Catching a Dream excerpt

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