And so, the rabbis say, God saw
this, the great devotion of the two brothers…and He chose this spot as the
place for His Holy City, a place where brothers honored each other.
But I say it is the clarity
of the air that reveals the souls of men to their Maker, the sun washing the
stones in subtle shades of gold so you feel the presence of celestial beings,
the undulating hills that surround a natural fortress whose duty is to protect
and comfort. It is a searing clarity reflected in the eyes of her people,
brown, blue, green, grey, from all over the world, brown-skinned or pale, with
crosses, magen davids, crescents,
chains, sighs, screams, whispers, prayers. She is a mystery: she wipes your
weary brow with a kiss, she throws you to the ground with a knife at your
throat.
Our
driver speaks not a word of English but unerringly escorts us straight to the
Kotel, known as the Wailing Wall historically and now called the Western Wall.
My heart is wrenched by the sight of a string of jeeps, bus-loads of soldiers,
the air thick with tension, the wariness on the guards’ faces as they inspect
our bags before we may cross the large plaza in front of the wall.
Wailing Wall. Symbol of
Israel’s past glory. The temple once stood here, where God hovered close to
man, where the sweet smell of incense and burnt flesh mingled with the
ointments of a million men and women who came thrice yearly to celebrate the
festivals dictated by the Torah given to Moses. The niches and cracks in her
stony façade are filled with miniscule scraps of paper, folded and refolded so
they can be inserted into the narrow slits between the stones, prayers said to
reach the ears of the Almighty more quickly.
Four women stand somberly in
front of the wall, wrapped in layers against the evening chill, one with her
forehead pressed against the stones, wrapped in private prayer. The smaller
woman’s side is divided from the men’s by a man-made metal wall. The men’s side
is full of activity as men and boys approach the stones to pray, some in the
long coats and fur hats of the Hasidim, others obviously tourists. The golden
dome above glistens, ready to erupt with hate for the enemy below, the soldiers
pace back and forth uneasily with their guns slung over their shoulders. We can
feel the tension as palpable as the chill descending as the sun sinks. The wind
whips across the square and we spend only a few minutes by the wall before we
are ready to find shelter for the night.
We walk through the Old
City, our nerves on fire, and yet, awed, amazed at her narrow, twisting
streets, the bustle, the smell of cardamom and cinnamon, the gleam of gates
leading to ancient sites. Our feet are walking within her gates! The same
stones, here a series of huge and ancient stone blocks dating from the time of
the Romans, where the feet of the holy ones, the prophets and saints walked.
The pilgrims down through the centuries. The kings of the earth rattled through
these arches in their chariots, where now horns blare as modern machines try to
navigate between pedestrians and donkeys.
(c) Wendy Brown-Baez Catch a Dream 2018
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