Even after recollecting its repeated references in the religious services of my youth, nothing could prepare me for actually arriving in Jerusalem. After hopping a hired Sherut (Minibus) from Ben-Gurion Airport for the 45-minute ride, I was dropped off at a corner in predominantly Muslim East Jerusalem, where I made my way to the Damascus Gate, breaching the Old City wall. After getting a little lost in the maze of alleyways that make up the ancient part of the town, I finally found the Via Dolorosa ("Way of Sorrows"- and the Passion path of Christ) and my guest house, located atop a church and convent run by the Sisters of St. Mary of Zion, an order of French nuns. When I got to the rooftop and the stunning view that awaited me, the first thing I noticed was the size of the Old City. In all my years, I'd never imagined it as so small. The entire walled section is only 0.35 square miles in area, and is still twice as large as it was during Roman rule. There are some 30,000 people crammed into this tiny citadel of a city, which feels more like being inside a castle than a town…and this Lilliputian living space is further divided into neighborhoods occupied by Jews, Muslims and Christians, all coexisting as tense tenants. Ethiopians would scoff at what a Jerusalemite considers a “long walk” as nothing is more than a 15-minute stroll from something else.
Although I was fatigued from my early-morning flight out of Istanbul (and the lengthy immigration process required for Israeli entry) I was too excited to see this legendary place that I quickly left my bags behind at the church and hoofed it in the heat through St. Stephen’s Gate (Lion’s Gate), ascending the Mount of Olives. The Mount of Olives is not known as a particularly friendly area, but contains some of the most holy sites in Christianity. As I took a wrong turn, I was met by an elderly Palestinian man in full Arab garb who began talking with me. At first, I was reluctant to accept his assistance, sure that he would lead me into a shop and demand that I buy something. But as we walked, I noticed that everyone in the neighborhood greeted him, and it became obvious that he was somehow respected within his community. He took me to a café where he bought a bottle of grapefruit juice for us to share, then proudly pulled photos from his pocket and began telling me the stories associated with them. I was surprised by the snapshots he handed me…posing with Bill Clinton, Condoleezza Rice, and even accepting a key to the city of Memphis, Tennessee! It turns out that the gentleman I met was Ibrahim Ahmad Abu El-Hawa, creator of the Jerusalem Peacemakers, a multicultural non-profit organization committed to promoting non-violent conflict resolution in Jerusalem. His family has lived on the Mount of Olives for centuries, and he has opened his home for free to any travelers seeking tranquility. At his house, I met Europeans, Americans, and Africans, mostly hippie-types with the same desire for peace in the Middle East as Ibrahim. Fidel, one of the boarders, took me up to the rooftop, where I enjoyed views of Jerusalem to the east, and the Dead Sea to the west (again, much closer than I thought). Ibrahim invited me to dinner, but I was eager to get a move on and see some sights before they closed. He invited me to stay as a guest in his home whenever I wish.
After such a gracious introduction to Jerusalem, it was ironic that I would experience the seedier side of the Mount within minutes. After visiting the Church of the Pater Noster, which is the traditional place where Jesus taught His disciples the Lord’s Prayer, I walked out into the street with a serenity I’ve seldom felt, reflecting on the words of a prayer I’ve recited countless times. A Palestinian teenager approached me and asked me if I’d like to buy an olive branch. I declined, especially because I could have easily acquired an olive branch from anywhere on the mountain free of charge. Then, he kept trying to stuff the branches into my pockets, simultaneously trying to pick them and pilfer what he could from my knapsack. Although it marked the first time I’d caught someone trying to pickpocket me so far on my trip, I was wise to his attempts, and gave him a stern warning. This was a “What Would Jesus Do?” moment for sure. Here I am, on my way to the Garden of Gethsemane (where Jesus was arrested before His crucifixion) feeling peaceful, and now I’m tempted to smack the hell out of this Muslim boy. I managed to walk away without incident, but it really made me think about the difficulty in maintaining pacifist virtues, and loving your neighbor regardless of race, color, or creed.
The Garden of Gethsemane and the church next to it were very nice. Even better is that unlike many of the holy sites dotting Jerusalem, it in is a spot that both scholars and scientist agree on. There are even a couple of living olive trees there that have been scientifically dated to be more than 2,000 years old, making them a witness to whatever biblical events occurred. I sat inside the church for a mass in Portuguese, and seeing the emotions on the faces of the Brazilian pilgrims was very powerful.
There were many other sites I walked by or made brief visits to, including the Church of the Ascension, the tombs of the prophets Haggai, Zachariah and Malachi, the Church of Dominus Flevit (traditional site of where “Jesus wept” for Jerusalem (Luke 19:41)), the Church of Mary Magdalene, and the Tomb of the Virgin Mary. All in all, a pretty busy first afternoon. Because the Old City is about as dry as the desert climate it sits in, I went through the Damascus Gate and back into East Jerusalem to quench my thirst with a Palestinian beer. Taybeh, which is brewed in the city of Ramallah, remains the best-tasting Middle Eastern beer I’ve had so far.
I woke up early on Friday morning, and enjoyed breakfast with Father Ed, a visiting Francophone priest from Winnipeg, Canada. (A super-personable fellow, Father Ed and I would have long geopolitical conversations every morning until I left Jerusalem) I left the Ecce Homo Church (Ecce Homo is Latin for “Behold the Man” and is revered at the place where Pontius Pilate presented Jesus to the people of Jerusalem, and crowned Him with thorns.) and walked the Via Dolorosa to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional site of Christ’s crucifixion. I was told to expect crowds, but luckily, there weren’t many visitors when I arrived.
Being perhaps the holiest site to the Christians of the World, it is impossible to ignore the raw emotional vibes throughout the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. It is a surreal place to wander through, regardless of the faith one subscribes to, if any at all. Pilgrims climb a small flight of stairs up to a tiny chapel, where they observe the rock where the cross was placed, enclosed by glass and surrounded by oil lamps, icons, and incense censers. Devotees then await their turn to crawl into a tiny box, where they place there arm through a hole to lay their hand on the holy stone. But like with so many places in Jerusalem, there is conflict even within this sacred site. Stewardship of different sections is bitterly divided between the Roman Catholics, the Armenian Orthodox and Greek Orthodox. This rivalry has gone on for centuries, and ever since the rule of Sultan Saladin (1174-1193) the keys to the church have been in the hands of a Muslim family, who opens it in the morning and locks it up at night, because the Muslims have been the only people all three denominations can trust in consensus. In fact, one of the strangest consequences of this infighting has involved a ladder that was placed by the Armenian priests on a ledge belonging to the Greeks to clean an upper section of their chapel. Because the ladder rests on the Greek part, they would not allow the Armenians on it, or to even remove it. This ladder has remained in the same place since the 1800’s, in sesquicentennial limbo. Observing evidence of the petty squabbles only served to detract from my reverence of the place, and served to annoyed me. I wondered “What if I moved the ladder, or pretended to accidentally run into it? What would happen then?” The issue seemed so trivial and childish that I could hardly believe it has carried on for so long.
But knowing that Shabbat (Jewish Sabbath) was happening at sundown, I couldn’t contemplate the mysteries of interfaith antagonism for long, because I still had a lot to see. First, I went through the Jewish Quarter, and visited the Tomb of King David. While it’s unlikely that it's actually the final resting place of the Goliath-slaying harpist, it’s still an important site in modern Jewish history, as it’s the place where the devout prayed between 1948 and 1967 while the Western (Wailing) Wall was under Jordanian control. At the Jewish holy sites, men are required to wear a head covering, and after a paper kippa (skullcap, like a yarmulke) I was given kept falling off, I decided just to buy my own for a couple of dollars and a affix it to my noggin with hair clips so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Having gone from zero-to-Jew in a matter of seconds, I visited other sites integral to the Jewish faith, including the Western Wall itself, although I planned to return for the beginning of Shabbat later that evening. In addition to that, I went to the Cenacle (spot of the Last Supper), the Church of St. Peter Gallicantu (where it’s believed that Peter denied Jesus (“before the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice” (Mark 14:66-72) “Gallicantu” means “rooster crow”, by the way), the Church of the Dormition (where it’s believed that the Virgin Mary died), the tree from which Judas’ supposedly hanged himself after selling out his Rabbi, and the grave of Oskar Schindler (the Austrian Catholic who saved 1,200 Jews from demise at the hands of the Nazis, and the inspiration for the movie Schindler’s List).
After returning to Ecce Homo to wash up and put on some nice clothes, I awaited the wail of the siren signifying the start of Shabbat. I clipped my kippa to my cranium and followed the mostly orthodox and Hasidim crowd to the Western Wall. As the sun began to set, it was amazing to integrate myself into the thousands of men working their way to the Wall to pray (Women are separated by a partition to pray in their own section). I managed to make my way to the giant bricks of the holiest site in Judaism and bow my head for a bit. Then, I walked in reverse (you’re not supposed to turn your back on the Wall – kind of like meeting Queen Elizabeth, I suppose) and watched the celebrations occurring around it. It is really an experience to witness Jews of all kinds singing and dancing together in big Hora circles.
In a hurried 48 hours, I’d managed to visit most of the places I’d wanted to see in the Old City. At this point, the Jewish shops and amenities would be largely unavailable for the next 24 hours. But, the Muslim Sabbath (which goes from Thursday thru Friday night) was just ending. I made a plan to find an Arab bus and spend my Saturday in the Palestinian Authority.
