I entered the woman’s section of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem to see a crumbling brown wall. Under normal circumstances that wouldn’t be cause for much excitement. But this wall was special because it was the only remaining section of what had once been the most holy temple in Judaism. Because of that it brought people of all sects of Judaism together to pray.
As I walked with trepidation to an empty part of the wall, I tried to remember a prayer or two that I had learned in Sunday School. When I reached the wall I stood there with a hand on the ancient stone and no prayers coming to mind. Frustrated, I looked at the woman next to me. She was dressed in heavy, Orthodox Jewish clothing that must have been suffocating in the blistering mid-day heat. But if she felt any discomfort it was impossible to know because she was so deep in prayer. She rocked back and forth with a hand over her eyes as she mouthed words in Hebrew.
I tried to imagine what it was like for her to come to this sacred area and see tourists, like me, who couldn’t feel the power of something that meant so much to her. I wondered if it made her angry to know that for many people there this was just another item to check off the list of sites seen in Israel. But probably none of this mattered to her. This was a time for her to pray. The actions of those around her didn’t exist. Only the holy Wall was here for her.
When I looked around again I noticed the many women dressed like the one standing next to me and just as deep in prayer. Dispersed throughout them were the women who were obviously tourists with their shorts, tank tops, and sweat-filled brows. Everyone felt something different here. This place that had once been a majestic temple and was now reduced to a single, crumbling wall brought a meaning to everyone who came to greet it. Whether they were devoutly Orthodox or just Jewish on the fringes, this was a place to be remembered.
