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We were the only two persons crossing the Israeli-Egyptian border on foot. No clear plans. Filling the forms brought us together; lack of public transportation kept us together. Unexpectedly homey room in the monastery. Soft blankets, a beautiful green. I felt happy, fulfilled. Asia explored some hills, then went to the village, befriended the baker, and came back with a huge loaf of bread. Rather out of a feeling of guilt than one of joy, I, too, finally exited the room of all pleasures. Full moon rolling down the crest of the mountains at sunset. I climbed the hills: they were low, and ended quickly. Climbed the stairs, too. Suddenly, I found myself on the top. Rather a big hill than a real mountain. Not bad: good view, sunset, moon. Failed plan for the New Year's midnight trip, though. Going back, meeting Asia, embracing the beloved blankets again, happily falling asleep. At 10pm, from the cosy depth of my green blankets I hear the voice: 'What a night! We must do something’. I tried to protest, but she hurriedly made ready, and I followed suit. Outside, absolute silence. We woke up two of the sleeping Bedouins. Asia took the lead, on a white camel. I followed. We swayed on slowly, like shadows, like moonlight. The Bedouins gently directed the camels along the steep edge of the slope, while speaking their incomprehensible dialect. They wore long dresses, white and blue, just like the archangels in the monastery painting: Gabriel and Michael. They dropped us by the stairs. 'We can almost reach the stars!', I hear merciless Asia, 'Let's go closer!' We start climbing, blankets still lingering in my mind. 'So many stars! What a night!' A night of missed embraces, yes. A night of climbing the same mountain for the second time. Uninterrupted silence at the top, bright moon, piles of stars above our heads. Faraways of stone, skies like blankets. New Year: a mystery, still untouched. The moment is so solemn, that we decide to descend, and skip the usual sunrise. First it was just a few people coming up, then tens, then more and more. Hundreds of faces, tongues, attires. Many dialects, local clothes, chanting, praying, bright shining eyes aiming at the top of the mountain. Coming from the farthest corners of Africa, from the Americas, from Europe, from Asia, all waiting for the same miracle, all happy for being able to finally meet the Mountain, live its story. We were the only persons going down. To them, some kind of forerunners, of heralds. We had been There. We had seen. We had felt. One by one, they greeted us, they shook our hands, touched our clothes. They looked at us with eyes of fire, lips of amazement. They kept on saying: 'You have climbed up There', 'Congratulations', 'Bless you!, 'Your faith is big, you have seen the Mountain'. We almost ran down the slope, rather floated. In a huge sea of colourful clothes, of tongues, of shades of ethnicity, of shapes and movements, an ocean of diversity, of joy, of gratitude. A wide stream of consciousness. At the very base of this high mountain of humanity, we met a small group: two Bedouins, and one man sitting on his camel, as rigid as a statue. He did not move, his eyes were mute. The Bedouins kept trying to lower his camel, doing their best not to disturb him. The symphony of people was fading away. Silence enveloped us again. Once the camel sat on the ground, they gently lifted the body, and lay the man onto the naked earth. One of them closed his eyes with a deeply respectful gesture, while whispering a few words in his dialect. There were about five Bedouins now: they covered the man with a white sheet, encircled his body, and started chanting their Muslim funeral prayers. The glittering, joyful caravan of humans kept murmuring in the distance. Its lights and colours kept changing and hoping. Here, at the very beginning of the way up the Mountain it was peaceful: not much light, but simmering prayers. The Christian man lay still among the Bedouins, his life united with that of the Mountain.