The gift of insight

After weeks of travelling ‘solo’, I find myself with two companions whom I ‘picked up’ at the airport today. They are friends who have come to join me as I journey into the last week of my time here in Palestine and Israel. As they were preparing to board the plane in the UK, I was making last visits to familiar and loved places in the Old City.

I visiteda new place though – a place that I had tried to visit on my first day in Jerusalem – the Chamber of the Holocaust. It stands in complete contrast to the National Memorial and Museum of the Holocaust at Yad Vashem, in terms of size and layout and information, but its power is no less commanding.

One enters through a small doorway into an entrance area. The gentleman on duty was at pains to advise me that they were undertaking renovation work at the present time and thus there were no labels on items etc. etc. I assured him this was fine for me, and that I was ‘pleased’ simply to be able to be there. On reflection, ‘pleased’ or ‘glad’, or any word like either of these will never do, regardless of whatever accompanying gestures that indicate the care of one’s heart one might accompany them with. This is because for there to be such a place as this, or Yad Vashem, or any of the other memorials to the Holocaust and acts of genocide across the world – for these places that give testimony to terrible cruelty and inhumanity of which humanity is capable to even exist is a terrible tragedy. Each place stands a stinging indictment to human cruelty and no-one can possibly ever be pleased or glad to be in the presence of anything which gives testimony to such cruelty. I wished to express my sorrow at being present in this place... for filled with sorrow I truly was... that I was in such a place that the horror of human action had somehow caused to exist.

Beyond the entrance hall, the way continues into a darker room, with no windows and low lighting. Light filters through from the doorway and the windows of the next room – but there is a form of relief from the darkness – white stone tablets on the walls. In truth, these are not any form of relief that one wishes to see. Written in Hebrew, each tablet records the name of a city or town or village in which a Jewish community lived at the time of the Holocaust. The members of the community will have either been killed in the place where they lived, or been transported to one of the Concentration Camps. The plaques fill the walls of four rooms and a large external ‘garden’ area. So many communities blighted, so many lives lost.

Initially, this place was a place of mourning. Those who had lost their lives during the Holocaust through being gassed and burned or buried in mass graves have no proper grave where those who loved them may journey to mourn. This Chamber of the Holocaust was created to be such a place and, initially, was where the Jewish Community that travelled to settle in Jerusalem in the late forties and early fifties would come to mourn their dead. Yad Vashem has come to fulfil the purpose of remembering – on a larger scale, both nationally and internationally it is true and I imagine few international visitors to Jerusalem will visit the Chamber of the Holocaust as it does not have such international recognition. As those who maintain each place will say though, neither place stands in competition with the other, they each have their own story – as well as the wider story – to tell.

This place was a sobering and moving place to visit and I found that all I could do was simply to look and read the tablets on the walls and pray.

As  I made to leave I noticed a small book – a photograph album – on which was written the words, Pictures of the Holocaust. This is not designed for children. Indeed it was not designed for children and the images contained inside should not have been designed for anyone to see for there were the photographs of those who had been starved to the point of virtual death, as well as photographs of the dead whose bodies had been either heaped up in piles resembling a kind of human slag heap or laid (if they were lucky, but more likely tipped) in a mass grave. This was sickening. I found I could hardly breathe.

As I left, I spoke to the man on the door who spends hours of each day welcoming people. In our conversation he said that his Grandparents had died in Auschwitz. He asked where I was from and, when I said I was from the UK, told me that his mother and her sister had managed to escape from Belgium to London and that they had told him what the Blitz was like and how terribly the people of London and the UK suffered. How right he was.

In that moment, I received his heartfelt sympathy for the people of ‘my’ country who had withstood the horror of the might of Germany in the same way that my country – as well as other nations and races across the world – offer heartfelt sympathy to the Jewish people who suffered the might and terror of German forces too, in a most particular and horrifying way. Somehow, in his words, there was the insight that cruelty is cruelty, and horror is horror and that those who suffer these things deserve the pity and regard of others each as much as the another. For this shared insight, compassion and kindness of heart I am immensely grateful.

The sights and sounds of Palestine and Israel....

First the good not famous sights…

The sewer/drain-access covers – seriously! They have lions on them – a symbol of Jerusalem. I noticed them the first time I visited Jerusalem, and they make me smile every time I look down!

The Montefiore Windmill… which will be mentioned in a variety of guidebooks, but very few people on a Christian Pilgrimage will see it as it is on West Jerusalem where there aren’t many Christian sites that Groups visit. And on that note…

The Ethiopian Church Compound… tucked away on a (very undistinguished) side street in West Jerusalem. Because it is so very far off the beaten track for Christian Pilgrim Groups, it is quiet, prayerful and not very full of people. It is possible to sit and pray and ponder – and breathe in the very faint smell of incense that hangs in the air.

The Scottish Flag… atop the ‘Scottish Church’ (the proper name of which is actually St Andrew’s Scots Memorial Church, Jerusalem) where I went to worship this morning. (The Service began at 10.05am and finished at 11.40, but had we sung the hymns at a decent speed we would have been finished by 11.20am I suspect! J ) I had never visited the Church before, and it is a lovely in its simplicity. There is a beautiful piece of art work in the apse of the Church created by people with Learning Needs living in Bethlehem. (Notice how the shadows make it into a Trinity... I like that, a lot!)

A good number of people (Anglicans especially) will make their way to St George’s Cathedral – so that counts as a famous site, I’m afraid!

Then there are the good sounds

The amazing range of languages and accents… from everywhere and anywhere. Today it was the Glasgow and Arizonian accents, and the Japanese and Dutch languages. As well as the Arabic and Hebrew (and Ethiopian!)

The Call to Prayer… not quite so evident from where I am staying just inside the Old City Walls beside the Jaffa Gate (so called because it is at the end of the road that leads from Jaffa to Jerusalem – just like the Damascus Gate leads from/to Damascus. There is the Dung Gate too… the least said about that, the better!) The first few nights I was here in Jerusalem the early morning Call to Prayer woke me with quite a start. Beside the Jaffa Gate lies West Jerusalem – the newer Jewish area… hence no Mosques on this side of the city.

The Church Bells… ringing out for Services, ringing for the Angelus, (and ringing ever-so-slightly out of sync with each other when ringing the hour!) There are single bells on some Churches, a handful of bells on others, and at the Lutheran Church I attended (and was unexpectedly invited to assist with on the Sunday I first appeared and then on Ash Wednesday – read about it here) there were four bells – rung electronically (don’t tell the Tower Captain at my Church, he’d be horrified! We have ten bells in our Tower, just so you know. J )

And then are the not so good sights…

The rubbish on the streets… especially of East Jerusalem, sad to say. There is obviously not much money put into this part of the City, and it shows. It is such a pity. This is my favourite part of the City, but it looks so grimy when compared to others parts – and just crossing one street is all it takes to see the difference.

The beggars… all over Jerusalem – the Old City, East Jerusalem and West Jerusalem too. After the Service today I headed off to explore West Jerusalem, where I’ve never been before. Walking around I saw two men, one sitting on a Zimmer frame/chair holding out a plastic cup which he just about drew the strength to shake occasionally, if he woke up from his dozing. The other man didn’t even have a cup. I confess to walking by – but only to give myself time to get some change out of my purse in order to go back. Had I been near a shop my preference would have been to purchase a sandwich and hot drink as it was a fairly cool day today weather-wise.

And the not so good sounds… in fact the most irritating sound in Israel and Palestine…

The sound of honking car horns. Wherever you go – and at whatever time of day or night – you hear the sound of horns. People try to direct the traffic by them, taxis try to pick up a ride with them and, just (very) occasionally, people will warn pedestrians that they need to move out of the way.

It took me a couple of days to work out what was going on with the taxis as I thought they were honking either at someone else, or at me to tell me to get out of the way! When I did realise what it was about, I soon learned that a simple shake of the head or raising of the hand to indicate ‘no ride required’ is enough and on they go quite happily.

The ordinary driver is another matter though. Today at a set of busy traffic lights, the light was quite clearly red so that a) pedestrians could cross the road and b) the traffic moving across the junction could move too. Alas, this made no difference to at least six or seven of the twelve or so drivers waiting for the light to change to green. I can’t begin to describe to you the cacophony of sound that prevails… everywhere!

Tomorrow is a new day – heading to Tel Aviv to meet two friends who are treating me (and themselves) to a couple of rooms at a plush hotel for the night before we head up to Galilee on Tuesday. And so, more anon!

A few days with my forebears in faith

Over the past few days I have been trying to become better acquainted with the different ‘quarters’ of the 'Old City' of Jerusalem. Yesterday and today it has been the turn of the Jewish Quarter. It is not a part of the Old City that I know very well, and thus it is a place that I have always felt that I needed to be more careful in – specifically with regard to my attire and behaviour. I have also been careful as to when I have visited – ensuring it is not the Sabbath, for example. I think, on reflection, it is about my seeking to be courteous and polite. It is true that there is a particular part of the Jewish Quarter that is home to more Orthodox and Conservative Jews, and the Guidebooks recommend that this is certainly not an area to drift into in a car when it is the Sabbath as you are likely to get stones thrown at your vehicle. As I have walked around over the past few days though, it is possible to see where to be or not to be – just as it was in the Muslim Quarter (ie anywhere near an entrance to the Temple Mount that was not the official entrance during the official hours available to non-Muslims for visits).

I have visited six particular sites over the past two days: the Jerusalem Archaeological Park & Davidson Centre, the Hurva Synagogue, the ‘Alone on the Wall’ Exhibition, the Burnt House, the Herodian Quarter/WohlArchaeological Museum and the Western Wall Tunnels. In visiting each of them, I have journeyed through the history of this city and the people who have lived here – with particular reference to the Jewish people.

The Jerusalem Archaeological Park & Davidson Centre abut the Temple Mount and Western Wall – quite literally. I can quite understand why the Muslim authorities are so sensitive to the excavation work that is going on as it right against the foundations of the Temple Mount. Regardless of who one thinks should have ownership of the Mount, the work that is going on will mean that one group will feel either that the other is seeking to interfere with what is rightfully theirs or impede access to what is rightfully theirs. The work that is going on at the base of the Mount (hidden underground and away from sight, it is true) presents in microcosm the very problems that are at the root of the underlying anxiety that rests in the air of the City of Jerusalem: ‘You have what is mine and I want it back’ vs ‘You want what is mine and I am not going to let you have it’. I believe these statements, although quite simplistic, are at the heart of the conflict between Jew and Muslim. It’s not just about the Temple Mount – it is about the whole of this land. Christians don’t even begin to have look in with regard to the dispute over ‘land rights’ – they are a faith group that is diminished by both authorities in the land (and in the city in particular) and many Christians have left Palestine and Israel because it is such a difficult place to be.

The Archaeological Park is a site in the open air, and one wanders around the stones realising that some of them are almost two thousand years old. Some parts have been uncovered for some time and, with their uncovering, new insights have been gleaned into the way in which the Temples of our Jewish ancestors (First and Second Temple periods) were built, decorated, used and revered.

Some of the stones are massive – seriously massive. Imagining how they were quarried, and then brought to the top of this mountain – and how long this took, with building and decorating added on is seriously mind-boggling. Just walking around this place, knowing that my forebears in faith walked in this place too, I find really moving(Jews as forebears of Christians). They came to worship in this place, just as I travel to worship in my church or in a church here in Jerusalem. Worshipping God is important to me, therefore I make an effort, I put time aside, I find others with whom to share the space and time so that we are a community and household of faith together.

In the Burnt House and Herodian Quarter, the visitor is transported back in time to the time of the destruction of the Second Temple – 70AD (or CE if one is using current time denotors). The charred remains of homes are visible, indicating the torching of the city, and in the Burnt House, the remains of a severed arm were discovered during the excavations of the area carried out in the years just after the Six Day War of 1967. Underneath the ground of the area surrounding the Hurva Synagogue (itself a building rebuilt twice), excavations during this period revealed many homes and gave up stories to connect us in our present day to the days of those in times past.

Stone vessels indicate that one of the homes belonged to a family who took ritual cleanliness seriously. Not for them clay or wooden vessels that could be tainted, rather, for their household the vessels must be of stone that could not be tainted in any way.

In another house, the remains of perfume bottles were found, with pessel and mortar for crushing the ingredients that would be used to release the scents. Glass objects, sealed underground for two thousand years, revealed following only after a period of intense bombing, a period that led the Jewish Community here to ask how its past could be honoured, whilst its future be developed (and ensured). These two places in particular give vivid insight into the past, and some small insight into why emotions related to this City of Jerusalem run so very high for all who live here. Honouring the past – and those who lived, fought for and died here – of all faiths – whilst developing the future is a complex business.

I have come away from each of these six experiences – individually and as a whole – inspired, moved, challenged, confused. However, this is what faith does, this is what thinking does, this is what being truly alive does – and I am glad for it. My, how I pray there were a way forward that enabled the people of this city to live in peace and free from harm.

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem,
they shall prosper that love thee.
Psalm 122: 6

Visual delights to start the day

With no particular focus for today, l made my way through the Zion Gate this morning. It is so easy to pass by the importance of that statement. I made my way through the Zion Gate. The place where I am staying is on Mount Zion. We read of this place countless times in the Scriptures – both Hebrew and Christian. It is a place of great importance for it was here that David captured Jerusalem from the Jebusites and realised that God had given the land into the hands of the Israelites (2 Sam 5:7). In the grounds of the place where I am staying are the steps upon which Jesus is believed to have walked leading up the hill away from the Kidron Valley. On Mount Zion stands the Dormition Abbey where Mary is held to have ‘fallen asleep’ and ascended to heaven (although it is also possible to visit the Tomb of the Virgin Mary where she is buried, here in Jerusalem, in addition to seeing The House of Mary in Turkey, where she is believed to have lived out her days with St John! To cover all bases, I've been to all three...) For thousands of years this Mountain has been of importance to God’s people, and it remains so today.

With no particular focus for today, l made my way through the Zion Gate this morning.

The places explored across the five or so hours of walking took in all the four areas of the City: Armenian, Jewish, Christian and Muslim. I discovered myself in the Jewish area by accident and so, out of respect for the Sabbath, made my way away from it. It was my sense of circumspection rather than anything else... how weird am I?!

The walk through the Gate took me initially past the Cathedral of St James. I was actually looking for the Mardigian Museum which I was told by the entrance keeper to the church had been closed for three years (for those who like a smile, check this out!) My Library copy of Dorling Kindersley’s book is not all that up to date then (2012 Edition - should have checked the website!) He told me I could go into the church – which I thought was only open between 6-730 in the morning (no chance of me getting there at the moment, I’m still on UK time!) In the courtyard that leads into the church itself, there was one of the most joyful depictions of Mary and the Infant Christ that I have ever seen. It was such a lovely image with which to start the day.

 
There are beautiful mosaics beyond the gates (which were firmly locked, alas). Beautiful mosaics and images is a hallmark of this City, all of which sit alongside the challenge of religion and politics. It's a confusing place.

Drifting on from there I came across the iron steps that lead you up to ‘A Walk on the Roofs’ where you do, quite literally, walk on the rooftops – mainly above the souk, but also above homes, churches, synagogues and mosques. There were bicycles up there, children playing, families making their way over the rooftops – as it was a much easier route than the busy, winding streets below. From the rooftops you can see across to the surrounding hills, but up close it is a fantastic mess of satellite dishes (no planning permission required, obviously!), make-shift covers to stop the rain getting into the souk below, a playground, some smartly covered areas of flooring with other area that are quite dangerous if you don’t mind where you step. There are many nooks and crannies – one of which I followed – finding myself, quite unexpectedly, on a veranda overlooking the Western Wall (previously known as the Wailing Wall). I was soon joined by some young Jewish boys, and an older Jewish gentleman. They didn’t seem to mind me being there and, whilst I have valued immensely the privilege of praying alongside Jews and Christians at the Wall on previous visits (usually for peace in this City of Jerusalem) it felt right on this occasion to be at a distance – praying, watching, waiting, remaining, hoping.

And so I moved on… down a staircase, briefly into the souk, and then out into the Muristan area where I spent a while listening to a guitarist playing beautifully soul-full music. It was lovely here, away from the crowds for a while…

With no particular focus for today, l made my way through the Zion Gate this morning. It was a good morning – with more to follow… which will follow in a later entry as this one is far too long already!

A day of a hundred (or so) voices

I have no idea of how many voices I have actually heard today – but it will be somewhere near a good few hundred or so. From breakfast, with a Good Morning called across the room in welcome (with a delightful French accent from the Brothers and Sisters of the two Communities based at St Peter in Gallicantu), to the young boys of the souk competing to see who could yell the loudest in an attempt to drum up custom (in fact, no-one was listening to the boys – except themselves as they smiled and egged each other to yell all the more) and on to Vespers with the Community - said in the Church here.

In between, of course, there were the voices raised in song in the Crypt of the Dormition Abbey, the American who was loudly holding court in the café of Christ Church (proclaiming that Jesus was not a Jew as he was seen as ‘radical’ by the Jews of the time), the quiet murmur of the prayers of the pilgrims as they knelt at the site of the crucifixion (Golgotha), as well as the various people (all men) who wished to ‘assist’ me to find where I was going (at a cost, of course). One of them was Joseph, who loved England but who was born in Jerusalem. He was the most polite of all – even shaking my hand and blessing me as he went on his way. Others asked where I was from, having first caught my attention by calling out ‘Lady!’ I certainly don’t view myself as a lady but, because I automatically think it is someone wishing to tell me I have dropped something or possibly asking for help, usually I turn around. This, alas, gives it away! I shan't be doing this after today. I have also learned today to never sit or stand looking at a guidebook in an open space, always walk everywhere with a look of determination, ever look up at the architecture or down an alleyway with any show of inquisitiveness. It makes for speedy and dull viewing until you realise that this is just how it is here. Everyone is seeking to make a living here, with some barely managing to eke one out at all.

A shopkeeper from whom I purchased fruit and vegetables was only too happy to help me and did not ‘take me for a ride’ in the price he charged – unlike the man in the shop that sold herbs to unsuspecting passers-by who, like me, were called in by the evocative smells… more fool us! Like the owners of the souvenir shops that drip with ‘holy’ items that reflect every possible shade of Christian tradition, I imagine this man must see me as an arrogant westerner who can’t be bothered to learn the language in order to ask for what I required in his native language, Whilst I am vaguely irked for his disdain for me (and I know I deserve it), I also admire him, along with all the traders of the city (as well as the ‘beggars’) for the sheer tenacity which drives them on to learn how to speak Polish, English, German, Spanish – and more – all so that they can better sell their wares or seek a quick shekel.

And then there were the two unexpected Services to close the day. Two and a half weeks into this period of Extended Study Leave (Sabbatical) I realise how out of the loop I am with the pattern of the church year as I noted a poster advertising Services for the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. Today's Service was held at St Mark's Convent (Upper Room) Syrian Orthodox Patriarchate – an impossibly difficult place to find! I went along wondering if there would be anyone else there at all - given what a maelstrom of faith this City of Jerusalem is. I couldn’t find it, and had to ask. A kind shopkeeper took pity on me as I poked my neck around a corner – Guidebook in hand open at the map page. I had to turn back the way I had come… but I was not the only one finding it so hard to find. I arrived just moments after the service had started but they was no room in the church itself. I, along with about twenty others, had to stand (or sit if you could find a chair) outside the body of the church in the entrance hall. The Service took place in Arabic, English, French, Armenian and Syriac. What an amazing experience. The singing was so passionate, even though ‘completely foreign’ to me!

Vespers here at St Peter’s came next – all in French. Sung gently by the seven people gathered, with me following the text and seeking to make out what was being sung and read dredging up my schoolbook French. Some I could remember, some I worked out from context and some was just beyond me, but it was fine. I was there. I was present. I was with others who were happy for me to be there with them.

So many voices raised in speech and song throughout the day in a city where so many seek to hear one particular voice speak or sing – the voice of God. Listening is sometimes hard here. Listening is always vital here. Listen.