The first time I saw...

The hotel porters swelter under the heat of the city, their formal charm thinly veiling an attitude of apathy. The brilliance of brass buttons against red, parody-worthy uniforms strikes the eyes as I watch the same scene unfurl again and again along the street. Tourists emerge, no longer sheltered by the universality of a coach interior and are forced to digest a sweeping vista of Jerusalem, its monotony of beige the only visible uniformity in a city of mismatched architecture, culture and history. I see them absorb the uneven rooftops and the countless spires of mosques and cathedrals that crowd the skyline. Their weapons of choice range from the eager smartphone to the more accomplished DSLR, as they shoot the panorama from our privileged vantage point. The porters barely merit a second glance from the visitors, but I see it. I see it glistening away as if it were a mere button made of brass.

Away from the haze of hotels, a man walks with his girlfriend. One arm flung around her bare shoulders, the other he uses to sip from a bottle of coke. A little dog trails idly behind. Armed solely with this description; the sight is nothing novel; it is almost clichéd in its conventionality. Passers-by neglect to register the couple. I am the only one to note what distinguishes this man from those in other cities, from the others who walk with their girlfriends and their dogs and drink coke.

In the centre; where your eyes, nose and ears are taken hostage by the soul of the city, a group of local girls seek refuge from the frenzy at a pizza restaurant. I recognise these girls. The zeal I spy in their eyes mirrors the emotion I have so often felt when surrounded by my own friends. Their laughter is ubiquitous as it swirls up above them into the heavy air that crowns the city. Yet the parallels that unite us wane in comparison to the one key distinction.

So established is Israel’s troubled reality, that the brazen presence of arms barely procures a reaction from residents and outsiders alike. The porters flash a glimpse of theirs protruding from the holsters they wear on their hips. The man in the street has slung his infinitely more ominous model over the shoulder of the very arm he uses to embrace his girlfriend. The young conscripts at the restaurant have their own machine-powered varieties draped nonchalantly over the backs of their chairs. I stare out over the minarets and steeples and contemplate this formidable, silent degree of acceptance.