Jerusalem. The name conjures up images of strife and hope all mixed together for thousands of years. The significance of this city can not be overstated. It is home to passionate Jews, Christians, and Muslims, all with a keen eye on the past combined with their own vision for the future. And inside each group there are equally strong conflicts on the future of this holy city. Extreme conservative Israelis want to push out all other groups and reclaim the "spiritual center of the Jewish people since the 10th century BC." While some moderate ones believe that a peaceful separation of the city between the Israelis and the Palestinians is the only way to find peace within our lifetimes. It seems to have become no longer a question of right and wrong, but instead a show of the strongest will. These are people who with a lot of practice at showing strong will.
What Patricia and I found when we arrived in the summer heat confirmed my feelings. Our border crossing at the Allenby/King Hussein Bridge was hands down the most difficult I've experienced. We were dropped off in a taxi...spoke to a few people...waited in a room...showed our passports...showed our passports again...boarded a bus...waited...waited...drove across the bridge...waited...handed our passports to match to our luggage...watched an American backpacker in a beard be interrogated about "why he has a beard" ("because I don't like to shave" was his clever answer, which drew a serious frown from the officer)...stood in line while an Argentinian man explained that he had family in a northern Israeli town but was unable to provide any details other than their names....stood in line some more....and then were thrust out of the oven-like immigration building into the furnace-like heat of the Israeli desert. The ordeal was too much for my friend and we had to let a few buses go before she started feeling better.
When we finally arrived in Jerusalem's Old Town, we collapsed in the simple, but pleasant, private room of the Jaffa Gate Hostel that Patricia had booked. An excellent choice for the location, free internet, and extremely helpful staff (the amazing desk clerk later drove us around the city to find a purse left at a restaurant who's name we couldn't remember...with success!). We finally recovered and were ready to discover Jerusalem.
It is without question the most powerfully religious place I have ever been. Within the Old Town, a 0.35 square mile area protected by massive stone walls, you have a collection of some of the most important Christian, Muslim, and Jewish sites in the world.
We first stopped at the Tower of David, where we seemed to follow the same route as a very New York Jewish family, the father buzzing with excitement at every turn, reminding the kids of the stories that had been shared many times in the past. I appreciated his effort and enthusiasm, but the history lesson seemed to have been a bit lost on the young boys who seemed more interested in trying to climb the fences.
From there, we found the Jewish Quarter and the Western Wall, one of the most important sites and symbol for all of Jerusalem. Originally built by Herod the Great as part of the Second Temple in 19 BC, it is all that is left of the temple and is a living reminder of the difficult history of the Jewish people.
The wall itself, of course, is just a symbol, but the passion of the people that swirl around it is astounding. I found myself standing and gazing at people coming and going. Men showing respect with heads covered, women in shawls. I thought my Yankees hat was appropriate. All day a constant flow of people would be drawn to the wall for a touch, kiss, and a prayer. Some stayed for ages, taking their time in this holy place to make they said it just right. Others celebrated the children becoming adults and the adults becoming children.
I joined the flow to the wall, following my "traveller's principle" that no matter how intimidated I may be, try to join in as much as possible. Photographs are wonderful, but the experience is the reason I came all this way.
That's me above (um...the tall one) looking stoic after my moment with the Wall.
Next, looking for balance, we tried to get to the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock (the gold dome in the picture above towering over the Western Wall). As we approached this Muslim controlled area, a few kids gathered around making me feel uneasy. They told us it was closed, but we walked to the guard anyway thinking they were trying to scam us. We were looked up and down, and told it was closed for lunch. This may have been true, I'll never know. But when we returned several hours later, we were told it was too late now and it was closed for non-Muslims as it was Thursday and the sun was starting to set, indicating the start of Friday, the day of worship. We politely asked when the mosque would open again for us and were told Sunday 10am. Three days later. The day after we leave Jerusalem. Hmm. Looks like we'll be missing that one.
Via Dolorosa
Inside the Armenian Church built to remember the spot where Mary watches Jesus go by with the cross (station 4)
Via Dolorosa, said to be the street where Jesus carried the cross on the way to the crucifixion, was where we spent most of the rest of our day. There we found the balance that was lost at the Dome of the Rock.
We walked along the stone street stopping at each station for a picture and a look around. Some stations were peaceful with small jewelery shops. Others were bustling with traffic and pizza places. Along the way the feeling builds, and I read aloud to Patricia the small story behind each stop.
"Station 3, where Jesus fell for the first time."
"Station 5, where Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus carry the cross."
"Station 8, where Jesus met the pious women."
Full of expectation, we followed the path to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where the final four stations can be found, and were greeted with a ray of light.
This is, of course, a clever architectural design, but it has a powerful force and I was not the only one impressed. The church, though extremely crowded, is a masterpiece and majestically culminates the "Way of Suffering." It has many layers, and as you dive deeper into them, you feel that inside you are experiencing the progress of the whole Christian religion within one building.
As we walked in Jesus's footsteps, with the knowledge that the real Via Dolorosa may actually be many layers below, I felt that I was closer to appreciating the strong feelings of the people here. I understand that Jerusalem is a place worth fighting for. It's not just a story in a book or a picture in a magazine, but instead somewhere that people have been going for centuries to feel this amazing strength of faith. It's the desire to keep alive the places of pilgrimage for all our children to experience. In Jerusalem, Jews, Muslims, and Christians seemed to have more in common than they have apart.
Considerable
Of course, I abhor many of the methods in this conflict. In the month before we arrived in Israel, two unrelated madmen in separate incidents drove bulldozers into pedestrians and cars in acts of terrorism, killing several before being shot by civilians and police. Not only a reminder of the constant threat of violence, but also of the number of civilians that carry concealed guns. Sensing the desperation these attacks demonstrated, I seriously considered cancelling my trip to Israel. To add to this, these two incidents brought back into my mind a heart-wrenching play I saw at the Edinburgh Festival in 2006 called My Name is Rachel Corrie, a true story about an American volunteer is killed by an Israeli bulldozer while working as an activist in the Gaza Strip.
It was one of the most difficult decisions I've had to make. I followed the news closely and finally made up my mind to go, with the view that these incidents 1) could have occurred in some fashion in any city; 2) did not indicate the kind of widespread violence that I felt I should avoid. Thankfully, this was correct and we had an incident-free trip.
Well, almost. It was almost our last stop in the city when I made my second big cultural mistake. We had been touring Israel for several days, but were yet to actually enter any synagogues. I imagined there had to be some amazing ones in Jerusalem -- if not here, then where?? Our guidebook and tourist map both had no synagogues on them, so we wandered around until we found the King David Museum. Surely this man could tell us where to find a magnificent synagogue. As it turns out, he was from Alabama, and to my surprise he responded, "Well, what kinda synagogue are ya'll looking' fer?"
He directs us to a site in the New Town (this must be the area outside the Old Town) called The Jerusalem Great Synagogue. Perfect. So we hop in a taxi and have a brief conversation about the difference between Protestant and Catholic beliefs. I ramble on about the role and authority of the Pope, when our Palestinian taxi driver politely asks if he can chime in. He describes that the Protestants believe that study of the Bible is the source of God's word, while Catholics believe that both the Bible and the Roman Catholic tradition are of equal value. I hadn't expected to be taking a taxi to the Great Synagogue and have my understanding of the sects of Christianity clarified by a Palestinian man.
When we arrive at the large, modern building, we find a lobby with a number of recent photographs and Jewish artifacts. But we see no obvious way into a main room, and no one seems to be around to help. Eventually, a young man strolls through and I stop him to ask for directions.
"Excuse me, sorry to bother you."
"Yes, how can I help."
"Well, we are here and were hoping to have a look around The Great Mosque...er...um...sorry... The Great Synagogue...um...and we don't see a way in."
I held my breath and my face turned bright red. I felt that I'd just dropped the biggest insult possible in his holiest temple in the most war torn city in the world. To my relief, he acted as if I had not made any mistake at all, and simply explained that visitors were only allowed in from 9am to 1pm and if I returned tomorrow morning, I'd probably have more luck. Phew. I thanked him profusely and he graciously smiled and continued on his way.
As I watched him go, Patricia goaded me about my ridiculous misstep and we made our way outside. I compared his reaction to that of the people on the Nile river cruise who took strong objection to my mistake there. Perhaps one was worse than the other, but clearly I regretted both and did my best to take them back. To me, the main difference was the way it was handled. The Israeli man kept his cool, I assume recognizing me as an exhausted and confused backpacker, giving me the benefit of the doubt. The Egyptian wanted to throw me in the Nile. I'm sure you can guess which I preferred.
Sadly, with Jerusalem finished it was time for Patricia to head back to London and for me to spend a few weeks on my own. We set the alarm for 2am and walked out into the night to find a cab. Luck smiled on us and a friendly Greek woman who was near the taxi stand had called a car already and offered to let us tag along. I've never seen any place so busy at 4am as the Tel Aviv airport. Head drooping, I said goodbye to Patricia and boarded the plane for one final stop in the Middle East - Dubai.
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