to listen to it.

* Allenby Bridge is called King Husain Bridge by the Jordanians.

Joligheid: Oktober olyfoes

Oktobermaand is olyfoestyd vir Palestyne – tradisioneel ‘n vrolike kulturele, sosiale en ekonomiese bedrywigheid.  Almal werk saam en hou tydens middagete heerlik piekniek in die koelte van die bome.

In Yanoun het ek iets hiervan beleef, maar dinge was nie algeheel idillies en sorgvry nie.  Maar tog, as almal saam werk, vuil word, sing, en eet, vergeet ‘n mens amper van die besetting.

Boere mag dikwels nie by hul boorde kom om te oes nie, en indien wel, moet hulle beskerm word.  Beskermingsbegeleiding is een van die sleuteltake van ekumeniese werkers in die WRK se EAPPI-program. (Terloops, Linda wat links sit, en Ueli wat nie op die foto is nie, het beide tydens die oes van die wankelrige houtlere afgeval – Ueli met taamlik rampspoedige gevolge vir sy rug, en albei met ‘n groot geterg van die res van ons.)

Die inwoners van ons dorp (en elders) het weke in spanning gewag om te hoor of hulle permitte sou kry om by hul (eie) boorde uit te kom – en uiteindelik mag hulle nie by al hul (weer eens eie, wettige) boorde gekom het nie.  Tydens die oes was daar weermagvoertuie wat op en af gejaag het en ons was heeltyd op die uitkyk vir setlaars wat wou amok maak.

Oktober 2011:

Ons begin soggens net na sonop.  My hande is gaar en elke stukkie van myself en my klere is stofbedek, maar dis vreeslik lekker.

 Middagete is vars taboonbrood met olyfolie, za’tar, gebakte eiervrug en soetrissies, volryp tamaties, uie, skaap- en bokmelkkaas en piekels, en dan tee met salie – absoluut heerlik!


Ek wens ek het ook handskoene hier (te ver van die winkels)

Foto deur Jan Egil Berg, Ekumeniese Begeleier, Noorweë.

Hoewel dit goed gaan in Yanoun (buiten vir die drie groepe onwettige, gewapende Israeliese setlaars wat  deur die dorp en die landerye gestap het), gaan dit moeiliker in die ander dorpe waar ons werk.

Dit neem jare voordat ‘n olyfboom begin vrugte dra.  In die eerste jaar het so ‘n boom daaglikse aandag nodig en later weekliks of maandeliks.  Teen die tyd dat die bome groot is, word hulle amper soos “kinders” beskou.  Dis hartverskeurend om dan te sien hoe die bome doelbewus beskadig en vernietig word deur setlaars.

Die olyfolie-industrie beslaan 14% van Palestyne se landbou-inkomste en verskaf inkomste aan sowat 80 000 gesinne.

Ongeveer die helfte van die besette Palestynse gebied (48%) is beplant met olyfbome waarvan die meeste in die Wesoewer–  omtrent orals waar ‘n mens kyk.

Elke stukkie word gebruik – selfs die afvalmateriaal wat oorbly nadat die olywe gepers is.  Hierdie korrelrige afvalmateriaal word weer huis toe geneem en daar gedroog vir  gebruik in die winter om vuur mee te maak (die olierigheid laat ‘n klein vuurtjie sommer goed ontvlam):

Die ontwrigting van die olyf-industrie raak die hart van die Palestyne.  Juis daarom word dit gereeld geteister deur Israeli setlaars.  Organisasies soos Rabbis for Human Rights (www.rhr.org.il) en Joint Advocacy Initiative (www.jai-pal.org) doen geweldig baie deur vrywilligers te reël wat in die oestyd saampluk met die mans, vrouens en kinders en ‘n teenwoordigheid handhaaf.

Maar deur die loop van die jaar moet die bome versorg word.  Dit moet gesnoei en die grond moet omgeploeg en bemes word sodat die winterreën kan indring.  As dit nie gebeur nie, is die oes klein en swak – soos ek laas jaar in Yanoun beleef het.

Israel maak dit so moeilik as moontlik vir boere:

  • Daar is 73 Israeli “hekke” waarvan die meeste (52) heeljaar gesluit is sodat boere nie by hul boorde kan kom nie buiten tydens oestyd vir ‘n beperkte aantal ure wat meestal te min is om alles te oes.
  • In 2011 is 42% van aansoeke om permitte vir toegang tot die boorde tydens die oestyd verwerp (39% in 2010).
  • Tussen Januarie en middel Oktober 2012, het Israeli setlaars in die Wesoewer sowat 7 500 bome van Palestyne beskadig of vernietig (uitgetrek, verbrand, vergif, afgekap) (dis ongeveer 2000 minder as in dien ooreenstemmende periode in 2011).
  • Volgens Yesh Din, ‘n Israeli vredesorganisasie wat Palestyne help, het net een van die 162 klagtes teen setlaaraanvalle op Palestynse bome gelei tot die aankla van ‘n beskuldigde.
  • In Gaza is 7 300 dunums boorde al langs die grens met Israel platgevee deur Israeli militêre operasies.

Foto’s Oktober 2012: Olyfoes in Hebron: vrywilligers gearresteer deur die IDF

Ek hoop om binnekort my eie twee olyfbome te plant 🙂


Bafana Bafana in Nablus

My Suid-Afrikaanse EAPPI kollegas en ek was genooi om op 15 November, Nasionale Dag hier, ‘n wedstryd tussen die junior Bafana Bafanas en ‘n “tweede span” van Palestina by te woon.

Ons is genooi  deur die plaaslike Suid-Afrikaanse verteenwoordigende kantoor in Ramallah, en dit was lekker om weer ons Ambassadeur en Machiel van Niekerk te sien.

Ek het die Palestynse skare besonder baie geniet ….  hier aangemoedig deur ‘n man met ‘n drom, ‘n fluit, en ‘n bottel water op sy kop …. en in ‘n stadium het hy selfs ‘n vuvuzela by een van die VIPs geleen om ons te vermaak 🙂


Jaffa, Israel – anything goes?


Op pad na die see by Jaffa, Tel Aviv in Israel vir ‘n heerlike ontspandag….

Langs my in die bus... wat gebeur met die psige van ‘n jong kind as sy pa op ‘n Donderdagoggend, 9:00, gewapen sit op ‘n bus?

Ons stop by die kontrolepunt, en twee soldate met M16s klim op die bus en kyk elkeen van ons deeglik deur.  Ek slaag die toets en ons ry sonder slag of stoot verder.

By ‘n robot in Tel Aviv: ‘n Olyfboom, ten minste ‘n paar dekades oud, wat pas nuwe takke uitstoot nadat dit duidelik van elders oorgeplant is.

Is dit nog ‘n onthoofde olyfboom?  Ek het al baie gesien sedert ek hier is.  Hier is hulle dikwels honderde, selfs duisende jare oud.  Israeli-werkers sny die takke van bome op Palestynse gebied af, ontwortel dit met hyskrane en plant dit weer – maar nie in Palestina nie.

Dit doen hulle om plek te maak vir die (onwettige) Muur wat uiteindelik dubbeld die lengte van die internasionaal erkende grens (die sg. “Groen Lyn”) sal wees.

Bethlehem: Onthoofde bome wat moes plek maak vir die onwettige Israeli Muur.

Al Walaja, wes van Bethlehem, sal uiteindelik algeheel omring word deur die Muur. Hier het ek saam met die Hagahla familie gesit en kyk hoe hul familiegrond van ses geslagte deur die aanbou van die Muur van hulle vervreem word. Ongeveer 50 olyfbome is daardie dag onthoof, ontwortel en weggevoer.

By die laaste bushalte in Tel Aviv word my tas, laptop, toiletsakkie en handsak deursoek.  Het ek dalk ‘n vuurwapen?  Nee, antwoord ek vriendelik. ‘n Mes?  Nee ook nie, antwoord ek steeds vriendelik. Het ek ‘n wapen van enige aard?  Nee.  (Nou ja. Wat as ek wel een gehad het ? Gits noudat ek daaroor dink – wat van my kamera en my pen?)

In Jaffa gaan stap ek by die see. Dis pragtig. Die stadsprofiel sluit verskeie moskeetorings in – maar ek is tog nou in Israel en nie in Palestynse gebied nie?

Kan dit wees dat Jaffa ‘n meer inklusiewe, ‘n meer verdraagsame area in Israel is?

Hier is na alles Jode van alle kleure en geure (en lande)

Perhaps anything goes in Jaffa?

Ek weet werklik nie hoe dinge hier inmekaar pas nie, en is vir die oomblik tevrede om in die laaste son langs die see te stap voor die koue en reën wat vir volgende week voorspel word.

Hmm...‘n moontlike leidraad vir die verskeidenheid? Hier word Jaffa as Yafo gespel.

Ek draai om na die museum waar ek vroeër op ‘n kliptrap in die koelte gesit het…. ‘n Groep toeriste sit nou buite op die trappe. ‘n  Sekuriteitswag by die ingang gee my ‘n pamflet wat sê die museum gedenk die gevalle stryders van die “Irgun Zvai Leumi (I.Z.L.) – who fell in the campaign to conquer Jaffa.” (So Jaffa is die Arabiese woord vir Yafo.)

By die ingang is ‘n kennisgewing wat sê ‘n mens moet jou ID/paspoort wys en na my geselsie met die wag haal ek my paspoort uit, maar hy sê dis onnodig en wil dit nie eens optel nie.  Ook die kassier ontvang my vriendelik en sê dis in orde as ek foto’s neem.  Ek voel soos ‘n spioen.

Die verwelkomingsteken by die ingang na die museum. Openlik. En skokkend.

Die uitstalling vertel die verhaal van die ondergrondse militêre beweging wat vanaf 1931 – 1948 Palestynse dorpe gewelddadig oorgeneem het.  Die taal is deurspek met woorde soos “heroic”, “brave”, ens.

Kenmerkend van elke dorp se verhaal is die klein aantal Israeli-soldate wat gesterf het teenoor die groot aantal Palestyne wat gesterf het.  In Deir Yassin het vyf Israeli’s teenoor 110 – 250 Palestyne gesterf.  Talle mense het hierna uit ander dorpe uit hul huise gevlug en die Israeli’s het beslag op hul huise en dorpe gelê.  Die vlugtelinge is nooit toegelaat om terug te keer nie.

Jaffa, is aangeval en oorgeneem “to eliminate the threat of a naval base by the enemy.” Volgens die 1947 verdelingsplan van die VN was Jaffa geoormerk as Arabiese grondgebied. Ek haal aan uit Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaffa:

“On April 25, 1948, Irgun (a Zionist paramilitary group) launched an offensive on Jaffa. This began with a mortar bombardment which went on for three days during which twenty tons of high explosive were fired into the town. On April 27 the British Government, fearing a repetition of the mass exodus (by Palestinians) from Haifa the week before, ordered the British Army to confront the Irgun and their offensive ended. Simultaneously the Haganah had launched Operation Chametz which over-ran the villages East of Jaffa and cut the town off from the interior.

The population of Jaffa on the eve of the attack was between 50,000 – 60,000, with some 20,000 people having already left the town. Then a strange phenomenon was revealed before our eyes: the mass flight from Jaffa. Arab civilians and a variety of “Arab” fighters suddenly began to leave the town in panic’. By 30 April there were 15,000 – 25,000 remaining. In the following days a further 10,000 – 20,000 people fled by sea. When the Haganah took control of the town on May 14 around 4,000 people were left. The town and harbour’s warehouses were extensively looted. The remaining Arab residents were forced into the Ajami neighborhood, surrounded by barbed wire, where martial law was in effect for a year.”

Sowat 750 000 Palestyne het tydens die Nakba (die Katastrofe) vlugtelinge geword in 1948.  Die meeste van hierdie mense het nog die sleutels van hul huise, maar hulle is nooit toegelaat om terug te keer nie.  Baie van die 1948-vlugtelinge is in die 1967 oorlog weer ontheem – vir die tweede maal in minder as 20 jaar.

Does anything go in Yafo….  as long as it sides with Israel?


By ‘n Christen-Palestynse gesin

Vir ons verpligte afdae moet ons êrens heen reis.  Alicia (van Johannesburg en tans van die Bethlehem-span) en ek was vir drie dae in die gastehuis van ‘n Christen-Palestynse gesin in Ramallah (op die dag waarop Gilad Shalit en Palestynse gevangenes vrygelaat is.

Hier is ‘n paar foto’s van ‘n dagtoer wat ons saam met ons gasheer onderneem het – met my en Alicia as die laastes om daardie aand uit die Dooie See te stap.

Ontbyt in Rawda en Isa se gerieflike gastehuis, in Ramallah met taboon, humus, tamatie, komkommer, soetrissie, kaas, eier en tee met salie

Straatvreugde oor die vrylating van gevangenes

Tuisdorp van ons gasheer en -vrou... van waar hulle in 2000 tydens die Tweede Intifada getrek het omdat Israel die dorp afgesper het. At Tayba is die laaste algeheel Christelike dorp in Palestina en bekend vir sy Oktober bierfees.

Daar is vier kerke in At Tayba…maar is die Christendom onthoof in Palestina?

Toeriste en pelgrimsreisigers wat geraak word deur Bethlehem, die plek waar Christus gebore is, kom meestal nie in aanraking met die Muur of die effek daarvan op Christen- en Moslem-inwoners nie.  In die stad wat geboorte geskenk het aan ‘n Boodskapper van inklusiwiteit, menseregte en liefde, lei toergidse hul reisigers verby die onwettige Muur en die tragiese skeiding van mense.

Ek kon nie help om getref te word deur ‘n kleinerige beeldjie in iemand se tuin in Al Tayba nie:

Die ou deel van die dorp is meer as tweeduisend jaar oud

Die woestyn waar Jesus veertig dae en nagte deurgebring het

Grieks-Ortodokse kerk op die sogenaamde "Berg van Versoeking"

Pragtig binne-in die kerk op die nou spasie van die berghang

Die blik van bo, oor die Jordaanvallei - die versoeking

Heerlike granaatsap toe ons weer aan die voet van die berg is

Alicia en Isa by die heksagon venster van Hisham se paleis in Jerigo - met een van die grootste mosaïekvloere wat behoue gebly het. Jerigo is een van die oudste stede ter wêreld.



Smullekker Palestynse kos

Hier koop ons vrugte en groente

My ontbyt.... hemels 🙂






Vye, granate, druiwe, perskes, eiervrug, murgpampoentjies, joghurt en kaas (van skaap- en bokmelk), kebabs, heuning, amandels…..

Ons eet héérlik….
Shwarma en falafel langs die pad tussen dorpe ….
die aller heerlikste tee gegeur met salie of kruisement in klein glasglasies en klein koppies sterk koffie in die huise van gasvrye mense…
borde kos wat die dorpsmense vir ons aandra…
braaivleis langs die pad in die Jordaanvallei…
vars gebakte taboon (‘n groot, plat, dun en heerlike brood)…
soms ontbyt saam met die plaaslike skaapherder (taboon en skaapkaas verhit oor ‘n vuurtjie in die veld, met tee en druiwe)…
en in ons huis maak ons lekker kos met die oorvloed van vars vrugte en groente (gisteraand selfs appeltert gehad).

Middagete vir Uli en my van die bure in Yanoun (die ander pas Qusra op)

Koskoop in Aqraba, ons buurdorp

Tee en happies op pad terug van die aandstappie by Hnan en haar gesin

Ons word dikwels ingenooi vir tee of koffie wanneer ons gaan kaas, joghurt, heuning en  eiers koop.  Ons mag nie taboon koop nie – dis altyd ‘n geskenk.

Aandstappie verby olyfbome uit die Romeinse tyd, op pad na die graf van Josua se vader





Terwyl Linda en ek stap, kom ‘n setlaar in ‘n voertuig verbygespoed, ons het gedink hy gaan ons uit die aarde ry.  Ek kon gelukkig betyds ‘n duidelike foto neem van die registrasienommer.

.... en hy spoed weg in 'n stofwolk

Op die heuwel waar Josua se vader se graf is



Nabi Nun:  Waar Josua se vader begrawe is. Moslems beskou Nun ook as ‘n profeet.

Ons waag dit om binne in die graf te kyk...

Dit was ‘n bietjie grillerig binne (daar’s ‘n diep gat binne) so ons is vinnig weer uit…

Laatmiddag...slaaptyd vir die skape

Hier koop ons vleis, baie vars, uitstekende gehalte

Ons eet min vleis, maar het al gebraai in die Jordaanvallei se hitte, tussen niks en nêrens.  Heerlik.

Braaivleis met die hande in die hitte van die Jordaanvallei tydens ons oorhandigingsweek

Ek's mal oor die plaaslike suurlemoen- en mintdrankie (hier by die ete in Jerusalem na ons oorhandigingseremonie)

Ons word dikwels kos aangebied wanneer ons ons kontakte in die verskillende dorpe besoek.  Soms sit ons almal plat op die grond, skoene uit, en soms almal rondom een tafel, maar ons eet altyd met ons hande uit dieselfde bakke.  Ek hou daarvan.

Middagete by 'n gesin in Urif