or the next two days after we returned from the southern desert, I caught up on my work and my parents traveled with another JD Tours driver to the northern sites of Jordan, such as Um Qais, Ajloun, and Jerash. I wanted to go with them, but there’s no way I could have been at ease leaving my job(s) unattended for two and a half straight weeks; I needed those two days to make sure that everything was working properly, and to teach. I’m sure my students would have missed me, anyway. Besides that, I took my parents to dinner at Haitham’s house in Zarqa’ where they got to experience real homemade mensaf, made with love, care, and extra sauce. Haitham proudly presented us with large plates mounded high with lamb and rice and potato, which we all quickly demolished before chatting with Haitham and his parents about life, work, and teasing me in what I hope was an affectionate way.
One of the highlights of my parents’ trip to the Middle East was to be the Dozan wa Awtar choir trip to the Holy Land, Palestine, to see Jerusalem, Nazareth, the Sea of Galilee, and Bethlehem – all important and famous historical Christian sites. The culmination of it would be singing in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which encloses what remains of the Hill of Golgotha and Jesus’ burial site. The whole tour would be paid for and tour buses would ferry us around the various other sites. Board would be free for choir members, and families (such as mine own and several other interested parties) would be get excellent discounted rates on 5-star hotel rooms. We would sing “Al-Zahara al-Madaa’en” (The Flower of the Cities), which was written about Jerusalem, in Jerusalem. It would be amazing.
Then the whole thing was canceled, the day beforehand. “What could happen, after all that planning, practicing, and scheduling!” you may ask. Israel happened, of course! Our favorite people across the river decided to throw an extra dozen papers and forms at the Jordanian and Diplomatic Visa-holders in the choir group, and there was no way to get it all done in time before we were scheduled to leave. So the whole thing had to be scrapped thanks to the wonderful, lovely Israeli government. Thanks, chaps – right kind of you. PS: I hope you enjoy never being able to leave your own country because your passports have the same appeal as the Black Plague to the rest of the world.
Slight bitterness aside, we decided that just because Israel security was less than intelligent, we weren’t going to be stopped from having a fun vacation in Palestine. The Tulip family (frequent commenters on this blog) felt the same way, and together the two families took one extra day of rest to replan an entire trip and left early on Friday morning, the second of October. Considering that she was only given one day of warning, my mother pulled things together in her typical excellent way. With almost inconceivable foresight to this cancellation, she had even brought a “Guide to Israel” guidebook with her and we spent Thursday (the day we were supposed to have left) figuring out where we would stay and what we would do.
The ride to the border was simple and wonderfully inexpensive (cue ominous foreshadowing) at only 12 JD for the ride to the border, and then another 3JD for the specially-licensed servecee taxi to take us the last bit of the way. Because of (guess) more border security (you guessed it), any taxi or public transport you take has to stop about a kilometer away from the border and then you need to switch into what is essentially an identically beat-up, banged up bus or taxi, and pay more money to go the last 3 minutes. Oh well, like I said – at least it was cheap.
The bouncy transport systems weren’t finished. It took another trip for the three of us by a large tourist bus (JD15 I believe, including our baggage fees) to actually cross over the Jordan Puddle (no way I’m calling that dribble a river), now joined by the Tulips. On the other side of the river, things changed very noticably and very quickly.
Our bus swung to a wheezing halt in front of a low, squat building…the Israeli border security and clearance center. Notices written in Arabic, Hebrew, and English were posted everywhere, something along the lines of “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” Standing there to “greet” us as we exited the bus was a tall Israeli boy who rather resembled a curly-headed brick wall. Holding a loaded M-16 machine gun. And wearing khaki shorts, polo short, shades, and a (poorly) hidden mic under his shirt on the left shoulder, which he gripped self-importantly every few moments and muttered Hebrew into it. I say “boy” because he was just the first of many Israeli “soldiers” all over the base which looked as if they were either ready for spring break in Cancun (like this guy) or were wearing their dad’s baggy soldier uniform. Speaking of which, this gentleman was maybe one of five males I saw during the entire 1.5 hour stay in the base. The vast majority of soldiers were young women who looked as if they should be talking about their latest boyfriend and arguing about senior prom, instead of wearing pistols strapped to their belts and glaring suspiciously at my Tajiki and Uzbeki visas in my passport. The girl who questioned me stared at them in confusion, having probably never before seen those two large stickers that take up an entire passport page. “What were you doing there, and why? Who were you staying with and how did you know them? What was their family name?” was an example of some of the questions that were fired at me. My mother elbowed me and told me to mention that their daughter stayed with the family in America and the father works at the U.S. Embassy. Even so, the girl took my passport to an office a few meters away and vanished for several minutes. I can only imagine how that conversation went.
- Girl: Quick, boss – where’s Tajikistan? And do they hate us too?
- Bored office guy: Next to India or something. Naw, I guess they’re cool.
After being fingerprinted and photographed by another soldier, plus one final cattle-herd like line of people shuffling forward to get their Israeli-scanned luggage, which had already been scanned twice before, we were through. Abu Tulip arranged a microbus for all of us and using his fluent Arabic, negotiated what west of the river may call a “fair price” and what we east of the river would call “a little bit steep.” No problem, though – with three young children in the Tulip family, the main order of business was getting us to Jerusalem and to some lunch!
Dad said up near the front seat and chatted with the driver, who spoke a little English and was happy to talk. Like myself, dad had been forced to put the filming and photographing devices away for the last few hours as we were in “security” territory, but now that we were free of the border region and moving westward, he quickly dug out his camcorder and fired it up, just in time to catch The Separation Wall up on the hill above us.
It was the first time I’d ever seen it in anything but pictures and online videos, and even though we were quite far away from it, it still struck me with its sense of foreboding, segregation, and loss. In this particular area, the wall wasn’t so much a separate, free-standing entity but more of a component of the luxurious-looking Israeli apartments built above it. All the land we had been driving through since leaving the border was technically Palestinian (remember, this means nothing as Israel occupies it all anyway) and these high walls were built facing the desert to keep everyone else out, but at the same time provide apartment inhabitants with a beautiful view of the desert and the Jordan Valley behind us. I can’t look at these gashes of separation without wondering what might have been there over the past few hundred years. An olive farm? A village? Israelis touts themselves as being a beacon of modernity, an oasis in a land surrounded by desert and despotic rulers – I’ve actually seen comments with those phrases used in pro-Israel blogs and forums before. But these walls, separating the modern apartments, parks, libraries, and swimming pools from the desert sands, only serve to fill my stomach with a feeling of dread and nausea.
For that reason, I’m glad that we spent almost the entire duration of our time in Jerusalem in the beautiful Old City section, the historical treasure of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian history. We left our driver behind near the “New Gate” of the Old City (so named for being “only” one hundred years old, as opposed to thousands) and quickly found our hotel, the Knights’ Palace between the New Gate and the large and famous Jaffa Gate. We only took the time to drop off our well-scanned luggage in the hotel room, taking but a moment to admire the medieval suits of armor and paintings of Crusaders that hung in the wide stone hallways. Apparently the building had once been a theological seminary, but these days they merely harbor an odd love of Henry Kissinger in a knight costume (This amusing painting was hanging right next to our stairway).
Because we were on the edge of the Christian Quarter of the old city (populated with Arab families that had been Christians before Europeans had ever set foot on North America) the Tulips and I had no difficulties chatting with the native Palestinians to find a restaurant and begin our touring. It was already early afternoon by now, but we pushed on deeper into the Old City, passing by what seemed like approximately every souvenir vendor in the entire Arab World in our passage. Although I didn’t know it at the time (I had no clue where I was accept for “in Jerusalem’s Old City”) I found out that this was one of the numerous branching alleyways-turned streets that led off the famous Vie Delarosa, or the “Walk of Agony” which Jesus dragged his cross upon on his way to Golgotha and his death. You wouldn’t know it these days for the literally hundreds of tiny stalls and shops each hawking “gifts from the Holy Land.”
The buildings here were tall, slanted, and shaded, and at times I felt like we were descending down a long, dimly lit tunnel. It wasn’t an actual enclosed market like in Damascus or Istanbul, but seemed close. After a few wrong turns we found what seemed like the “back alley” entrance to the entrance yard in front of the Church of the Sepulcher, arguably the most famous Christian site in all of the Holy City. This massive church contains both the remains of the hill of Golgotha where Jesus was crucified, and (possibly) the remains of the tomb that he was buried and subsequently resurrected. (A side note: Protestants are technically supposed to believe in the validity of a second tomb instead, but I decided to let it slide here.)The eight of us spent a good couple hours in here; there was quite a lot of sites to see, although you wouldn’t have known it from the main entrance.
I’ll come right out and say it: I suppose I’m rather a philistine (unfortunate pun intended) when it comes to the Catholic and Orthodox idea of religious decoration. I love the paintings and the artwork, don’t get me wrong. But I find the idea of literally coating the entire peak of Golgotha with silver and putting up silver idols of Mary, Mary M, and Jesus everywhere just struck me as unnecessary. Coming from the stoic Lutheran Protestant background in the Midwest, I’m used to places of worship that are done in wood and velvet, and maybe some fine polished marble. But statues, silver, and hanging incense burners knocking me in my unfortunately-tall head just doesn’t make me think of a holy place of worship. It makes me think “Gift Shop.” I mean no offense to my Catholic/Orthodox readers, if you’re out there – this is just my opinion that Jesus, as a humble carpenter and man who preached the idea of leaving everything behind to follow God, might not necessarily take coating everything in precious metals and incense as the highest compliment.
On the other hand, I’ll easily report that the church is beautiful from top to bottom as an example of medieval architecture. Every wall is a huge craggy stone face coated in fine linens, paintings, or mosaics, although there’s often so many tourists in the building that it’s difficult to get a quiet moment of reflection by yourself. Just inside the door, we watched a group of Europeans gently caress a large, flat, pinkish-colored stone set heavily into the floor with several censors swinging gently above it with the breeze from the door. Many of the people rubbed a sweater or other cloth on this, the Stone of Unction that Jesus was supposedly bandaged and perfumed upon, trying to suck up the “sanctity” of the stone, or something. Nearby was the aforementioned Golgotha hill itself, almost entirely unrecognizable as a hill due to the massive blocks of ancient stone that had been set around it to form a vault that people could walk upon. After climbing some well-worn stairs to the top, we joined a throng of other tourists to witness the silvery forms of Jesus and the female saints.
Although this picture below is blurry, it captures the idea of trying to become as close to these sacred objects as possible…I watched several men and women crawl under this low table, to a small disk placed on the floor that is marked as being the actual exact hole that the True Cross had rested in. People kissed the spot, placed their hands upon it to pray a moment, then crawled out again.
We didn’t have time to wait in line to get into the actual Edicule (tomb) of Jesus itself; the line there would have taken an hour to see. The large dark rotunda hung above us, designed to send a single shaft of dusty light straight down upon the top of the tomb. Although scholars generally agree that Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb was embedded into the side of a hill or mountain, nothing remains of that original mountain now – the mountain was torn down – carefully – so that this stone crypt could be erected around the theoretical exact site that the Catholics and Orthodox believe that Jesus was lain. Although the vast majority of the light in the large chamber came from that single sunbeam, hundreds of small prayer candles were embedded into the walls of the Edicule, flickering, dancing, and slowly building a waxy second wall. The line to enter wound around the crypt itself towards a massive, ornately decorated front door and wall, with massive capped candles taller than two men and even more censors.
Dad and I happened to be near this door snapping pictures of the Cathlicon inner chapel (the central room of the church) when suddenly monks in flowing brown robes hustled all the tourists out of the way for the daily reading of the Divine Liturgy (Orthodox) or Holy Mass (Catholic) – I couldn’t tell which, sadly, as I speak neither Latin nor Aramaic. Coming around the corner, the chanting moan of a dozen men in robes bore down on us with candles and hymnals. They knelt as one before the golden door of the Edicule and sang beautifully in one of the aforementioned languages, stopping every few moments as the man closest to me, a gray-bearded, bespectacled scholar called out an interjection in a wispy voice between each line: they may have been singing a psalm.
The sun was just about to set as we left the Holy Sepulcher, and we began heading West to reach, naturally enough, the Western Wall. We knew that we were getting close when suddenly the Arab vendors around us melted away, revealing dark, barren stone walls for a few blocks, interspersed with a few soldiers (in uniform this time, but just as young-looking) with machine guns keeping quiet watch on the alleyways. As we walked further, a new kind of people started bustling around us, paying no attention to our knot of foreigners. We had (invisibly) crossed into the Jewish Quarter and were surrounded by men in solemn suits with long beards, tiny round glasses, and hats that looked like furry doughnuts. I didn’t speak with any of these conservative, religious Jews during my time in Palestine/Israel, and actually was under the impression that I was seeing specially-trimmed hair, which meant I had to refrain from giggling uncontrollably like a buffoon whenever we passed one of these gentlemen.
After passing through a security checkpoint and a long tunnel, we emerged into the courtyard next to the Western/Wailing Wall, which was packed with Jews of all types. Photography was forbidden as it was the Sabbath (it was still Friday, but since the sun had set the Jewish law declared the Sabbath had begun) and also a religious festival. We lingered in the back and watched the sea of people, dressed often entirely in black or at least in dark, somber colors. It seemed like you could rank devout-ness by proximity to the wall: near the front, practically clinging to the wall were bearded rabbi muttering and rocking hypnotically back and forth. Near us, however, were knots of younger people I can only assume were foreigners, as they were only wearing a small head cover pinned into place and they were speaking American-accented English. Continuing my assumption, they may have been on the free “Taglit-Birthright” pilgrimage from America and here for the Jewish holiday. There were several curly-haired men, about my age, next to me in khakis who were speaking with a Bostonian accent about the (copious amounts of) beer they were going to drink later in the evening. We moved on, and after a leisurely night walk along the southern edge of the Old City’s wall, retired for the night.
We had a comfortably uneventful evening, relaxing on our three twin-sized beds in a room that opened onto the Knights Palace’s dining courtyard. The Tulips and us dined together the following morning before starting out for the morning’s hike up Mount Zion on the southern edge of town. We had walked past it the previous night, but hadn’t been able to see the large spire of the Church of the Dormition in the darkness. Stroller in hand for the youngest Tulip, we headed up the smooth road to the summit, where there were three attractions to greet us: the room that had contained the apostles’ Last Supper, the Church of the Dormition devoted to the “sleeping” mother of Mary, and one of the most important Jewish holy sites, the tomb of the great King David. In this case, the “last” were indeed first and we entered the shrine of the tomb, another site that had forbidden the usage of cameras indoors on the Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath.
At first I thought that we might have the place to ourselves because our footsteps echoed alone on the cobblestone inside the shrine surrounding the tomb, but near to the entrance of the actual tomb itself, we came across another group of European tourists. Just like at the Western Wall, the genders were required to separate down two separate corridors. All men were required to either put on the hats we’d brought with us, or select cute little paper kippah hats to balance precariously on our noggins. Abu Tulip and his sons came with dad and I and Abu carefully tried to keep the boys from knocking their kippah off their heads in their general interest and exploratory behavior. The Europeans crowded around us in the doorway of a small chamber directly adjacent to the tomb itself and started snapping pictures, taking no heed to the signs all around that requested that no cameras be used on the Sabbath. The chamber was filled with rabbis and scholars rocking and studying, whispering to themselves as they fingered beads and paged through the Torah. A grizzled looking scholar glanced sharply up as flashes started bouncing about his group and growled in English, “What’s the matter with you? Have some respect!” and the tourists sheepishly (albeit reluctantly) sheathed their weaponry.
We couldn’t enter the tomb itself, but Um Tulip and mom dryly pointed out that the men probably had a better view than they did. From the studying chamber, the men would peer through a barred door at the tomb, which was decked with a cloth and flowers. I recognized the Hebrew word for David (דוד)easily enough. Ahead and to our left, I could see a curtain drawn were presumably the women were looking at approximately a quarter meter of the tomb and David’s feet visible before the curtain began, and that was about all they could see. As we left the tomb, Abu Tulip had his boys doff their little kippah at the door, although the eldest one looked as if he might want to keep it a little more!
Next, we briefly viewed the large, airy room on the same site of the “Upper Room, where Jesus had the Last Supper with his disciples before being betrayed. Ironically enough, it had been converted into a mosque sometime over the centuries during the Islamic control of the city; the Muslims hadn’t been concerned about its Christian significance but revered the mighty Prophet Dawud (David) that the Qur’an mentioned was buried nearby. The room had a large mihreb niche in the wall facing Mecca that had almost completely blocked and hidden the stained-glass windows behind it.
The Church of the Dormition is named for Mary, mother of Jesus who Catholics believe never died, but instead was also taken (alive) into heaven by way of ascension like her son. Most striking in the main chapel area, which is surrounded by a dozen beautiful mosaics, all perfectly illuminated to sparkle iridescently with the semi-precious metals that were used in their creation. Directly below the chapel in a circular, crypt-like area is a reclining statue of Mary in white marble, carved as if she was asleep. This location is speculated to be where she was ascended into heaven.
After lunch at a little Armenian restaurant in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City, we hired a rental van to take our group up the tiny winding road leading to the summit of the Mount of Olives, where I took the picture from the top of this post. The Arab driver manuevered perfectly along the walled road, often with little more than centimeters of clearance on either side. For example, there were two female tourists climbing up the road, who leapt fearfully out of the way and pressed themselves against the wall as the van drew nearer. The driver slowed to a crawl and crept passed them – as he did so, he opened his window, grinned at them, and said “Don’t worry.” Although we didn’t go all the way to the very peak of the mountain to the site of Jesus’ ascension into heaven, we got a great view and photographs from halfway up, and were also able to stop at a chapel that contained a mosaic of the Holy Chicken.
The final stop on the Mount of Olives was the location of the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus went through fear and agony so intense that he “sweat blood.” The Garden is overlooked by a group of centuries-old olive trees that symbolically represent the original trees that were witness to Jesus’ suffering as he knelt in prayer over a rock to ask God to spare him if possible. The rock was provided, too.
As the rest of the group was returning to the hotel in the van, I elected to leave them behind at the foot of the Mount of Olives and walk back along the Via Dolorosa. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going, but dad gave me his camera and told me to take as many pictures as possible. I wandered up the eastern side of Mount Moriah (which is the technical name of the Temple Mount), and found myself in a sad, weed-covered cemetery, littered with soda bottles and detritus. This is all that remained of Islamic cemetery, the religious parallel of the immaculate Jewish tombs across the valley. The place looked sadly forgotten, but I walked along a north-traveling path through the broken gravestones in the shadow of the Eastern Wall of the temple for 20 minutes until I reached the Lion Gate, where the Via enters the Old City between the temple and the Muslim Quarter. The sun was close to setting, and I was surrounded again by the familiar echoing roar of the Call to Prayer that follows you wherever there’s a mosque. The streets were mostly quiet, as many Muslims were in prayer at the time, but wherever I looked there were Israeli soldiers bearing machine guns and dark glasses watching the vendors and tourists, always in twos, leaning against the walls conversing quietly with as their hands rested on the barrels. I saw about 5 of these pairs along the 20 minute walk along the Via.
On the final day in Jerusalem, my parents and I separated from the Tulips to visit the Archaeological Park to the south of the Al-Aqsa mosque. As it was now Sunday, the no-photography rules of the Sabbath were no longer in effect and I was able to capture the separation “curtain” between the praying men and women at the Western Wall. Only a few minutes walk beyond the praying Jews was the entrance to the ruins, where an Umayyad Palace is slowly being recovered from the mounded stones. If that name sounds familiar to you, it’s because the Umayyad sect also has palatial ruins in Amman that I’ve wrote about previously. As the three of us perused the ruins, wishing that there were more signs with descriptions of what we were seeing, I noted that there was a large pit pressed right up against the Temple Mount’s wall. This pit descended a good further 20 meters below the ground, and I was shocked and impressed to see that the wall continued further down without any sign of stopping, vanishing into the darkness below. It made me wonder how high these walls really were when they were originally constructed. This was also apparently a place for Jews to have some quiet privacy near the holy wall, as the cracks and creases here were also filled with the messages and prayers left by patrons. Unlike the busy chaos only 50 meters from us further north, this area was comparably quiet and peaceful; a good place for prayer or meditation.
It was about at this point that we started hearing sirens and the distant sounds of a commotion. We had planned to enter the Temple Mount early that morning before visiting the archaeological site, but had been stopped by a dreadlocked Israeli soldier who ordered us to get back from the entrance because, as he told me, “the Muslims are causing problems. This is OUR holiday, our holy festival, and they have to go and ruin everything.” This article took place as we were only a few hundred meters from the attacks. We stood up on the rampart’s of the Old City’s southernmost wall and watched as police cars pulled up and started scanning under passing vehicles for explosives.
As tensions seemed to mount in the city, we decided it was time to utilize the Knights Palace’s connections with a local taxi company, and move out of “Israel” into the wild, unsecured deserts of the Palestinian Territories to our next location – Bethlehem. We hoped that we weren’t going out of the frying pan and into the fire.
thanks for the articles and updates about not only this particular trip to Israel but also your stay in Jordan. I appreciate learning about your time there and hearing about the Middle Eastern culture . also thank you for the article explaining the tensions that arose on Sunday during your trip to Israel. It’s amazing to me how Christians (followers of Christ) resort to such violence even though Christ was and Is such a peaceful, loving, and humble man. It does not make sense to me that people resort to violence just because of a difference in religious beliefs and yet it happens throughout our world and has been happening since the beginning of time. anyway thanks for your updates and articles I enjoy them immensely.
Thanks for reading, Josh! Just want to point out though, that neither religious group would probably refer to themselves as “followers of Christ” (although Muslims do revere and respect him as an honored prophet).
The primary struggle is between the Jewish Israelis and the (primarily) Muslim Arabs. However, there are some Arab Christians – although their numbers get less each year as many of them flee Israel/Palestine to America or Europe.
Yet again, I hardly need to write a blog post. I can just link to yours. Though I’m going to have to mention Teddy Bear falling into the fountain at the restaurant episode. The writing, descriptions, commentary, etc are wonderful. Thanks. Need to get pics from you soon.
best, Um Tulip