The last intifada in Jerusalem
It is where flows the love of the gods and the hatred of men. It is the city of cities, maze of creeds, origin of all that we are. It is the wall that contains the holy war, the sad song of the muezzines, assault rifles and the Garden of Gethsemane.
The authentic Jerusalem was announced to us at the Damascus Gate, passageway to another time in which the traveler has to look at the mobile to know in this century. Smells like falafel and watermelon, to freshly made Arabic bread, to the humidity of the bazaar. It didn't take long for us to lower our heads to avoid the gaze of the still beardless Israeli policemen, with his sunglasses, sus poses chulescas, their bulletproof vests, your ammunition, their weapons ready for war. As, Palestinians walked everywhere, to tend their nut stalls or their prayers.
The authentic Jerusalem was announced to us at the Damascus Gate, passageway to another time in which the traveler has to look at the mobile to know in this century
Jerusalem cannot be explained. The traveler must feel the impact of its history in every corner. so we wandered, with a map in hand and senses disoriented. we suddenly discover, like bumping into her, the Via Dolorosa, A narrow street, with their modest dwellings, its barbershops or its little shops where you can buy holy water. And there one understands that Jesus Christ dragged the cross in that precise place and the world, our world, forever changed.
And then, one ends up in the Holy Sepulcher, a church embedded between mosques, that it is impossible to see in the distance, that the traveler suddenly finds, like everything else. Because this city is a permanent shock, an inward tremor. And the agnostics tremble in front of the stone where they washed the body of Jesus after his death, and the believers cry in his grave, where an orthodox monk will stop you from entering if you don't dress properly. And nuns and atheists kneel, almost by inertia, in front of the place where Christ died on his cross, on the stone, still visible behind glass, of Golgotha.
Here there is no place to escape from emotions. pilgrims and tourists, that end up being the same, ascend to the roof of the most important church in Christianity. And there, on a stone esplanade, on top of the Holy Sepulcher, an African-like village emerges, where women weave crucifixes and monks wear long robes as they pray. They are the Ethiopian Copts, a Christian community whose budget is only enough to settle on the roofs of the holiest place.
we suddenly discover, like bumping into her, the Via Dolorosa, A narrow street, with their modest dwellings, its barbershops or its little shops where you can buy holy water.
I did not find an orphaned corner of faith in Jerusalem. Everything has a mystical meaning and on many occasions, different creeds converge in the same places. at nine in the afternoon, every day for more than eight hundred years, orthodox monks, Armenian religious and Franciscan priests gather at the door of the Holy Sepulcher to watch as a Muslim closes the door of the church. According to Islamic tradition, Jesus Christ was the last prophet and therefore, somehow, the mausoleum of Jesus of Nazareth is also, for them, a sanctuary.
Trying to explain the nuances of each religion is as complicated as navigating the labyrinth of the ancient city. Armenians have their own neighborhood, but walking between their churches, one can run into a Bedouin from Jordan, or an Egyptian in a robe, or a Spanish nun.
The same thing happens in the Jewish quarter., but here the atmosphere is thicker. Police controls and searches give access to an open space, guarded. And in the background, a huge stone wall, what remains of the temple in jerusalem, which used to be the Temple of Solomon and which today is the holiest place for the Jews: The wall of lamentations.
The people, left, they have an ostensibly larger space than that of women, right. And there I approached, with a kipá, that little jewish hat that covers the crown and that it is obligatory to wear here. I almost missed crossing myself, trying to be respectful. Without knowing very well how to approach, I approached without more, looking at the wall, trying not to attract attention, which seemed impossible to me. Men go there with their prayers, that actually look like laments. With the Torah in one hand and head bobbing in almost resigned denial, painful. Most of them wear white shirts., black suit and hat also black and timeless. They are allowed to grow lame, those sideburns turned into ringlets, in case the rest of the outfit was not enough to identify them. And me, there, with the kipá and my silly face, talking to the wall, without knowing very well who to direct my prayers to. I walked away with the feeling of lightening a feeling of guilt that I couldn't identify. And I got lost with my girl in a neighborhood that I didn't know if it was Jewish anymore, christian or muslim, but that it was full of churches and nooks and crannies and djellabas and orthodox Jews praying loudly and armed policemen and children on bicycles and mothers scrubbing the floors and clothes hanging out and shops selling dates. But we found nothing fake, because in Jerusalem everything is what it seems and everything seems unreal. This place cannot stand and yet it has been supporting itself for thousands of years., containing the hatred of their neighborhoods, ignoring the neighbor's gaze.
And me, there, with the yarmulke and my goofy face, talking to the wall, without knowing very well who to direct my prayers to.
That's why you need to explode a little. Jerusalem has to die from time to time to survive. and that morning, just when we were walking the Via Dolorosa, that crosses the muslim quarter like an omen, the city was about to take that blood price, victims of hate, deaths.
The Esplanade of the Mosques remained closed. It had happened last week. A group of Muslim fanatics tried to access the Wailing Wall to commit a massacre. They failed to enter the Jewish sanctuary. The result, three terrorists and two policemen killed. The Israeli government decided to set up checkpoints at Islam's holiest site and Muslims refused to go through turnstiles with tags, checks and all that security paraphernalia, to enter your Esplanade. Thus, could not enter.
And there, in front of the closed gate that gave access to the holy place of Islam, several Israeli policemen endured the heat, stoics, in front of a group of Muslim worshipers who bowed down to pray, in bows that seemed to offer the policemen themselves but that went through them, that went much further, to your Esplanade, to Mecca, at the time Muhammad ascended to heaven from the Mosque of the Rock, to another world that wasn't there. But there we were, invisible, in that crossfire of glances, of weapons without insurance and prayers without mercy. Israel and Palestine in an alley, Jews and Muslims next to the Via Dolorosa of the Christians. All together, all tangled up, grudges, the unreason, time about to explode, again.
And there we were, invisible, in that crossfire of glances, of weapons without insurance and prayers without mercy.
The group of Muslims was growing. I took out my camera and framed the elderly reclining on the temperate police, without moving, without going back. A man in a turban asked me where I was from. I told him that from Spain and suddenly, the Muslim and I were talking about football. I mentioned Iniesta. The man nodded satisfied and behind him, a young Israeli carrying something resembling a submachine gun gave a minimal smile, wishing perhaps to join the conversation, talk about Barça and forget that heat, that unbearable tension. but he didn't say anything. Seconds later, suddenly, they were seriously scrutinized, among themselves, and we became invisible again.
Several politicians appeared, palestinian authorities, inherits, by the amount of media that accompanied them. The alley was filled with people. Leaders raised their voices, the women shouted and the Muslims, encouraged by the number, they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police.
they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police, gay, they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police. they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police, they crowded in front of the police, the same as Muhammad. All ascend to the altars, everyone, except the living, who went down to war. There, at that very moment.
The newspapers the next day spoke of six deaths throughout the country. Three of them in Jerusalem.
We were recommended to wait at the top of the Mount of Olives. "Down there is not safe" they said. And we took the opportunity to eat something in a place with views of the golden dome, city icon. And while we devoured the hummus and the kebab -tension causes hunger-, we hear the crowd shouting slogans in Arabic, and we heard the roar of helicopters, and the sirens of the ambulances and in the distance, the shots. We caught a glimpse of tear gas smoke and fires on the outskirts of Jerusalem, a small intifada that had been improvised next to the Most Painful Way in the world. everything happened there, before us. The waiter wanted to charge us more than agreed for lunch.
The next day, the newspapers spoke of six deaths throughout the country. Three of them in Jerusalem. I don't remember which side. There was a little more police presence at Damascus Gate. It smelled like falafel and watermelon. Everyone went to their dried fruit shops, to their barbershops or to their prayers.
Comments (6)
Juancho
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Macho, today he is going to congratulate Landa. After the success of the series Pacífico at the Cineteca del Matadero, read this wonderful article!!!!
you have to write more, friend.
One pass your story of Jerusalem
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Daniel Landa
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Thank you Juancho. You should start writing too… and you know! 😉
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Mercedes
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I agree with Juan: great article! I have enjoyed reading it a lot. For a few minutes I have moved to Jerusalem.
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Ricardo
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Bravo Dani! Very good article. It reminded me of many experiences in Jerusalem, one of those few places you know you'll come back to. Abz
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Daniel Landa
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I remembered you, Ricardo, going to the Wailing Wall at midnight!!
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Ricardo
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Dani, I wrote it to you four years ago as a result of my post https://www.viajesalpasado.com/medianoche-en-el-muro-de-las-lamentaciones/ and I repeat it now: dealing with such a restless spirit, I had no doubt that you would end up overwhelmed at the Wailing Wall and, course, night. Abz
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