The Journey Begins

From Borneo to the Holy Land

I was a little worried about flying all the way to Israel only a few weeks after returning from my long trip to Borneo. The idea of another long-haul journey felt exhausting. Those worries quickly disappeared, however, when one of my friends traveling with me graciously booked my ticket in United’s business class. For the first time in my life, I would be crossing the Atlantic in comfort.

The Business-Class Experience

My trip began with a flight to Newark, where I spent eight hours in the Polaris Lounge—an oasis for weary travelers. There, I could relax, enjoy a proper meal, and even take a shower before my overnight flight. When I finally boarded the Boeing 787 Dreamliner for the eleven-hour journey to Tel Aviv, it felt like a completely different experience from anything I’d known before.

Being able to stretch out fully and sleep flat in my own seat transformed the flight. I woke up somewhere over the Mediterranean, rested and ready for the adventure ahead—a small luxury that made all the difference in the world.

The Ancient City of Jericho

Next, we visited the old city of Jericho, one of the most storied archaeological sites on earth. According to the Bible, this is where the mighty stone walls of Jericho—once thought to be indomitable—came crashing down under the divine power of God, as the Israelites carried the Ark of the Covenant into battle. Standing there, it was easy to imagine the sound of those trumpets echoing through the desert thousands of years ago.

As with most places in the West Bank, we were the only tourists. The ancient site was empty, silent, and sun-bleached, its air of mystery heightened by neglect. There was little infrastructure or interpretation—no guards, no ticket booths, no fences. It was clear there was no funding for maintenance, which meant we were free to wander almost anywhere we pleased. And wander we did, probably straying well beyond the designated areas.

We descended a narrow clay staircase that hovered over a deep excavation trench, then discovered another crumbling stairway leading underground into what appeared to be a tunnel. It was steep and dark, but the stone steps looked too unstable to risk going farther. The sense of age and fragility was everywhere; every broken wall and mound of dust seemed to whisper of lost civilizations buried beneath our feet.

Kypros Castle – Herod’s Forgotten Fortress

A Fortress Above the Desert

Our next stop was Kypros Castle, a ruined hilltop fortress built by King Herod—the Roman-appointed ruler of Judea who reigned during the time of Jesus. The fort once stood guard over Jericho, protecting the city and overseeing the trade routes that passed through the Judean wilderness. Today, it lies abandoned on a lonely desert mountaintop, its crumbling remains silhouetted against the vast expanse of sand and stone.

Finding the Lost Fortress

Even our driver had never been there before. I had first spotted the fortress on Google Earth, its outline barely visible atop a barren ridge. Curiosity led us to follow a rough dirt track that twisted through the desert hills until it became too steep and rocky for our vehicle to continue. From there, we continued on foot under the blazing sun, following a faint goat path that wound toward the summit.

Traces of More Recent Wars

As we climbed, we passed a series of small concrete bunkers built into the hillside—likely remnants from the fighting between Israel and Jordan decades ago. One appeared partially collapsed by a landslide, sealing off what might once have been an entrance. These scars of modern conflict blended eerily with the much older stones of Herod’s ancient stronghold.

Among the Ruins

At the top, we reached the remains of Kypros Castle. Its broken walls and scattered stones offered a commanding view of Jericho below, a shimmering patch of green palms surrounded by the harsh brown desert. The silence was immense—only the wind and the crunch of gravel beneath our feet broke the stillness.

As we wandered through the ruins, I couldn’t help but imagine what might still lie buried beneath the mountain—hidden tunnels, forgotten chambers, and archaeological treasures waiting for discovery. From this lonely summit, where Herod once ruled and watched over his kingdom, the timeless wilderness of the Judean Desert stretched endlessly to the horizon.

More of King Herod the Great’s Legacy

The Ruthless King of Judea

King Herod was a puppet governor installed by the Romans to control what they considered a remote frontier of their empire. He was deeply unpopular among his own people—a brutal and paranoid ruler who feared any threat to his power.

According to biblical accounts, when he heard a prophecy that a new king—Jesus—would be born, he ordered the massacre of all newborn male children in his kingdom. His cruelty extended even to his own family, having several of his sons executed after suspecting them of plotting against him. The Romans themselves reportedly said, “It is better to be Herod’s pig than his son,” since as a Jew he would not eat pork, but had no problem killing his own blood.

Despite his ruthlessness, Herod was an extraordinary builder and a loyal servant to Rome. He excelled at collecting taxes and oversaw ambitious public-works projects—palaces, fortresses, and cities that still shape the landscape of modern Israel and the Palestinian territories.

Herodium – Herod’s Mountain Fortress and Tomb

Among his greatest architectural feats were the desert fortresses he built throughout Judea. One of the most remarkable is Herodium, a massive, cone-shaped fortress where Herod himself was buried. The site rises dramatically from the desert hills just outside Bethlehem, overlooking a sprawling Israeli settlement in the West Bank and the distant city of Jerusalem.

Although Herodium lies inside the West Bank, it is administered by the Israel Parks Authority and is far better preserved than some of Herod’s other desert strongholds, like the ruins of Kypros.

We arrived in the late morning and approached the site through an IDF checkpoint guarded by young Israeli soldiers. Our driver, a Palestinian Christian, was stopped and questioned at length by a female soldier carrying a rifle. She was strikingly beautiful and calm, but the tension in her interaction with our driver was unmistakable—a reminder of the ever-present divide that defines this land.

Exploring the Fortress

Once cleared, we parked below the cone-shaped mountain and began our climb toward the summit. The ruins of Herod’s palace-fortress stretched across the hilltop, offering panoramic views of the Judean Desert, the Dead Sea, and the rolling hills surrounding Bethlehem. From up there, the massive settlement below appeared as a city of new white stone, contrasting sharply with the ancient landscape.

We spent an hour or two exploring Herodium’s tunnels and chambers. Cool air drifted through the underground corridors, where centuries of dust and echoing footsteps seemed to hold the memory of empires. Archaeological excavations are still ongoing, slowly revealing more of Herod’s grand design.

One of the most fascinating discoveries here was a ring engraved with the name Pilatus—possibly linked to Pontius Pilate, the Roman prefect who later governed Jerusalem and ordered the crucifixion of Jesus. Whether or not the ring belonged to that Pilate remains uncertain, but standing among the ruins of Herod’s tomb, overlooking the modern settlements and the biblical hills beyond, the layers of history felt impossibly dense—Roman ambition, Jewish faith, Christian prophecy, and today’s political reality all intertwined on one desert mountain.

Visiting the Birthplace of Jesus

Once we arrived in Bethlehem, our first destination was the Church of the Nativity, the site traditionally believed to mark the birthplace of Jesus Christ. The church closes early, and I worried we might encounter long lines, but to my surprise it was nearly empty—only a few Greek Orthodox priests and nuns were quietly praying near the altar when we arrived.

Our driver dropped us off at the edge of Manger Square, and as we approached the church, we were met by a gauntlet of persistent local guides offering their services. We declined politely and entered through the church’s famously low doorway, known as the Door of Humility, which requires every visitor to stoop while entering—a symbolic act of reverence at the site where Christ was born.

A Legacy from Constantine and Helena

The Church of the Nativity was originally commissioned in the early 4th century by the Roman Emperor Constantine, following a pilgrimage to the Holy Land by his mother, Helena. Guided by local Christians who had preserved the location through generations, she identified a small cave believed to be the very place where Mary and Joseph sought refuge and where Jesus was born. Constantine ordered a basilica to be built over that site, and although much of the original structure was destroyed, Emperor Justinian rebuilt it in the 6th century. Portions of that early Byzantine architecture remain visible today.

The Grotto of the Nativity

Inside, we descended a short staircase into the dimly lit grotto beneath the main altar. The air was cool and smelled faintly of incense. Faded wall hangings, their colors long muted by centuries, lined the narrow chamber. At the center, a silver star embedded in the marble floor marks the traditional site of Christ’s birth. Greek Orthodox nuns knelt in prayer, gently touching the stone and murmuring hymns that echoed softly in the cave.

A Guide’s Tale of the Catacombs

As we lingered near the grotto, a local man approached us claiming to be a friend of our driver. He insisted there was a hidden chamber beneath the church containing the remains of infants supposedly killed by Herod during the biblical “Massacre of the Innocents.” Though skeptical, curiosity got the better of us, and we followed him into a series of catacombs beneath the church.

The narrow passage opened into chambers lined with ancient tombs and skeletal remains—clearly those of monks and clergy from later centuries, not infants as our self-appointed guide claimed.

The Walled Off Hotel

Banksy’s “Worst View on Earth”

After visiting the Church of the Nativity, we checked into our hotel for the night—the Walled Off Hotel, one of the most unusual places to stay anywhere in the world. The hotel sits directly beside the towering Israeli separation wall that cuts through Bethlehem, its gray concrete slabs rising high above the surrounding streets. Painted across the hotel façade in large, defiant letters is its famous slogan: “The worst view on earth.”

The wall itself was built in the early 2000s by Israel, officially as a security measure to combat militant attacks—especially the suicide bombings that plagued Israeli cities during the Second Intifada. Israeli authorities claim that since the wall’s construction, such attacks have become almost nonexistent. Palestinians, however, tell a different story. Many argue that the wall’s impact on violence has been minimal and that its true cost lies in the severe restrictions it places on their daily lives—freedom of movement, access to work, family connections, and a sense of dignity. For them, the wall represents not safety, but separation and loss of basic human rights.

Despite its grim surroundings, the Walled Off Hotel has become one of Bethlehem’s most famous landmarks—not just for its location, but for its art. The building was conceived and designed by the elusive British graffiti artist Banksy, whose politically charged murals decorate both the hotel’s interior and the surrounding wall. Banksy is also widely believed to be one of the hotel’s co-owners.

A Rare Reopening

Before our trip, the hotel’s website stated it had been closed for years, reportedly since the beginning of the recent Gaza conflict. To our surprise, management agreed to open it just for our group, and we were told we would be the only guests that night. The experience felt surreal—wandering through Banksy’s art-filled halls in total silence, surrounded by murals and installations that spoke of hope, oppression, and endurance.

Art, Politics, and Irony

Although the hotel’s website claims to be “not politically affiliated,” the artwork inside tells another story. The lobby and adjoining museum are filled with provocative pieces—paintings of doves wearing bulletproof vests, sculptures of soldiers frisking angels, and exhibits documenting the Palestinian struggle and the human cost of the wall itself.

The tone is unmistakably political, mixing dark humor with sharp social critique. The contrast between playful irony and heavy subject matter gives the hotel an almost museum-like quality—part protest, part art gallery, and part quiet refuge for those curious enough to look beyond the wall.

The Walled Off Hotel

A Night Inside Banksy’s Masterpiece

The Walled Off Hotel was as quirky as it was thought-provoking—almost an eccentric blend of modern political activist street art and the wild American West. Every corner of the building reflected Banksy’s subversive artistic touch alongside the raw creativity of local Palestinian artists. The result was a surreal mix of rebellion and beauty, as if you’d stepped into a living museum curated by both despair and humor.

It was a shame the hotel was empty. My architect friend Dan was mesmerized by the space, studying every detail as if decoding the mind of Banksy himself. For him, it was likely one of the highlights of the trip. But perhaps the true highlight was the secret bookshelf—a hidden door that led to the hallway where the guest rooms were located.

To open it, you had to place a magnet key over a small figurine of a topless girl. When the magnet connected, the figurine’s boobs lit up, triggering the mechanism that swung the bookshelf open. It was the kind of irreverent, tongue-in-cheek humor Banksy is famous for—a perfect marriage of rebellion, satire, and surprise.

The Manager’s Warm Welcome

When we checked in, the hotel manager greeted us warmly, clearly thrilled to have guests again after such a long closure. He surprised me by offering a free upgrade to the Presidential Suite, which normally costs between $600 and $900 per night. Since we were the first guests in ages, he said it was the least he could do.

The Presidential Suite

The suite itself was beyond incredible—more like an art installation than a hotel room. It featured a massive bed, a private hot tub, a cozy library filled with books, a TV lounge, and a balcony overlooking the towering separation wall outside. From that vantage point, the view was both mesmerizing and unsettling: Banksy’s murals, barbed wire, and military watchtowers side by side in a haunting juxtaposition.

The manager warned me not to take photos from the balcony. “If you do,” he said quietly, “the IDF might raid the hotel.”

He explained that the rooftop and the presidential suite overlook the parking area for Jewish visitors to the Tomb of Rachel—a site sacred to Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike. Today, however, it lies behind heavy fortifications as part of an Israeli military post. Soldiers stationed there are highly sensitive to any photography from surrounding rooftops, fearing possible attacks.

The manager went on to describe how, just a few days earlier, during a Jewish holiday that brought hundreds of visitors to the tomb, the IDF raided the hotel, deploying dozens of soldiers who occupied the rooftop and blocked the entrance. They left only hours before my friend Jimmie arrived. Given the priceless Banksy artwork throughout the property, it had been an incredibly tense situation—one that underscored how fragile the space between art and conflict can be.

Reflections on a Divided View

It was a sobering reminder that, despite the wit and creativity surrounding us, the wall outside wasn’t just a symbol—it was a real, militarized border dividing two worlds.

That night, I sat in the comfort of the suite as the glow of streetlights cast long shadows over the wall. The contrast between freedom and confinement felt impossible to ignore. I was a tourist passing through—free to leave whenever I wished. The manager, a Palestinian, reminded me gently that he and his people were not. For them, the wall was not art or metaphor; it was life itself.

Dinner in Dheisheh Refugee Camp

A Glimpse into Daily Life in Bethlehem

That evening, I arranged a dinner with a Palestinian family living in the Dheisheh Refugee Camp on the outskirts of Bethlehem. The family were friends of my friend Bryce and had graciously offered to host us—a rare and humbling opportunity to experience daily life inside one of the West Bank’s most densely populated refugee camps.

Originally, I had asked if we could stay the night with them, but ultimately decided against it. Given the current security climate, staying overnight in an unofficial Palestinian residence could have raised serious concerns with the Israeli authorities. I was also aware that militant groups such as Hamas and other factions were rumored to operate within the camp, and I didn’t want to create unnecessary risk for anyone involved.

The family shared similar reservations at first. To ease their concerns, I organized a video call so they could meet me in advance. After decades of living amid tension, nightly IDF raids, and clashes between militants and soldiers, the people of Dheisheh have developed a cautiousness—one that is not paranoia, but self-preservation.

Inside the Camp

Dheisheh was established in 1949 to shelter Palestinians displaced during the first Arab–Israeli war. What began as a temporary cluster of UN tents has since evolved into a permanent neighborhood of narrow concrete alleys, stacked apartment blocks, and walls covered with murals of martyrs. Despite the hardships, there is a remarkable sense of resilience and community within its crowded streets.

When we arrived, children were playing soccer between the buildings, and the smell of freshly baked bread and roasted eggplant filled the evening air. Our hosts greeted us warmly with smiles and strong Arabic coffee, ushering us into their modest home.

According to Israel, refugee camps like Dheisheh have long been hubs for opposition movements, activists, and occasionally armed groups such as Hamas that Israel accuses of planning attacks. Although Dheisheh is under the civil jurisdiction of the Palestinian Authority, Israel maintains overriding security control and frequently conducts night raids to arrest suspected militants or activists. These raids often occur while families are sleeping, spreading fear and chaos. Residents told us that if cooperation isn’t given, buildings are threatened with demolition, and some rooftops bear the scars of stray bullets—water tanks riddled with holes from gunfire.

A Shared Meal

Our hosts had prepared an incredible meal of Maklouba, a traditional Palestinian dish of spiced rice, chicken, and vegetables that literally means “upside down” in Arabic, referring to the way it’s flipped from the pot onto a platter before serving. Dinner was generous and heartfelt, accompanied by hummus, salads, warm pita bread, and strong Turkish coffee.

Between bites, we talked about their daily lives, their hopes, and the constant uncertainty of living under occupation. Power outages were frequent, and jobs had become scarce. The father explained that even their apartment—and the land it sat on—was leased by the United Nations from a Christian foundation in Bethlehem, and that the lease was nearing expiration, leaving the future of many families in jeopardy.

As we ate, the extended family from the surrounding apartments stopped by to meet us. Their six children and numerous cousins crowded into the small living room, smiling shyly and shaking our hands. The youngest—a one-and-a-half-year-old girl—reminded me so much of my own daughter. She giggled, high-fived us, and kept peeking around corners, her laughter echoing through the house.

Then, the deep rumble of a helicopter passed overhead. The father looked up and said quietly, “That’s the IDF. They’re raiding somewhere in the camp tonight.” His voice carried the weight of weary familiarity.

He told us how recent events in Gaza had made life in the West Bank even harder. “We are being punished for something we did not do,” he said. Since the war began, many Palestinians in the West Bank had lost their jobs in Israel—positions now filled by foreign workers from places like India and Nepal. Prices for electricity, water, and food had all risen sharply, while movement outside the wall had become almost impossible.

When I asked whether he still believed the West Bank might one day become an independent Palestinian state, he shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “The settlers will keep coming. The land will keep shrinking. We can work for today, but the future—it is gone.”

He then mentioned Gaza. “People there lost their homes and families,” he said. “At least maybe they can leave now, maybe go to another country and start again. But here in the West Bank, we cannot leave. We are trapped. We are prisoners in our own land.”

Reflections from the Camp

As we left that night, I couldn’t shake the heaviness of what we’d heard. Yet, amid the hardship and loss, there was still warmth, generosity, and even laughter. The evening reminded me that behind the politics and headlines are ordinary people—families who open their homes to strangers, share their food, and cling to humanity in the face of confinement.

That dinner in Dheisheh revealed more about life in Palestine than any museum or news report ever could. It was a night of honesty, heartbreak, and human connection that I will never forget.

Stories from the Rooftop

A Quiet Gesture

After dinner, I stepped into the hallway with the father of the family and quietly slipped him some money to thank him for the meal. He never asked for anything, but I knew it would be appreciated given the hardships his family faced. As we talked, the conversation turned naturally to the subject of IDF raids—something that had become part of ordinary life in the camp.

He told me that just a few months earlier, Israeli soldiers had burst into their apartment in the middle of the night. His voice was steady as he spoke, but his eyes betrayed exhaustion. A dozen soldiers had stormed through the rooms, shouting orders, their rifles sweeping across his family. His children—all in grade school, including the little one-and-a-half-year-old girl who reminded me so much of my own daughter—screamed in terror as the family was forced to the floor at gunpoint.

“They were looking for someone,” he said quietly, “but not us.” When the troops finally left, the apartment was intact, yet their sense of safety was gone. Listening to him speak under the distant thrum of a helicopter circling overhead was heartbreaking. The contrast between the warm dinner we had just shared and the fear he described was almost unbearable. I couldn’t help but imagine my own daughter living through such nights—and the thought broke my heart.

A View from the Rooftop

The father wanted to show us the view from his rooftop, so after finishing our coffee, we climbed the dark stairwell together. The upper floors were unfinished—exposed rebar and crumbling concrete made the ascent precarious. When we reached the roof, the camp unfolded beneath us like a living mosaic of dim lights, narrow alleys, and satellite dishes. Beyond it, the ancient city of Bethlehem glowed softly under the full moon.

Across the camp, I could see other men sitting silently on their rooftops, smoking or watching the night. In one corner of the roof sat a small concrete basin filled with soil. The man pointed to it and smiled. “This,” he said, “is soil from my father’s village.”

He explained that his father—now long gone—had been expelled from their ancestral home during the 1948 war and resettled in Dheisheh. Decades later, during a rare period of peace in the early 2000s, Israel allowed elderly Palestinians to briefly visit their original villages. When his father returned, he collected a small amount of soil from the land where his family had lived for generations and placed it here, in this rooftop basin.

“Every morning,” the man said, “he would drink his coffee and smell the soil. He said it was the best-smelling soil in the world.” He smiled faintly, then looked down. “He died here in this camp and never saw his village again.”

Stories like that made the night feel impossibly heavy—full of beauty and sorrow intertwined.

Returning to the Walled Off

Before leaving, we gathered the whole family—including the extended relatives from next door—for a photo. Among them was a tall, serious-looking man who introduced himself as the son-in-law. He lived in the apartment next door with his wife. Curious and friendly, he asked about our work, and when we returned the question, he said, “I work with Palestinian General Intelligence.”

Dan asked what that meant, and the man replied matter-of-factly, “You’d know it as something like the CIA.”

He and the father who had hosted us offered to drive us back to the Walled Off Hotel in their work vehicle. We thanked the family repeatedly as we said our goodbyes. The father’s warmth and humility, the children’s laughter, and the rooftop story of his father’s soil lingered in my mind long after we left.

Driving back through the quiet streets of Bethlehem, I felt a mix of admiration and sadness. That rooftop view had shown me more than the lights of the city—it had shown me what it meant to belong to a place you can no longer reach.

Reflections on Bethlehem

After an incredible evening with the Palestinian family in Dheisheh Camp, we returned to the Walled Off Hotel. The night felt quiet and surreal after the intensity of the stories we’d just heard. Back in my presidential suite, we opened a few drinks and sat talking late into the night, reflecting on the day’s encounters—faith, art, struggle, and hospitality all intertwined in one unforgettable city.

As a Christian, I feel a deep kinship with the people of Israel. I was profoundly saddened for Israel during the horrific Hamas attacks, and later by the rocket and missile strikes from Iran, Hezbollah, and the Houthis in Yemen. At the same time, my heart breaks for the Palestinian people—most of whom are not terrorists, but ordinary men, women, and children simply trying to survive. It is crushing to see images of children killed in Gaza, and the stories of Israeli Defense Force raids on ordinary civilians that I heard throughout the West Bank were also heartbreaking.

I wish there were a clear path to peace—one that would allow Palestinians to finally have a state of their own. But the growing number of Israeli settlements in the West Bank, protected and expanded by the IDF, seem to push that dream further out of reach. What the future holds for this region feels deeply uncertain.

Morning at the Wall

The next morning, sunlight poured through the curtains and illuminated the massive gray slabs of the separation wall just outside my window. Before leaving, we wandered along its length, admiring the murals and graffiti that have turned this symbol of division into a vast open-air art gallery. Messages of peace, resistance, and hope covered nearly every inch of concrete—some painted at eye level, others stretching twenty feet or more toward the top. Each image told a story: of anger, loss, resilience, and a longing for something better.

Heading Toward the Dead Sea

After one last hearty breakfast in the hotel café, we packed our bags and said goodbye to Bethlehem and the hospitality we had been shown by the Palestinian people. From there, we drove back across the checkpoints into Israel, descending through the stark desert landscapes toward the Dead Sea. Our next goal was something entirely different but equally extraordinary—to explore the Salt Cave of Sodom, the largest salt cave on earth and, according to some traditions, the very site of the biblical city destroyed for its wickedness.