MyFirstMonths In Israel
By Matilda Alexander*
D URING the Passover holidays, some of the missionaries wanted to visit along, but got to go only to Nain. I got busy in Nazareth itself, and that ended my traveling. But the miracles God did! First, I never dreamed that there was such a field among the Arabs. Also, I never knew there were so many Arabs, and so neglected spiritually. Of course, many of them are Moslem and many “ Christian,” which means Greek Ortho dox, Coptic, etc. Nazareth is all Arab, about 22,000 in population, and “ Chris tian.” I think I counted eight denomi nations there. Only the Brethren and the Southern Baptists come under the evan gelical classification. Also, Nazareth is Communist. Now figure that out! Two boys, about twelve years old, stopped me on the street one day, and proudly dis played buttons and asked me in a very poor English if I knew what they stood for. When I said No, they explained that they were for Communist children. I was aghast, and began to deliver a ser mon to them, which was not understood at all. They wanted to know if I was an American, and I said I was. Then they said, “ In America are many Com munists, No?” Then I really went to town. Finally, I had a group around me listening, and one of the men began to interpret to the boys for me. Really, it’s awful. So many opportunities opened that in May I returned to Nazareth at the invi tation of the Southern Baptists, and had the joy of teaching a course in salvation to their school children, and also giving flannelgraph lessons in Sunday school. Some forty children accepted Christ. It was a real little revival, and did not have to stop, except that circumstances made it necessary. Also, they have a little Sunday school out at Cana, where I went two Sundays to give simple little flannelgraph lessons. An assorted group assembled, but I could hardly keep the tears back at the sight of those poor, dirty, sad Moslem women, gathered to hear the gospel. They aren’t very old, some of them, but their lives are so mis erable, it’s heartbreaking. I can’t forget one who sat near the front as I was talking. Her eyes looked so sad and she seemed so far away, but she listened so intently as I told of the love of God in sending His Son for us. Afterward she came up to me and patted me on the back and raised her head and hands to heaven. The Arab young man who inter preted for me said, “ She is thanking *Child Evangelism representative. Biola ’42.
Heaven for sending you today.” I told one Sunday the story of the little hen who burned to death in a prairie fire but who covered her chicks under her wings, and they were safe, even though the mother burned to death—such a simple thing, but they sat there with tears in their eyes, and they would ex claim in Arabic as I went along with the story and even tell it ahead of me. It’s a wonderful illustration of the sub stitutionary death of Christ. I did not see any souls saved in Cana, but we rejoiced at the privilege of giving out the gospel anyway. Every Sunday we are invited to some one’s home for,coffee. One day we walked down the narrow filthy streets, which are really public sewers, past all the mud and stone buildings. Finally we came to a big gate in the wall, and in the big gate, a small door. All the big gates and doors have small doors in them. Sometimes rather difficult to get through, if you happen to be my size. Inside, we were in a beautiful home. I could hardly believe my eyes. It’s true the walls were whitewashed, the curtains faded, and the floor concrete, but it was clean and beautifully furnished. In true Oriental style, there were huge chairs and divans in a circle all around the room. I sat down in a chair and was moved twice, before the hostess got me in what she considered the most com fortable chair they had. Other Arabs gathered to drink coffee with us and all of them spoke perfect English. I can’t get over this land. You’d just think they wouldn’ti know anything. We were served Arab coffee, the thick black stuff in tiny cups—Persian coffee. Thick and sweet and awful until you develop a taste for it, which I must admit I have. It is always served. This day we had a cake, too, and I had to eat two huge pieces. I was the only woman in the group. Two young Baptist ministers were with me and the young Arab boy, Fuad, who does the interpreting for all of them. Then one of the women took me out in the courtyard to look at their beautiful garden of flowers and all the while she spoke English to me and asked me about America and California, etc., she was cutting flowers for me. I went away laden with snapdragons (lion’s jaws, here), carnations, daisies, larkspur, etc., of every color you could imagine. The “ Christian” Arabs keep Sunday. Every Sunday you could see almost the entire city of Nazareth out for a walk, and many of the people would walk to Cana and back. I don’t know how far it is, but it always took about twenty min-
the Arab villages. I was invited to go
Famous Jaffa Oranges from the Sharon Valley
utes in the car. So it’s really like two worlds here. You pass from the Orient right into the modern life of the Jews. If you want the thrill of a lifetime, you take a ride on a bus in Israel— either a city local or one of the buses running between towns. Every Jew drives just like Jehu—“furiously.” The accident rate is terrific. I went from Jerusalem to Haifa early one morning in the bus and thanked God every time we circled down and around one of these Judean hills that I was ready to die. I don’t know how they make it at all. Buses are always crowded and they creak and groan from side to side. Usu ally we go by taxi. A taxi is a big limousine of one of several makes which will seat seven people besides the driver. Only one other is allowed in the front seat. Taxis go every few minutes or hours between the cities. From Jerusa lem to Haifa is four hours by taxi and one pound and half, of $4.20. Terrible. But safer. And it is very interesting— the people you meet in a taxi. Some times I am fortunate enough to be the only woman, then the men very gra ciously let me sit in front with the driver. Always they want to know where one is from, and I always say California. I don’t think it is quite the truth, but after all, being homeless, I can choose what I like. But that makes for good conversation, for America to most Jews is New York City, and most of them have heard that Israel is much like Cali fornia. So we are off. The Arab men are not talkative—I mean they do not talk to women. Then they get into heated discussions with each other. And I get a big bang out of it. How these people, both Jew and Arab, love to argue. They bang and push each (Continued on Page 82)
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