None of Israel’s God-made wonders, neither the Red Sea corals nor the Judean Desert palms, neither forests of the Galilee nor salts of the Dead Sea, can let my restless heart forget the stories of holy
Jerusalem.
Entering Jerusalem, the bus rolls up soft green hills covered with olive trees and sandstone-brick houses. I am following the path of the ancient Jews by fleeing Egypt for Jerusalem, arriving before Pesach (Passover). This Jewish holiday celebrates their escape from Egyptian slavery to the Promised Land.
My first meal here is with new immigrants escaping the empty futures promised them in the former Soviet republics of Georgia and Uzbekistan.We have several rounds of vodka over flowery Russian toasts and red bowls of borscht, munching raw onions and turnips in between bites of plum-crowned rice pilaf. “L’Chaim,” Hebrew for “to life,” they say again and again.
As recent immigrants, these families are well provided for here; tax
breaks, free housing, Hebrew classes and other benefits are guaranteed for at least six months. When the state of Israel was created in 1948, the Law of Return promised citizenship for all the world’s Jews. Since then, millions have flooded into this small state. They come from Yemen, Iraq, Poland, Hungary, Ethiopia, India and a hundred other countries, bringing a varied cornucopia of languages, foods and traditions. After 2,000 years of exile, the descendants of the Jewish Diaspora are happy to be home — a happy ending if the Palestinians had only been house-sitting.
The Palestinian people also know the meaning of Diaspora. Since the events of 1948, which the Palestinians refer to as the “nabka,” or “catastrophe,” more than half a million Arabs have been forced to leave their land for crowded refugee camps in the West Bank, Gaza or in neighboring Arab countries.
Palestine and Israel are only the latest flags to have fought and flown over Jerusalem; the city has seen many conquerors, from Byzantines to Ottomans, come and go. Today the Old City of Jerusalem is divided into Christian, Armenian, Muslim and Jewish quarters. The shotguns and olive fatigues of Jewish soldiers — girls and boys alike — make it clear who draws those lines.
Garments of piety still overpower Old Jerusalem’s scenery. Armenian Orthodox priests hide under pointy black hoods; Orthodox Jewish men sport dark hats and suits, rough beards and curly, shoulder-length sideburns; Palestinian women wear jalabayya dresses embellished with needlepoint flowers and Palestinian men don white kuffiyehs secured by a black halo of rope. The common thread is covering one’s head out of modesty and humility before God.
Day after day I am drawn to the Old City for the peace of its courtyards and protection of its walls, kept alive with birds, plants and spirits. Muslims, Christians and Jews agree something happened here: this was where God told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac; Jesus was crucified and resurrected; or the Muslim prophet Mohammed ascended to heaven.
The stone corridors echo with holy cacophony. “Allah el-Akbar, God the Greatest,” calls Muslims to prayer as an international assembly of Christian pilgrims sing hymns in Arabic and English, retracing the steps Jesus took with His cross.
One day in the Arab quarter, I meet a mechanic going to nearby Jericho and decide to ride with him there. This West Bank town was among the first areas granted trial Palestinian self-rule; it also happens to be the oldest, lowest city on Earth. From this green oasis we can see the Judean mountains shading the banks of the Jordan River, where Jesus was supposedly baptized. Only Palestinian shanties disturb the simplicity of the surrounding desert terrain.
The midday temperature tops 105, causing the car to overheat between towns. An endless stream of vehicles pass before one stops. The Israeli hears out our story before nicely turning us down. Who can blame him; in this fiery land trust is stupid. I myself have been far too trusting on my Middle Eastern journey. I have gotten many places on faith in strangers, luckily returning from them. Peace can only be built on such risk.
As an ambivalent Christian, I am free to move between the Jews and Arabs, and I eat at the tables and sleep in the beds of both. An orthodox Jewish family with eight children hosts me for Seder, the meal that kicks off Passover. The American-born couple met on a kibbutz (communal farm), eventually coming to orthodox Judaism after an Atheist upbringing. By having me for Seder, they fulfill one of 613 Mitzvahs (good deeds) the Torah proscribes for Jews. When properly performed and thoroughly explored, the Seder rituals entail five hours of eating, drinking, washing, praying, singing and questioning. Asking questions is crucial, the mother tells me, to understand the meaning behind the ceremony.
Jews come to the Western Wall, the remains of King Solomon’s First Temple, for God’s answers. Its cracks are stuffed with prayers and wet with tears. I search the stone fabric for signs, but instead my questions multiply. Did Jesus, Moses and Mohammed really walk this way, was this cloudless Jerusalem sky really their road to heaven? What will happen tomorrow in the West Bank and Gaza, the cramped Palestinian territories now on the delicate fringes of peace?
Back in the Muslim Quarter, a Palestinian student leads me to a postcard view of the Western Wall, a golden-domed mosque, and staggered church steeples. An impatient American, I jump straight to politics. He very politely tells me that he has spent nights in jail for answering such questions into the wrong ears. Eventually I learn he was a leader in the intifada, the popular Palestinian uprising. I cry over his scars and tales of the dead, of sleeping with open eyes. He picks an olive branch for my 25th birthday before I leave for Tel Aviv.
The sleek, secular city of Tel Aviv is Israel’s modern baby. Basically built from scratch, Tel Aviv has no ancient ghosts to haunt it. Here my only worry is whether the turquoise Mediterranean is warm enough to swim. The heat wave has youth skipping school, eating ice cream bars and flocking to the beach with cell phones in their back pockets.
Commemorative flags line Tel Aviv’s streets. April 1998 marked the 50th anniversary of the nation, or from the Palestinian point of view, the occupation. Israel has quickly grown up, with a little help from her friends. Still, half a century is but a brief chapter in an age-old story, being told as it unfolds.