I
was
on
my
way
back
from
covering
a
press
conference
at
the
Sydney
Olympic
Park
when
the mobile phone rang.
It was the sub editor, Denes Bolza.
"Arthur, did you ever know a chap called Mohsen Hijazi while you were in Jerusalem?"
"Sure,"
I
replied,
mystified.
"He
is
an
old
spice-merchant,
a
'attar',
in
the
Old
City.
Why
do
you ask?"
"Well, looks like he's gone and got himself blown up," he said, matter-of-fact.
A pot of Zen, with liberal sprinklings of Sufism and Christian Mysticism, and a soupçon
of Science Fiction
(But, in truth, nothing more than an irreverent paean of Zen).
It has been said that Zen began, or was born, with a smile.
It was inevitable.
For unlike many other religions, philosophies and ways of life, it understands the
game, if not the meaning, of life, and can sit back and smile with gratification and irony,
and perhaps, some sadness
It was an early dawn in Jerusalem.
The echoes of the muezzin’s call to prayer still lingered in the crisp air.
A shroud of mist had descended on the city, billowing out upon the nearby
hills, and veiling it from view. In the streets, no one was stirring yet, save for
the odd stray cat out on a scavenging chore.
No smoke rose from the chimneys and no lights showed in the windows.
The mist enveloped all. But through patches in its fabric, the sun's dew-
drenched rays peered over the ancient walls of the city and bathed the tall
domes, towering belfries and tapered minarets in a feeble glow.
Its gentle fingers pirouetted across the parapets, stopping to knock softly
against the city's seven gates in turn, before coming to rest on the double
Gates of Mercy.
Beneath the walls of the city, at the feet of the twin gates through
which the promised Messiah would enter Jerusalem at the end of the
days, lay the ancient necropolis, guarded by the tame jackal, Anubis.
Still as a reclining tombstone, Anubis crouched near a gaping hole in the
soggy earth, waving his flail in confusion. Someone had come during the night
and dug a fresh grave. He had no idea who had dug it or who it was
meant for.
In the heart of a labyrinth of quaint, serpentine streets and alleys, in the Old City of
Jerusalem, one of the most dynamic people of the Middle East, the Armenians, make their
home.
Claiming descent from the conquering armies of Tigranes II, King of Kings, Armenians have
been living in Jerusalem for over 2,000 years.
Pagan idol-worshippers, they had left their home in the land where Noah’s Ark had come
to rest, seeking the distant glory their emperor had promised them.
The invading army pitched its tents along the skirts of the Judean Hills through which
the River Jordan meanders on its merry way to the Dead Sea. Some of the warriors and
adventurers who tasted of the hypnotic waters of the river, fell under its spell, and decided
to make their home in the region.
Three centuries later, in the year 301 of the Christian Era, their original homeland,
Armenia, abandoned paganism following the miraculous conversion of their king Tiridates . .
.
In the heart of a labyrinth of quaint, serpentine streets and alleys, in the Old City of
Jerusalem, one of the most dynamic people of the Middle East, the Armenians, make their
home.
Claiming descent from the conquering armies of Tigranes (Dickran) II, King of Kings,
Armenians have been living in Jerusalem for over 2,000 years.
Three centuries later, in the year 301 of the Christian Era, they abandoned paganism and
adopted Christianity after the miraculous conversion of their king, Tiridates (Dertad), smashing
their lifeless idols of gods and goddesses, and becoming the first nation on earth to accept the
teachings of Jesus as their state dogma.
This seminal milestone in their history was to unleash a borderless tsunami of pilgrims . . .
He came out of the west, riding a tiger, dressed in black, wearing no shoes.
“Who is that blue-eyed barbarian?” the people wondered.
But none dared approach him.
Only a little boy, newly out of his swaddles.
Hand outstretched, a finger pointing at the awesome figures of man and beast, the
child walked forward on steady legs, to stand before the apparition.
“Can I ride on the horsey with you?” he asked.
The response was a bellowing laugh that shook the grounds and the mountains and cast
fear into the hearts of the people.
“I have come across a hundred thousand miles to find the lotus blossom, and all I see in
front of me is a sea of fools, led by a babe.
It is done.
He is dead and buried, mourned by the few who had come to
revere him, reviled and ridiculed by those who could not
understand his message, and hated by those who feared his growing
influence and power.
Like the one who had come before him, the wild man of the
wilderness, Yohanan of the locusts and wild honey, this one too has
been put to death to silence him.
We have wrapped him in a white shroud, and placed him in the
tomb Yosef of Arimathea made available to us, watched all the time
by the Roman cohort lounging suspiciously outside, their coarse jokes
and jarring laughter creating a discordant aura of vexation in the ominous
air .
Panting with exhaustion, and soggy under the drizzling rain, we
put our shoulders to the round stone and heave.
There are only three of us, two of the less fearful of his
Jewish followers, and myself, the Armeni, always a stranger.
They push me away.
"Go home, old man," hisses Yonathan.
But I ignore him.
I may be old and decrepit, but I have made a promise, and I
intend to keep it.
"This is not for you, Yonathan," I respond
A new miracle in the Holy Land.
The Palestinians and Israelis have finally agreed to turn their spears into pruning forks and
their swords into plowshares, pledging to bring peace to the ravaged land of the prophets and
put an end to dcades of bloodhsed that has seen brother raise arms agasinst brother.
But how did this happen?
And why now, when all efforts by some of the world's most persuasive and persistent
diplomats and peacemakers had failed miserably in bridging the impassable divide barring the
two semitic cousins?
Among the shadows of his early predecessors, a modest man who worships a God that is a
close cousin of the Allah of the Arabs and the YHWH of the Jews, and who has been the driving
force behind the miracle, sits in an ornate office, quietly sipping a lukewarm cup of tea as he
ponders the outcome of his historic achievement.
On the table in front of him lies a copper box, containing a mysterious illustrated
manuscript.
Jirair
Tutunjian
explains
that
“while
many
Armenians
know
that
the
Armenian
Quarter
in
Jerusalem’s
Old
City
covers
one-sixth
of
the
city,
many
Armenians,
including
even
some
living
in
Jerusalem,
don’t
know
the
many
Armenian-related
facts
which
make
our
presence
in
the
Holy
City
so
significant.”
And
proceeds
to
regale
us
with
intriguing
and
amazing
tidbits
about
our
beloved city.
It
was
a
bleak
December
night,
with
the
rain
and
the
wind
chasing
each
other
across
the walls of the Old City.
Entwined
in
a
spirited
saraband
this
harsh
winter,
the
roiling
twins
played
havoc
along the cobblestoned alleys and domed rooftops and ran rampant in the open spaces.
In
a
corner
of
the
school
playground,
in
the
ancient
monastery
of
the
Armenians
of
Jerusalem,
a
forest
of
tall
trees
stood
silent
sentinels,
in
age-old
defiance
against
the
ravages of nature.
The
Armenians
of
Jerusalem
mourn
the
loss
of
another
of
its
blythe
spirits,
Dickran
Dickranian.
He
was
ever
the
epitome
of
the
cultured
gentleman,
A
gentle
soul
helfpul
and
considerate,
a
warm,
cheerful
presence
in
the
Armenian
Quarter
ofJerusalem.
He
left
the
city
of
his
birth
when
quite
young
and
spent
most of his adult life in the USA.
He
is
the
brother
of
leading
Armenian
educator
Yeghya
Dickranian,
deputy
principal
of the Sts Tarmanchats parish school.