The first time I entered the Old City of Jerusalem, I truly
felt like I was taking a step back in time.
It is an awe inspiring feeling knowing that each step you take connects
you with your ancestors from thousands of years ago. It’s as if the walls are whispering to you in
hushed and hallowed tones. You are somewhere special now.
The smooth cobbled stones beneath your
feet seem to carry you automatically, almost as if you are merely a passenger,
being guided by forces far more powerful than yourself, drawing you further and
further inside a world so different to your own. The intoxicating smells of the Armenian
restaurants danced and tickled my nostrils as I passed them, weaving my way
down small, narrow roads, where you have to push yourself tightly against walls
whenever a car passes.
The Tower of David stands proudly on your right, as if it’s
guarding and watching over those who pass it.
As I made my way along the roads that twisted and turned, it felt as if
I was in a maze, not quite knowing where I was going, yet never feeling lost. I passed ancient Christian churches. I
passed markets where the Romans once ruled.
I passed yeshivas where Jewish students learnt. I passed small shops selling their wares. I passed eateries. I passed peoples’ homes, hidden within the
beautiful stones. It felt as if I was
drifting between the present and the past – yet being in both places at
once.
But among all the charms that were appearing around me,
there was one that was pulling me ever closer, one that was drawing me in, one
that was beckoning to me. As I rounded
one last corner, I saw it appear before me – one of the holiest place of the Jewish
people – the Western Wall. It is a
special moment in one’s life when you look deep into the heart and soul of your
nation, yet that’s how it felt to me.
Staring at that wall that glistened so beautifully in the sunlight, the
same way it had for thousands of years, reminded me of how special that place
was. And I did feel special. And lucky.
And honoured. Because it was as
if I was honouring the millions of Jews who had passed before me, throughout
the ages and throughout the lands, who always faced Jerusalem in their
prayers. Who beat their chests, eyes
closed with angst, praying for the peace of Jerusalem. Who, in their darkest days on earth, dreamt
of walking among these ancient and holy stones.
Who always concluded each seder
with the eternal words “Next year in Jerusalem”.
And yet here I was, standing there, representing all those
who dreamt before but were unable to make it come true.
Jerusalem is truly the heart that beats for the Jewish
people. Its roads and paths and laneways
are the vessels that pump the blood that makes it beat. It has always been this way, from the moment
King David first made Jerusalem the capital of the Jewish people 3000 years ago
until now. Since then, it has never been
the capital of any other people.
And yet there are those who believe that tearing this city
in half will lead to peace. I don’t see
it like that. I don’t see how taking a
dagger and driving it deep in the heart of the Jewish people can ever bring
peace. History has already proven that.
Between 1948 and 1967, Jordan controlled all of this area I
walked through. And in Article VIII of
the Israel Jordan Armistice agreement, it called for “free access to the Holy
Places and cultural institutions and use of the cemetery on the Mount of
Olives.” But that didn’t happen. Despite requests and pleas from Israeli officials
and Jewish groups to the UN, the US and others to try to get them to enforce
the agreement Jordan signed, Jews were denied access to the Western Wall, the
Jewish cemetery and all religious sites in Jerusalem. But that was only part of it. Because when the Jordanians captured the Old
City, they destroyed the Jewish Quarter and expelled its residents. They destroyed fifty eight synagogues, looted
their contents and desecrated them. They
turned Jewish religious sites into chicken coops and animal stalls. They ransacked the Jewish cemetery on the
Mount of Olives, where Jews had been buried for thousands of years. They desecrated the graves and smashed the
tombstones, using them as building material.
They turned this holy Jewish site into a slum.
The Temple Mount, on which the Dome of the Rock now stands
is a site holy to both Jews and Muslims. It has always been Judaism's holliest site, while for Muslims it only become holy in far more recent history. But it is also the focal point of violence which the world is currently
watching. But in 1967, when Israel
succeeded in capturing the Old City, I believe they made one fatal
judgement. Instead of asserting their full sovereignty, or at the very least allowing some kind of joint
control of the area by Jews and Muslims, they decided to give control of access
to the Islamic Waqf. And ever since
then, Jews are not allowed to pray on the Temple Mount. That intolerance by the Muslim and
Arab authorities, who continue to fan the flames of hatred, is what
fuels the violence that we are witnessing.
When I look at this beautiful city – this city full of
memories, of history, of pain, of triumph and of tragedy, I see more than just
the pale limestones lingering in the last fading rays of sunset. I see a city of life, where people breathe
and laugh and love together respectful of each other and their ways of life.
Perhaps it is a pipe dream, but as Theodor Herzl once said,
“If you will it, it is no dream.”
See original article here
http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/jerusalem-where-the-stones-talk-to-you/
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