Oh, Little Town By Alison Buckholtz Special to The Washington Post Sunday, December 14, 1997; Page E01

That's how I found myself in Bethlehem.

But if you, too, were picturing childhood Nativity scenes nestled in bucolic green pastures, think again. Although Bethlehem isn't one of those West Bank towns regularly featured on the 6 o'clock news, its economy is severely depressed. The center of the town is crowded and dirty. Merchants, briefcases overflowing with cheap postcards and rosaries, call out with desperate cheerfulness to tourists trudging dutifully to their next destination. On a good day you'll find used shoes for sale in the outdoor market.

As with everything in the Middle East, just the idea of going to Bethlehem is a political act. The town was transferred to Palestinian Authority rule in 1995, and since then the level of violence has decreased considerably. Still, few Israelis venture into the West Bank, especially since it was determined that the bombs that blew up a Jerusalem vegetable market in July were manufactured near Bethlehem. Young Palestinian men occasionally clash with Israeli troops; a battle late last month near Rachel's Tomb injured dozens. But incidents like this have become rare. If you're in Israel and you're curious about the region, Bethlehem is an easy afternoon adventure.

Israeli tour buses usher foreign visitors straight from Jerusalem into Manger Square, but you can also easily create a do-it-yourself trip, as we did. Outside the Old City's Damascus Gate, we hopped on one of the converted school buses that ferry Palestinians in and out of the territories. These ancient, rickety buses look like they're on the verge of collapse, and they are. But we barely noticed; we were too busy praying for our lives whenever our bus whizzed by other vehicles on the one-lane dirt road. The bus dropped us about a half-mile from Manger Square, and as we negotiated the narrow, packed streets, we looked for the star we had been told would guide us to the Church of the Nativity. Instead, a crescent moon, anchored halfway between its mosque and the heavens, led us forward. Soon the star appeared, a wayward constellation of wire and bulbs, and led us into the church.

And into another era. We crouched through the four-foot Door of Humility. Our eyes adjusted to the subterranean dimness. According to the official history, the Church of the Nativity is one of the world's oldest working churches. The Emperor Constantine built it in the 4th century, and the Emperor Justinian recommissioned a design more than a century later, aiming to create a religious monument that would overshadow all others in the region. The basic structure of Justinian's church still stands to commemorate the cave in which Jesus was born. Part of one long hallway has been excavated to exhibit its ancient mosaic floor; other rooms allow you to worship and light votive candles.

The church is a meeting point for Christian pilgrims, Jewish tourists, Asian socialites, African nuns, Scandinavian photographers and the occasional white-bread American family. And as at any global junction, there's an occasional culture clash. As we descended one level down into a re-creation of the cave where Jesus is said to have been born (actually just a deep indentation in a wall where pilgrims leave lighted candles), we noticed a Thai woman posing suggestively for cameras in front of another, smaller cave. The juxtaposition of her antics against the altar of the immaculately conceived transported us into a fundamentalist's fantasy.

But the monk in charge of the room was not amused. He couldn't decide whether to look away or intervene, and the always-pesky language barrier had erected a communications wall of its own accord. He curled his lank gray hair behind his ear, shifted position, jangled keys. The Thais' camera flash flooded the cave with light, and the monk prodded everyone out before the spots had faded from our eyes. Our visit was over.

As we slid back through the Door of Humility, we surveyed the scene outside. Palestinian women carrying babies and groceries hurried past us. Palestinian men eyed us, daring us to look away first. Palestinian children asked for shekels. We paid them for directions to the Milk Grotto.

There are really only three tourist sites in Bethlehem proper. (Rachel's Tomb, the burial place of the Jewish matriarch, was closed the day we visited.) I'd never heard of the Milk Grotto before, but the story behind it is as vivid as it is surreal. King Herod, frightened by rumors of a baby with the power to threaten his rule, ordered his army to kill Jesus. Fleeing from Bethlehem, Mary ducked into this cave to nurse her child; in her haste, a few drops of milk spilled and the stones of the cave turned white. Religious women now visit the grotto and its adjoining chapel to pray for children. We were the afternoon's lone visitors to the Milk Grotto, and we forbade each other to even utter the word "fertility."

But we needn't have worried. "Peoples' faith gives the Milk Grotto its power," said Brother Lawrence, a friar from the Franciscan monastery in Washington who now maintains the building. "In 14 months, I've heard two stories of women who were able to conceive after visiting and taking powder from the cave. There are healing powers here for those who seek it out."

For the painters whose artwork and sculptures decorate the cave, it was a milky slope from Mother of God to Mother of Love. Eros dominates the Renaissance art, much of which illustrates a manly-looking child lovingly caressing his mother's breast. One can examine only a dozen or so pictures of plump, rosy breasts before beginning to wonder if the true value of the grotto lies mainly in prodding its visitors into an appropriate state of readiness to procreate.

Had we too absorbed the mystical powers of the grotto? The moment we emerged, a man approached us. Ah, no. He was a tour guide. He would take us to Shepherds' Field and Herodion. It is very historic. It is very inexpensive. He is a teacher of history. He would give us important information. It is very inexpensive. Would we like to go?

We would.

Shepherds' Field, home of a monastery in the village of Beit Sahour, is about 10 minutes from Bethlehem, and Herodion another 15 minutes into the territories. Now maintained by the Greek Orthodox Church (and not to be confused with another nearby Shepherds' Field maintained by Roman Catholics), the site memorializes three shepherds who heard the angels proclaiming Jesus's birth. A church built in 325 remains, and its frescoes rival any European counterparts.

Shepherds' Field is also the site of the meeting of Boaz and Ruth, as recounted in the Book of Ruth. Boaz's olive trees swaying in the otherwise barren, silent field transform the land into a 20th-century Bible story. I remembered how kind Boaz was to Ruth, a friendless, penniless foreigner. Neck-deep into one of the century's greatest territorial conflicts, I actually started to romanticize the place.

But Mohammed, our tour guide, injected the ancient land with a strong dose of the present tense. He pointed out the scattered Jewish settlements, fortresses wrapped in layers of barbed wire, his deepening worry lines demarcated his stance on the issues. But we zoomed past barbed wire and political discussions on the road to Herodion.

Herodion, the summer palace and district capital of King Herod, was our last and most spectacular stop in the Bethlehem area. Anyone who has been to Masada, the infamous hilltop site of Jewish martyrdom, knows the visual power of a city built into a mountain. Herod's army first built this mountain, and then built a city into it. The immense complex of Herodion includes ritual baths (remains of the ancient wall mosaics are still visible), cisterns, upper and lower levels of palace annexes, towers, a synagogue and hidden apertures for sneak attacks. Many other features, such as a theater and a church, were added during later periods.

After Herod died, Herodion was seized by the Romans, then by Jewish rebels; the zealots held the palace for years until it again fell to the Romans. Later, Jewish fighters in the Bar Kochba revolt occupied Herodion, and Byzantine monks moved in around the 7th century. Herodion was "rediscovered" earlier this century when Bedouin tribes settled in the area.

As we tunneled through Herodion, kicking up cave dust that coated the throats of so many voices lost to history, it almost seemed as though battle calls echoed around every corner. When we emerged on top of the mountain and I wiped my face, I realized that this was what an authentic Bethlehem smudge was all about. And for that moment, I was, at last, a true villager.

For information on travel to Bethlehem, contact the Israel Economic Mission and Tourist Office, 800 Second Ave., New York, N.Y. 10017, 212-499-5600, ext. 250, http://www.goisrael.com. El Al offers service twice a week from BWI to Tel Aviv, via New York; it’s quoting a round-trip fare of $894, with restrictions. The State Department, in view of the potential for violence and unrest in the West Bank, advises that U.S. citizens pay only daylight visits to Bethlehem, avoid travel on public buses and stay away from large crowds and political demonstrations. For the complete Consular Information Sheet on Israel and the West Bank, contact the State Department’s Overseas Citizens Services Office, 202-647-5225; automated fax system, 202-647-3000; or Web site, http://www.state.gov.

Alison Buckholtz is a freelance writer living in Israel.