Bedouin camps

Before coming to Israel, I wondered how safe I would feel out here. I'd heard a lot about terrorists, Hamas, suicide bombings, etc. But, now that I have lived in Jerusalem for two months, I can easily say that terrorists are not my greatest fear. The things that scare me most in Israel are not the things I would have guessed before. Among the top of that list are: crazy drivers and little kids.

Surprisingly enough, as of yesterday, little kids are now near the top of my list of things in Israel that scare me. Generally I love children. (Just ask my married sisters or any mother with a baby within a mile radius!) But after yesterday, I feel much more wary of the children here.


It all started out innocently enough. We were headed to visit the Wadi Kelt-- a dry riverbed that marks the ancient road from Jerusalem to Jericho. It would have been the place where the Good Samaritan story occured.


On our way to the Wadi Kelt we passed a scattering of bedouin camps. The bedouins (nomadic sheep-herders) live in little more than shacks out in the desert (although curiously, they still generally have a satellite dish on their roofs). It's pretty sobering to see such abject poverty.


Anyway, as we passed some of these bedouin camps, my sister Suzy was seized with the desire to snap a few photos of some of the bedouin kids (even if they are filthy, they are still dang cute). My dad pulled over, and we took a few pictures of this kid:



After we took a few pictures, we decided it was only fair to give the little boy a shekel (worth about 25 cents) for letting us take his picture. A few other kids noticed us and came scurrying over to collect as well.


Anyone who says that rabbits are the fastest multiplying life-forms has never seen bedouin children begging for money.


As soon as I hopped out of the car with a handful of shekels, the 2 or 3 bedouin kids suddenly exploded into a crowd of 15 or 20, all begging for a handout.

When the kids saw me get out of the car, they crowded around me, thrusting their open hands at my face, screaming the only English word they knew: Money! Money! I told them they needed to get in a line, but they didn't listen or didn't understand. In desperation, I started giving each of them a shekel, trying my best to remember who already had one and who didn't.

Unfortunately the money didn't satisfy them. If anything, it made them even more frenzied. They pushed right up against me, clamouring for more. I could smell how badly they reeked of camels. Some of them even tried to climb in the open windows of our car.

Luckily at that moment my dad stepped in and took over for me. I think this is the first time in my life I have ever really felt what it would be like to be in the middle of a mob-- and it was entirely peopled of children less than 10 years old! It's sad, too, that these kids are learning to beg instead of learning how to work honestly (we even saw some of their moms sending them over to beg from us).

In spite of the craziness at the Wadi Kelt, I still haven't given up my love for children. I sincerely hope, too, that some of those bedouin kids will find good examples to teach them how to work. But in the meantime, you won't find me giving money to bedouin kids again.