Jerusalem

Jerusalem. The holy city. The city tuned into the big cheese. Trust the most religious place on earth to be riddled with ethnic and religious conflict and divisions. For over two thousand years no less. I guess taking stuff seriously can bring out the worst in people, and sometimes the best too hopefully.

I began my journey into Jerusalem by strolling down via dolorosa road, a lot more peacefully than a bloke I know did 2000 years ago. The first thing that strikes you about Old Jerusalem is the abundance of stone. The stone is old and beautiful and everywhere. Buildings and paths blend into each other. Sometimes merely walking down a set of steps reveals a scene of beauty. The city is surrounded by walls, as is well known from famous events of history. I didn't know where to go at first, so I just walked. I saw some strange things. A priest walking arm in arm with a woman. A baby faced monk exiting a "supercharged skin" clinic. T-shirts that would get you killed if you wore them in Palestine. T-shirts that would get you killed if you wore them in Israel. Remember, Jerusalem is the melting pot of discontent. I decided to make my first "holy stop" at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

Via Dolorosa road - my street

Jerusalem is a place where devotion and tourism but heads frequently. It is not uncommon to witness an individual on their knees in prayer in front of an icon, while another individual leans over them to snap that perfect shot. I didn't know quite where I sat myself. I tried to take subtle pictures of the church, where no one was around, and sought to capture the feeling and style of the Church, rather than merely snap the tourist attractions. At one point I joined a queue to enter a holy sanctuary commemorating the sight where Jesus was supposedly crucified. As I did so, a bit of my Martin Luther came out. Not much, because there is very little in me, but a bit of his suspicion for the sacred relic, particularly when it draws a crowd of keen sightseers. To my left I spied a small group of Christians beginning a small liturgical service. There were about 10 of them. I had no idea what denomination they were, or whether I could join. I think they were Italian Catholics with Franciscan leanings conducting a liturgy in Latin. Neither am I quite sure what denomination I am. I put non-denominational down on the recent census, but I guess only a protestant can call themselves non-denominational. I guess, too, that only a protestant would feel like sincerity rather than membership was the most important thing for joining such a group. I lit a candle and stood at the back - how bad could that be? Things got more intense as we started migrating around the church, visiting the different holy icons and singing and chanting in Latin. I was happy to participate in this, but was I welcome? I decided that the only thing more disrespectful than lighting a candle and joining such a fellowship would be to blow the candle out and leave halfway through the service. I carried on. Things then got even more intense as we proceeded to make our way up a set of stairs, and I began to realise that a large crowd of about 100 tourists had gathered to film and take pictures of our small group of devotees. Would they pick the fraud near the back who had no idea what was going on, aside from the fact that it was important not to burn his fingers with dripping wax. In an attempt to look authentic, I tried to hum along and sing words that I knew, which unfortunately consisted only of "amen." I probably looked like i was trying to reenact a Mr Bean sketch. I made it around the entire church with that group, but finally caved when they entered the chapel and pulled out the wafers. My candle was already out by then, so I banged it in my pocket and ducked on out of there. Ecumenism so came to an end.  

View from outside the church of the Holy Sepulcher

Down a hallway

There are lots of little rooms all around the Church

I had been trying to find the balance between looking confident while being cautious enough to not make a complete fool of myself. I decided I needed to give myself a bit of grace. I was a new and inexperienced traveler, by myself, in a place riddled with taboos and strong opinions. I must say though, entering the female section of the Western Wall really was a gaff I wish I had not made. I think I also accidentally donated a shekel to the Israeli army as I walked though the Jewish Quarter. Again I felt myself torn between devotee and tourist as I gazed upon a site that is closely tied to the roots of my faith. I also felt myself of mixed emotions. Here is a site that has inspired devotion both beautiful and destructive. I love the Jewish faith, but it has become so entangled with military Zionism in this place that I find it hard to participate in.

The Western Wall

My final stop was the Mount of Olives. I had missed out on the Holy Mount, Friday being the Muslim holy day. I got lost and wandered around a graveyard for a while, attracting strange looks, but eventually found a rather large and obvious tourist entrance I had strolled past earlier. It was a great site, very simple with a series of churches near by. I enjoyed a cup of coffee at a coffee shop just above the site, paying 10 shekels for what I think was instant coffee.

The Mount of Olives

My time in Jerusalem was drawing to an end. It was time for one more crow riddled sleepless night before I ventured north to Nablus.   

Shot of Old Jerusalem from just outside the walls.