Jerusalem

We stepped onto the streets of a forgotten city. The thoroughfares that were, only hours before, full of cars and buses, vendors and tourists, were empty. The wind could be heard whipping around the corners of the narrow alleys of the old city. The silence was deafening and the sun seemed not as hot without the buzz of the human element. The wind cooler on your forehead. We meandered down the streets of the Christian quarter within the old city walls, smoothed stones under foot. The shops were all open here but the shadowed labyrinth of pedestrian pathways were without any of the hustle and bustle we had experienced the day before. Then, as we turned a corner no different from any other, we entered the Muslim Quarter and as if suddenely overtaken by an angry mob or street parade, we were in it. Shoulder to shoulder we struggled our way past shops selling every color, shape and size. The disorienting hum of the place was astounding, people shouting to be heard as they struggled through the crowd, shoppers bartering with shop owners and the shouting of merchants to bring attention to their merchandise. As we passed a side street, I saw a group of Muslim women shouting at a tailor who was doing repairs for them on the spot. Some women on the street were wearing full body robes (jilbab), others with just headscarves and designer jeans and still others, though Muslim, went without letting their long dark hair fall over their shoulders. I am sometimes taken aback by the beauty of some of these women, even when only their eyes can be seen.  Occasionally, a young man with a cart laden with goods piled higher than I am tall would shove his way through the crowd, stop in front of a store and unload right there in the middle of the street. The crowd squeezed in whatever way they could around the cart. As we passed particularly luxurious shops, air-conditioned air billowed out into the street like an appetizing aroma to entice shoppers to come inside and take a look. The smell in this area was, in substance, no different from other parts of the city but it was more intense as the shops spilled out into the street so that the fresh fish, poultry, pork and beef, exotic spices, candy, fruits, vegetables and breads could not be ignored. This, I was told, was just another Saturday in the Muslim Quarter.

We began our tour of Jerusalem's old city, naturally, at the Western Wall. With a Chicago Cubs hat I covered my head, while most others wore black wide-brimmed hats or kipas (yamulkah). You come upon the Wall rather suddenly. A large open courtyard was built where, before 1967, stood low-income Arab housing. The Wall is smaller than you might imagine, one of the only sections remaining of Herod's Second Temple destroyed by the Romans in the 1st Century C.E. along with the rest of Jerusalem. I sat at one of the many desks on which people may pray or write and began to write a note to place in the Wall. Supposedly, such prayers will be answered if stuck in the Wall. While writing, I was suddenly surrounded by several Ultra-Orthodox men. One of them immediately held a book over my head and they all began to recite some prayers. I didn't know how to react so I thought that I should probably allow them to continue. After a few seconds, the man holding the book asked me my name and I told them. They continued to pray. Then he asked if I had any children and after I said no, they all groaned a little then continued to pray a little louder. They stopped again and asked if I had a wife and I said no. Another groan of disappointment and they resumed praying again slightly louder. After another little while they stopped and he said, "you are Jewish, no?" and resigned now to my fate I reluctantly said no. Sometimes, I guess you just can't win. They prayed for the last time. I stood up after they had finished and thanked them, nearly convinced myself that my life was of little substance. When I tried to exit their little circle, they didn't move out of the way and instead one of them held out his hand with a 100 shekel note tied to the inside of his palm. They were demanding money from me. This is viewed as extremely sacrilegious by the Jewish Orthodoxy. Even this most holy place is not free from such scams. It disappointed me greatly.

But this is just a small part of Jerusalem. The city growing up around the old city is more modern in some areas and yet is able to retain the traditions to which much of this city so desperately clings. We found a place to stay on couch-surfing.com where people sign up to allow fellow travelers to stay for free. It is an interesting group of people and I think one of the real benefits of the internet, where small communities of people around the world can connect not only on a cyber level but also allows them to meet and interact with people in the real and physical sense by sharing their home. Yair is a young man of about 25 who lives with his girlfriend who was travelling in Portugal at the time of our stay. His apartment is small and old, consisting of only a living room, bedroom, and a hallway that serves as kitchen with a tiny bathroom at the end. He lives in a neighborhood called Nahlaot just North of the Old City. It was one of the first residential neighborhoods built outside of the old city and was originally built towards the end of the 19th Century. However, since the 1970s, Nahloat, which had fallen into disrepair, increasingly began to be infiltrated by more affluent parts of Israeli society which realized the considerable value of such property, and so young professionals, hippies and other groups have diversified the community here. They literally live on top of each other and it offers this area of the city an eclectic feel. For example, Yair, Tina, my German traveling companion and I talked and listened to music while a large family of Orthodox Jews ate dinner, drank, sang songs, and recited prayers late into the night. Inside the narrow corridors and secluded courtyards of Nahlaot, many of the buildings are reachable only on foot, from which life on the ground floor apartments can be witnessed. And pervasive in this neighborhood and throughout much of the city are the voices of children. Even though they are rarely seen, their play and laughter is hard to miss. Many of the orthodox communities have a great many children and no matter how much they attempt to keep the outside world from infecting and corrupting them, I could hear them inside the homes and occasionally witness their carefree games in the streets. It reminds me of how little they know or regard the seriousness of the world which is thrust upon them in this place.

Nick