“When my daughter was three years old,
she had many emotions about the war in
Syria, so I took her to the border, and only
then did she relax,” relates Tareq, rotating
his blue-bead rosary around his thumb and
explaining his belief that his daughter was
possibly the reincarnation of a soul born
in Syria, and getting close to her homeland
again had calmed her.
We’ve taken shelter from the wind’s
freezing gusts inside the Druze’s second-
most holy site: the cave where prophet
Sabalan lived atop the mount. Today, it’s
covered with a sleek colonnaded shrine.
“People think of the Middle East as
predominantly Muslim, but this trail
covers a mosaic of religions. Here you
have Bedouins, Jews, Druze, Circassians,
Christians and Muslim Arabs — in the
north we all live together. The trail is special
because it passes through authentic villages
that are home to both Christians and Druze
— they’re good examples of comfortable
coexistence.” Daniel had already pointed out
Tarshicha, a town where Arabs and Jews live
together. In a country fraught with religious
tension, this is no small thing.
Rather than trespassing through their
backyards, this trail has the potential
to become a binding thread. “Will the
promotion of Yam le Yam change your lives?”
I ask. He rubs his black beard. “We’ll all gain
something — it’ll help us all to learn and
collaborate with each other more.”
We call in at the local bakery to pick up
a pair of sambusak — Druze-style savoury
turnover pastries filled with spinach or
minced lamb — for our picnic. The husband-
and-wife team take turns shaping the dough
before shovelling them into the glowing
brick oven. Swathed around her head is a
distinctive Druze white headscarf.
We pull into a car park, as instructed by
Tareq, ready to start walking. Right beside
the gravel space, as unnoticed as if it were
a bus stop, are the remains of an Iron Age
settlement. Beside that, an ancient Roman
wine press and, a little further on, an
Ottoman corral for sheep. It was probably
men shepherding these fleecy creatures that
forged the trails we’re walking.
We stride beneath oaks strewn with
Spanish moss, their sun-lit leaves dancing
like shadow puppets on the ground.
Occasionally, the rustle of a rodent stirs
the bushes or the trill of a blackbird breaks
through the conversation. Walking is never
just placing one foot in front of the other.
There’s a meditative repetition; something
intimate that connects sole, soil and soul.
Especially here. “In Israel, almost every rock
has a story,” says Daniel.
I’m snapped out of my musings. Coming
down the hill is Jonathan, a swathe of grey
hair and wind-pinked cheeks. In his mid-50s,
he walks these woods every week.
“Lots of forests planted in the 1940s and
1950s were made up of pine trees. I prefer the
indigenous forest and this trail is special for
that,” he tells us, before striding off.
We reach Mount Neria and the trees thin
out enough to reveal 180-degree views.Walking is never
just placing one
foot in front of the
other. There’s a
meditative
repetition;
something
intimate that
connects sole,
soil and soul.
Especially here.
“In Israel, almost
every rock has a
story,” says DanielABOVE FROM LEFT: The Druze Israeli
town of Hurfeish, seen from Mount Zvul;
Ultra-orthodox Jews at the grave of
Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai
at Mount Meron90 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel
ISRAEL