My trip to the Holy Land is, in many ways, not just about me. It's certainly about the people of the land, whose rights to the land matter and whose are upheld, who has access to what... but it's also about my ancestors. I didn't know that until I got here, but it turns out it's the truth.
I had a particular experience at the Jordan River that I have not yet told anyone about or said aloud... and I'm not ready to announce it here, but I want to say that it brought to the forefront my ancestors, and in particular: my grandparents who have passed. All 3 were very devout Christians and I see myself now as doing this for them, too-- making the pilgrimage that they were never able to.
We visited the Western Wall today. For folks who don't know, the Western Wall is the remaining wall of the Jerusalem temple, which was destroyed in 72 AD. It is all that is left of it.
Before coming to the Middle East, I had expected some hostility. I am, after all, a light-skinned American dripping with privilege and coming from a country which is not always viewed fondly by folks in other places. Knowing my country's relationship with the political parties in the region as well as how our media treats the conflicts in the region, I expected hostility from Muslims and Palestinians (whether Muslim or not). I expected Israelis to be more friendly. After all, our government gives them money and we support Israel in a variety of ways.
What I have experienced is exactly the opposite of this expectation.
During our time in Jordan and Nazareth, I felt warmly welcomed by everyone, whether they expected me or not and whether they were Christian or not. Arabic hospitality is incredible. This is likely because traveling through these lands in earlier times would have been quite a rough journey. The people survived on each other's hospitality and it is foremost in their culture. Driving around, people wave at you. People greet you on the street and welcome you (we are pretty clearly not from the area). They welcome you into their homes and try to feed you at every turn. "Let me take this," "Let me get this." I think what might exemplify this truth well is the beginning of our work with the Orthodox Initiative. Wafa, the leader of the organization, greeted us upon our arrival and gave us some information before we were to leave to work with refugees. Our scheduling has been tight and we were in a hurry. "We have no more time for questions right now," she told us as folks scurried around to get things done, "but first we will have some coffee." More important than anything else was that we felt welcomed. She also invited us to her home for drinks and snacks after our long day.
Peter, one of our leaders, suggested that this hospitality in spite of American politics is because Palestinians (who are well represented in Jordan and their perspective is well represented by non-Palestinians in Jordan) know what it is like to have a government that does not represent the truths of its people. They understand that just because our government is not on their side does not necessarily mean that Americans are Zionists or anti-Muslim or anti-Arab.
SO. All this is to preface my experience in the Holy City.
We arrived in East Jerusalem last night and began our journey within its borders today. After the Mount of Olives and its holy sites, we entered the Old City.
As we entered the Jewish quarter, we found the military presence increase. There were Israeli soldiers, all seemingly younger than me, carrying automatic weapons at every turn and in swarms. To be an outsider in a militarized place felt vulnerable from the get-go, but I had high hopes and expectations for an experience touching the Western Wall-- the wall of Jesus' temple,
older than old,
felt by thousands upon thousands of pious religious folk from a variety of traditions.
We entered.
Men through one door, women through another.
We got to a place where we could see the wall. It was divided--
a section for men;
a section for women.
The men's section was larger, of course, even though there were far more women at the wall praying. The women were crowded in, many waiting to get close enough to it. The men could have spread their arms out a couple times over.
No one said welcome in this place. The soldiers with guns looked at us like nothing (at best), but more often I felt that they looked at us like unwelcome invaders. I distinctly felt that many of the Israelis had no interest in sharing this Holy City, to which many of our religious traditions hold claim, with anyone but their own kind. It mattered not our reverence or irreverance, our silence or noisiness.
A woman stomped over to our group to tell one of my peers that she was not dressed appropriately. The look on her face as she asked my friend to modify her appearance was one of disgust-- she publicly shamed her. That-- publicly shaming-- was okay in the holy site. Machine guns were okay in the holy site. Relegating the women to a small portion of the wall was okay. Disallowing women from the study room was okay. Banning Muslims and Christians who lived in the area for generations from returning to it was okay. My friend's church dress and blazer were not.
I wanted to touch the wall. I wanted to touch the wall with the hand I wore my Grammie's ring on. I wanted to feel the holiness seep through the stone into my hand. I wanted to feel the spiritual weight of centuries of prayer.
I walked toward the women's entrance to the wall. Two women sat at a table with head scarves for those who didn't have their own. One of the women was the one who had shamed my peer. I walked toward the table behind a different one of my peers.
"Are you Jewish?" she asked.
"No," she answered.
"You don't need it," she said, motioning her hand as if she were shooing a fly. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. Could she be suggesting she is not obligated? Would she have asked her about her religious identity if she had lighter skin?
The look on that woman's face. Disgust. She did not want her there. That wall was not for us to share. That temple which holds prominence in our scriptures, too, was not for us.
The other woman who sat next to her offered a kind face. "No, it's okay, take it." She looked apologetic.
We took the scarves. We only wanted to be respectful.
I put it on and walked toward the wall.
Cold gazes.
The wall was crowded, as I mentioned. The women were squished in. I sat in a chair and waited for a space. Should I move toward the wall? Was it okay? I doubted it now. They let us in, but they didn't let us in. We were tolerated.
A space opened up between two Israeli soldiers in uniform. No, somewhere else. The wall was so crowded. Nothing else was opening.
Should I? Could I?
I went over and stood between them. My hand was shaking as I lifted it to touch the wall.
Between the soldiers.
I could. Because I had American privilege.
It was dirty. A terrible feeling washed over me, so unlike the feeling of the Jordan River, the Garden of Gethsemane, and every other holy site we had seen.
I lowered myself to the ground. I touched the wall again. I wanted it to speak to me. I wanted to feel something. Something wonderful, but all I felt was a wave of...
of...
It was dirty. It was desecrated.
I held my hand on the wall, wanting something to feel sacred-- not fearful, not yucky, not terrible.
A bird shit on my hand.
What is going on? Was it Wendell Berry that said there are no unsacred places, only sacred places and desecrated places?
Prayer. Prayer. Prayer.
I backed away from the wall.
Slowly.
Faster.
Quickly.
More quickly.
The tears were rolling down my checks. Get me out of here. This is not right.
I came back to the table and removed my scarf. The woman who had been kind and told us to take the scarves sat there. As I put it back in the box, I looked her in the eyes and with my kindest smile, I said: "Thank you." Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for treating me like a person. She smiled back at me and nodded.
I walked back toward the group.
More tears. All the tears.
What is going on in this place?
