for the first time in 200 years
The
Old
City
of
Jerusalem
basked
in
the
warm
July
sun,
morning
shadows
parading
the
splendor
of
the
500-
year-old walls with majestic hauteur.
It
was
a
soothingly
welcome
relief
from
the
shivering
cold
that
had
gripped
Sydney
as
I
boarded
my
flight,
barely a day earlier.
The
Tower
of
David
pointed
a
languid
finger
to
the
skies
while
the
resplendent
Dome
of
the
Rock
smiled
beatifically
at
the
group
of
worshippers
in
its
embrace.
The
Western
Wall
reared
its
held
in
awe-inspiring
stolidity
but the dull grey of the roof of the Holy Sepulchre spoke of a more sombre outlook.
Cars
and
people
moved
in
equal
abandon
along
the
ribbon
of
the
only
road
open
to
traffic
inside
the
Old
City,
the
cries
of
the
Arab
vendors
adding
their
strident
yet
mellifluous
note
to
the
cacophony
of
horns
and
assorted
noises.
Nothing
seemed
to
have
changed
in
the
15
years
I
had
been
away.
The
Christian
Quarter
still
maintained
its
metamorphosis
as
a
sprawling
tourist
bazaar.
Abu
Shukri
and
Ja'afar,
two
of
the
most
popular
eateries
in
the
Old
City,
had
jumped
on
the
expansion
bandwagon
and
branched
out,
the
first
into
a
nearby
location,
the
second
beyond the boundaries of the metropolis.
The
Christian
Information
Office,
operated
by
the
Franciscan
fathers,
traded
jaded
glances
with
the
Citadel
opposite
but
further
down
the
road,
the
Kalaydjian
family
that
had
inherited
what
was
probably
the
Old
City's
most
famous
grinding
mill,
had
finally
decided
to
dismantle
that
anachronism
and
put
their
shoulders
to
the
task
of transforming the site into another watering hole.
The
venture
has
turned
out
to
be
a
pleasant
success.
And
they
have
kept
the
nickname,
Bulghourji,
by
which
everyone knew their former enterprise.
As
I
tread
along
the
old
familiar
paths,
I
am
overcome
by
the
overwhelming
sense
of
the
time
continuum
and
the ethereal touch of imperturbability that Jerusalem can inspire.
Along
these
roads
had
walked
a
progression
of
prophets
and
teachers
of
righteousness.
The
feet
of
countless
conquerors had pounded these stones in their quest for immortality.
Jerusalem, city of gold. City of mystery.
It
is
not
possible
to
talk
of
Jerusalem
except
in
superlatives.
But
no
matter
how
you
describe
one
of
the
most
sacred spots on earth, it is clear that there can never be any consensus on Jerusalem.
There never was. There never will be.
You either love it or, if you have no poetry in your heart, you shrug it off.
For
some,
it
is
the
vision
of
sanctity
and
purity
that
appeals
to
them.
And
when
they
come
here,
they
carry
with
them
expectations
of
a
spiritual
rebirth
in
a
new
baptism
of
revived
faith
as
they
quaff
from
the
waters
of
Jerusalem.
There
is
no
mistaking
the
look
of
almost
childlike
anticipation
lighting
up
the
features
of
pilgrims
who
had braved the travails of long travel in their odyssey.
In
the
euphoric
aura
in
which
they
envelop
themselves,
they
remain
unfazed
by
what
looks
like
an
armed
camp, with security forces around almost every corner and guns bristling everywhere.
Most of the police and soldiers are young, some in their teens.
I
look
at
the
people
around
me
-
so
many
of
them
wizened
clones
of
younger
selves
I
had
known
years
before,
most of the others strangers.
My
progress
along
the
street
is
punctuated
by
the
milestones
of
a
contingent
of
friends
from
my
youthful
years
in
Jerusalem.
We
greet
each
other
with
hugs
and
kisses
and
plenty
of
backslapping.
(Middle
East
tradition
stipulates that the kisses should be three in number, and placed upon the cheek, and not into empty air).
There
is
Hoppig
Marashlian,
leaning
against
a
parapet,
waiting
for
her
niece.
She
is
eternally
cheerful,
with
a
repertoire
of
jokes
and
anecdotes
to
lighten
anyone's
day.
She
greets
me
with
a
boisterous
buss
and
brings
me
uptodate on what is going on in the Armenian Quarter where she lives with her widowed mother and brother.
"Shbeeni," she calls me as she unabashedly sizes me up.
I
am
her
godfather,
her
"shbeen."
It
is
an
old
Armenian
church
tradition
that
when
a
child
is
to
be
christened,
it
must
be
swaddled
in
white
and
carried
in
the
arms
of
a
male
relative
during
the
ceremony.
I
had
been
invested
with that duty. Some consider it a privilege.
A
hundred
feet
away,
the
ramparts
of
the
Old
City
meander
down
into
the
valley
of
Siloam.
I
am
enraptured
by
their
captivating
contours,
and
dawdle
blissfully
along
the
way.
Zion
Gate,
which
still
bears
the
wounds
of
war
inflicted upon it during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war, is just around the corner.
I
climb
the
bastion
atop
the
gate.
In
the
distance,
the
Judean
hills
glimmer
like
bashful
phantoms,
wrapped
in
their
pall
of
unbreachable
mystery.
While
the
Dead
Sea
hides
behind
a
shimmering
wall
of
grey
gloom,
as
if
ashamed of its relentlessly shrinking shores.
Unless
something
is
done
soon
to
curb
this
catastrophic
phenomenon,
the
sea
is
destined
to
disappear
into
an
insignificant
borehole.
There
was
a
time
when
talk
of
a
canal,
the
Dead-Med,
linking
the
Dead
Sea
to
the
Mediterranean
was
being
mooted
as
the
most
plausible
means
of
salvage
or
salvation,
but
that
dream
seems
to
have evaporated.
I
remember
the
time
I
was
a
young
teacher
and
with
a
couple
of
colleagues
decided
to
embark
on
a
daring
but
hazardous
cycling
trip
from
Jerusalem
down
to
the
Dead
Sea.
It
was
downhill
almost
all
the
way,
except
when
we
neared the Khan El Ahmar caravanserai, the legendary site of the Good Samaritan parable.
When
we
finally
slumped
down
at
the
shores
of
the
glorious
lake,
the
languid
waves
washed
up
lavishly
around
our ankles, with no intimation of the creeping liquid attrition future years would spawn.