October 27, 2000

Shepherds.

A Friday. A day off. A day for wandering. We headed out into the hills overlooking Zababdeh, where seasonal workers are picking olives for landowners. After a short while, we saw the goatherds and heard from among the trees, "Hello, Chicago! 7-8-9-10, put your pencil near my pen!"

View of Zababdeh from the shepherd’s tent.

We have made friends with one of the shepherds who was in college when the first Intifada closed schools. Soon after, he was arrested for throwing stones and spent about a year in prison. He shared with us how he wanted to travel to America and Europe, and see the world. But without any citizenship and with a past, these are impossible aspirations. Now he prefers the freedom of the shepherd life. It's humble, it's dirty, but there are no dreams to dash. He told us all about Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor as we ate bread and yogurt and drank tea and visited with his family. We parted with two liters of fresh goat's milk and a promise to return for cheese in the next few days.

Mother and child.

He and his family will have to leave the area soon. They are staying on farmland, which is ready for planting because of the rainy season. We've promised to visit him in his new digs, a little ways into the hills.