Читать книгу The Dead Sea and the Jordan River - Barbara Kreiger - Страница 6

More than two decades have passed since I first wrote parts of this book. It seems contradictory to say at the same time that nothing has changed and much has changed, and yet that paradox is an accurate reflection of the environmental and political developments that determine the condition of the Jordan River and the Dead Sea. We despair at lack of movement, then recharge ourselves hopefully when events signal progress, understanding it is the latter outlook that propels activists and residents in their pursuit of environmental cooperation and justice.

Few bodies of water can lay claim to geographical and chemical uniqueness and few can be said to have provoked curiosity and even passion in travelers, geographers, and scientists, not for mere centuries but for millennia. The Dead Sea is such a place. One finds descriptions of its peculiar properties in the works of ancient writers; one hears it reviled in the accounts of medieval pilgrims; and one sees it enthusiastically studied by early and modern explorers.

What is the attraction of this salty reservoir? What secrets does it hold that two centuries of serious investigation have been required to fathom them? This book, in part, traces the course of Dead Sea and Jordan River exploration. That course has not been routine, for the environment is forbidding, the Jordan River a riddle, and the Dead Sea often misrepresented. The region had been subjected for many centuries to hyperbolic pronouncements, and the first serious investigators were confronted with tales that were at times more impediment than tool. Yet explorers of the Dead Sea and Jordan River have contributed important if only partially told chapters in the history of the Holy Land. It would be difficult to exaggerate the wealth of information contained in their accounts. And for all their erudition, these narratives are highly readable and often beautifully written records of deeply felt experience.

The Dead Sea is not merely the lowest place on the face of the earth: at 1400 feet below sea level it is the lowest by far. The second lowest is variously given as Lake Assal in Djibouti or the Turfan Depression in China, both at approximately 500 feet below sea level. The lowest place in the western hemisphere is Death Valley, in California, at minus 280 feet, or one-fifth the depth of the Dead Sea. The question regularly asked is how the Dead Sea got to be that way, and I try to make some sense of the stones and strata in order to piece together that strange geological tale. The readjustment of one’s inner clock to accommodate a time span of millions of years results in a new way of looking at the lake and its environs. Rocks are no longer mere rocks but details of something akin to facial features; the Dead Sea comes to life, and one sees why early travelers were prone to personifying it. There is something decidedly human about the shores of the Dead Sea and the banks of the Jordan River, whose stories are inseparable, perhaps because such an important part of our early collective life was played out there. Beyond that, the uniqueness, beauty, and fragility of this environment charge us with the responsibility of defining our relationship with the natural world.

That relationship has far-reaching implications, for it happens that the fate of the Dead Sea and Jordan River is inextricably bound up with the daily lives of those who share it. Monumental demands have been placed on these waters to give, produce, and contribute, and those demands have had environmental and political costs, as we will see. Nevertheless, there have long been voices—Israeli, Jordanian, and Palestinian—that staunchly maintain the Dead Sea might serve as an instrument of peace. That view has generally been seen as improbable, and perhaps it is, given that as far back as ancient days the lake’s resources have been frequently contested. But to deny the possibility is to give in all too readily to the obvious, and if there is one thing we can say about the story of the Dead Sea and Jordan River, it is that it is anything but predictable.

When you stand on one bank of the Jordan River, you could fairly leap across to the other. And when you gaze out at the Dead Sea, you can’t distinguish Arab waves from Jewish ones as they heedlessly wash over the fluid international boundary that even a map cannot depict persuasively. The other side is less than ten miles away, and as you look across you cannot help but think that the notion of peaceful cooperation is sensible. Reason suggests that it is not harmony that is inapt, but discord; not affinity, but aggression. It would be a fitting chapter in the valley’s history for the river and lake to bring people together. Cooperation between neighbors? Stranger things have happened on these shores.

For a number of years, while a state of war existed between Israel and Jordan, I hiked in the wadis along the western side of the Dead Sea guided by an increasingly tattered topographical map. Drawn to a scale of 1:100,000, it was detailed enough to convey a tactile sense of the landscape, yet not so specific as to lose a novice in a wilderness of elevation markings. The cream-colored shore was smudged with cinnamon where the mountains rose to the west and east, and the wadis were sketched in as perforated lines. Dominating the map was the Dead Sea itself: long and narrow, watercolor blue. What struck me the most, however, was the decorative lavender line that gracefully unfurled down the lake’s presumed center, curving with the authority of trigonometric accuracy, but suggesting an eye more tuned to aesthetics. Maybe the surveyor’s level had been an instrument influenced by hope, or the line had been an expression of some unabashed cartographer’s disdain for the unnatural sundering of this landscape. For if the aim was to intimidate with that lavender stroke of the brush, the order was in vain; duty was less demanding than the refusal to participate in the Dead Sea’s vivisection.

Whoever this unknown cartographer was, others shared this view, and finally in 1994, with the Israel-Jordan Peace Accord, diplomacy started to catch up to the natural world’s vision of unity. Yes, the Dead Sea was still divided in two, and one day, many hope, it will be divided in three. But suddenly, in those buoyant years, the division was self-defining rather than xenophobic. Finally, that lavender line was consistent with the international relationship it was always supposed to reflect. Indeed, one was able to say something very different about it: that here, at this border, two nations were not divided, but brought together.

After the signing of the Peace Accord, a comprehensive vision of the valley began to take hold in both Jerusalem and Amman, and plans for cooperation were put forth with frankness that was almost unthinkable for most of the twentieth century. Events of the new millennium have mocked that hopeful moment, which has come to seem like only a remission from a terrible disease. Yet the possibility of peace is renewable, and those with the strength to imagine it are true believers.

I remember those days of the late 1990s, when there was a feeling of excitement as the possibilities for partnership were discussed. In some offices the phrase “joint ventures” was used with such brazenness that one sensed innocent and determined experimentation with forbidden words—the vocabulary of neighbors, just plain neighbors. It was mind-boggling that a destructive relationship decades in the making had been overturned—as though the whole mess had been a clerical error. But there was a cautious tone as well. What was the meaning of the peace? The question hovered over discussions as faith in the future competed with the pressure of the past.

In science, too, a new exchange was a direct result of the treaty, as researchers were offered access to sites on opposite shores. I spoke to a number of them back then and felt their ebullience. Geologists, archaeologists, and others had for years looked longingly through binoculars across the valley, dreaming of one day making discoveries in outlawed territory. And then, as though commanded by an incantation, the wall obscuring their view had crumbled. One could not help but marvel at how a turn of the pen had offered such a change.

The promise of transformation also had an immediate effect on tourism. A kind of giddiness over the anticipated growth spurt that accompanied open borders led to more development than was sustainable, but at that time such a term was not widely used in everyday speech. In 1995, Jordan opened a spectacular new road along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea, and within a few years numerous hotels had sprung up, with small towns built to accommodate employees and tourists. On the Israeli shore, too, more hotels were constructed, popping up like salt formations. Today hotels are clustered on both sides; widely frequented by domestic and foreign clientele, they nonetheless look like impassive flotillas run aground. The Palestinians also have a rightful claim to a segment of the Dead Sea shore, and even now one can envision another cluster at the northern tip.

The participants knew that the peace treaty, along with continued negotiations between Israel and the Palestinians, gave them unprecedented opportunities for development, and they realized that cooperation would benefit everyone. With that in mind, a trilateral plan emerged to present the newly unified Dead Sea environment as “the lowest park on earth.” While the name had an unfortunate circus-like ring to it, the idea consisted primarily of an open border between Israel and Jordan, and eventually, one supposed, between Israel and Palestine. As the plan was envisioned, tourists would arrive and depart from a shared airport and pass from one country’s shore to the other by land or sea, without the need for visas or complicated border proceedings.

The urge to do something daring was understandable. Yet there was a lot to think about when one contemplated the number of tourists who might be drawn to the Dead Sea. True, imposing cliffs on either side offered natural protection from unlimited lateral expansion, but could the environment withstand the pressure of the volume of people projected? Would the wilderness surrounding the lake be undermined? Would the major archaeological sites be turned into souvenir shops? What, in other words, happens when peace is thrust into the marketplace? With hindsight, one can only wish that a land use study had been conducted by neutral parties to recommend limits on the expansion that euphoria was preventing those closely involved from demarcating.

There are moments when our vision of the future is blurred, not clarified, by the environmental debate of which the Jordan River and Dead Sea have long been the heart. Despite the intimidating array of views, everyone has always seemed to agree that the river and the lake must be preserved. The complication is that an agreeable definition of preservation remains elusive. From an environmental point of view, the debate strikes to the core of our relationship with the natural world. The stakes are as high as when we contemplate the final disappearance of any living thing from our midst. However we answer it, with political bias or purity of intention, the question is the same: Do we have the right, as temporary residents on the earth, to oversee the final passing of a unique natural phenomenon?

It is a hopeful sign in important ways that it is impossible for this book to remain entirely current. Developments are occurring at a near daily rate in issues of sustainable water and energy use, as well as social relations and geopolitical shifts. There is no permanence of policy in any sector. Environmental issues are inevitably tied to political and social concerns, and one can only hope that at some point they converge in an image of mutual benefit.