Violence in the Old City as our trip comes to an end

JERUSALEM — Today was our last day in the Holy Land, or Godland, if you will. Our schedule deemed it a “reporting day” and, for the first time in a week, we didn’t have a set schedule. There were no places to see or people to meet; everything was up to us. Most of us took this opportunity to report (or shop for gifts and souvenirs) and finish tying up loose ends on the stories we’ve been thinking about all week.

I spent a lot of this day at the Western Wall: thinking about the time we spent there as a class and reflecting on how I could use the conversations I’d had with different pilgrims throughout the week to create something that might resemble a good news story. My colleagues did similar things: Augusta spent her day at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Sarah spent her day taking a tour of Jerusalem’s water tunnels, Dan visited an evangelical church in Bethlehem and Vildana and Isobel were reporting on cross-bearers in the streets of Jerusalem’s Old City.

But things didn’t go as expected. This afternoon at one of the gates of the Old City, an Israeli security guard was wounded in what police said was a stabbing attack. The assailant was killed at the scene. The security guard was taken to the hospital. As journalists, we’re trained to see this as news and almost expect these things to happen. We live in New York City, after all. But today, after everything we’ve seen, done and experienced all week, it weighed on us more than it normally would have.

Vildana and Isobel were at the gate when it happened.

“We heard a scuffle and someone being beaten, and then a few seconds later we started hearing gunshots,” Isobel said. She estimated she was five meters from the scene when she and Vildana sought shelter from the gunfire, pressing themselves against a stone wall.

According to a report by Haaretz, the assailant was from the West Bank, and belonged to the Hamas party there, although he is not considered to be an active member. Hamas commended the attack in a statement, saying that it commemorated 100 days since President Donald Trump declared the move of the U.S. Embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.

In the moment, everything was “super surreal,” Isobel said. “Afterwards, it was clear that tensions are still running very high in the city and it was a rude awakening to that.”

After the attack, some shops closed and guards stayed at the gate, ensuring that the area was safe. Some of the holy sites in Jerusalem also shut down, al-Haram al-Sharif being one of them; Professor Moghul was locked inside for about an hour. Tensions were high until we all touched base with one another.

I rushed with my classmates Dan and Galie to the Old City, in hopes that someone would be able to tell me what happened before it was all over the news. I found myself back at the Western Wall and talked to one of the women there. We were both trying to understand what happened. It turned out I knew more than she did.

“Be careful and God bless you,” she said before hugging me tightly. “God will protect you. He protects his people.”

Thea did a quick WhatsApp check and made sure that all of our classmates and faculty were accounted for. I don’t know who protected us today, but I am thankful that we are all safe. We met for dinner back at our hotel just in time for everyone to talk about this day and the experiences of the week. We celebrated being together, learning and growing throughout this journey. We traded stories of our best encounters, our favorite jokes and the religions we would switch to for a week if we could.

My favorite part of this trip was learning so much about the world around me. This was my first time outside of the United States, and I was so grateful to enter every situation with an open mind. Today was hard. I wasn’t sure I wanted to write this dispatch because of how difficult it was for my colleagues to be present for something so hard to watch or hear. But they are okay and we are all safe. For that, and for Godland, I am also grateful.

We’ll see you soon, Israel/Palestine.


Sacred stone and the fault lines of conflict

JERUSALEM — Our journey through the Holy Land has finally brought us to the city holy to three faiths, Jerusalem. After two days immersed in the tension, trauma and faith of the West bank, we drove through the Bethlehem checkpoint and into Jerusalem’s Old City, where the fault lines of conflict are tangled in the sacred geography of the world’s major religions. We also got to see the city’s Jewish holy sites through the eyes of Professor Goldman.

We began our tour on a rooftop with a panoramic view of the Old City. Professor Yarden pointed out the tangle of holy sites and ethnic enclaves that spread in every direction. In the near distance, we looked past the Arab and Armenian quarters towards the Western Wall and the Haram al-Sharif. In the distance, Jewish tombs poured down the slopes of the Mount of Olives, feet pointed towards the former Temple.

Goldman told the group about his great-grandfather, who, like my great-grandfather, is buried on the Mount of Olives. These were Jews who traveled to what was then Palestine at the end of their lives to die in the Land. Yarden made the point that this ancient practice was consciously countered by the modern Zionist movement. The Zionists declared that they were not coming to Eretz Israel to die – they would come to live.

We made our way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The church was built on the site where Jesus is traditionally believed to have been crucified, buried and resurrected. Pilgrims flow through the church doors to fill relics with sacred energy and to have a moment of contact with a place that has touched the divine.

But while the site brings Christians together from across the world, it is also a place of division. The building itself is a patchwork of jurisdictions and boundaries between the six Christian denominations who oversee it. Where clergy from each denomination can pray, burn incense, hang relics or repair the church’s crumbling infrastructure has been prescribed by a complex series of agreements dating back to the 1800s.

Yarden said that while many like to emphasize the divisions within the church, it runs remarkably well, an elegant ballet of carefully choreographed coexistence. But the slightest deviation from the agreed-upon divisions – no matter how mundane – can reveal the spiritual fervor and tension just beneath the surface. On a hot day in 2002, a Coptic monk moved his chair from its designated spot into the shade, setting off a brawl with Ethiopian Orthodox monks that sent 11 clergymen to the hospital.

In the cramped confines of the Old City, it’s not only co-religionists who share real estate. We visited David’s Tomb, a Jewish holy site, where tradition says the biblical King David is buried. Directly above David’s Tomb sits The Cenacle, believed by many Christians to be the site of the Last Supper.

The site is one ancient building with two floors of ecstatic worship performed in the traditions of two different faiths. These two layers of believers generally exist in different orbits, but it is a tentative coexistence. Yarden recalled seeing a group of ultra-Orthodox worshippers, upset that monks chanting above them would impede their prayers from reaching heaven, once attempted to drown out a Christian ceremony with blasts from their shofars. The police were called but could do nothing to settle the dispute. “Israel guarantees freedom of worship,” he explained.

From the roof above David’s Tomb and the Cenacle, one can look eastward across the Jewish Quarter and see the twin domes rising above the most significant piece of shared real estate in Jerusalem – and possibly the world. To Jews it is the Temple Mount: the site of the second temple and the source of all holiness in the world. For Muslims, it is the Haram al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary: the home of the al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, the place from which the Prophet Mohamed ascended to heaven.

While the State of Israel controls the land surrounding the site, the Haram al-Sharif itself is controlled by the Waqf, an Islamic authority appointed by Jordan. Jews can get permission to access the site but Jewish prayer is strictly forbidden.

Unfettered access to the Temple Mount for Jews is limited to the plaza below its Western Wall, abutting the Jewish Quarter of the city. Many visitors press their foreheads against the stones, trying to be as close as possible to the spot where the Holy of Holies once stood. Many slip written prayers in the cracks between the stones. For some, access to the Wall is a miracle of history and a place where they feel the presence of the divine. For others it is an unacceptable substitute until the day the Temple is rebuilt.

Even the slightest diversion from the status quo at this physical intersection of Judaism and Islam has the potential to send the region into chaos. Reverence for the site by both Jews and Muslims is both a cause and a reflection of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

Goldman told the group that when he first came to Jerusalem after his bar mitzvah, the Western Wall was in the sector of the city controlled by Jordan, so the closest he could get was the Jaffa Gate. He was finally able to visit the Wall in his 20s, after Israel took control of the city in 1967. He recalled standing on the plaza in front of the Wall and overhearing a father tell his young son about the Temple, its destruction and its connection to 3,000 years of Jewish history. Goldman said he decided then that he would one day do the same with his children – a promise he fulfilled.

Over and over again, Jerusalem tests the idea that the same space can be sacred to different peoples at the same time for completely different reasons. Declaring something sacred is in some ways to declare ideological ownership of it, yet the city is a tangle of intertwined claims of both spiritual and physical ownership.

Yet, as intractable as these competing claims can seem, and while it’s true that a tenuous coexistence is enforced by armed soldiers and high-tech surveillance systems, Jerusalem also gives reasons for hope. Sitting within the walls of the Old City, we watched the intermixed processions of Muslims heading to the al-Aqsa for Friday Jumu’ah prayers, Orthodox Jews descending towards the Western Wall and Christian pilgrims following Franciscan friars along the Via Delarosa. These competing currents squeezed, mixed and diverted through the ancient, narrow streets, as they do every Friday.

As the Christian pilgrims approach the final Stations of the Cross and enter the courtyard in front of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, they pass through the shadow of another piece of Jerusalem’s sacred geography, the Mosque of Omar. Yarden told us how the mosque was built to honor the Caliph Omar, who conquered Jerusalem in 637. Omar met with the Patriarch Sophronius at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to accept his surrender and receive the keys to the city. When it was time for prayer, Omar’s assistants suggested he pray in the church. Yet Omar feared that later generations would learn that he prayed there and would attempt to build a mosque over the site of Jesus’s death. Out of deference to the Christian holy site, he prayed outside. The Mosque of Omar stands as evidence that Jerusalem’s sacred spaces can be the core of conflict, but, Yarden reminded us, these two houses of worship can also be monuments to dialogue and coexistence.


The terrible dizziness of approaching the divine Al-Aqsa

JERUSALEM — When Ali Abu Al-Awar speaks of what Jews call the Temple Mount and what Muslims call al-Haram al-Sharif (“the Noble Sanctuary”), reams of history spool out. Here memories from the distant past and the nearly present co-habituate cautiously, both possessing equal merit. There are memories of Israeli military forces from 1967 spreading out over the plaza and crying in exultation, “Har HaBayit BeYadeinu!” — “The Temple Mount is in our hands!” Very close by is Al-Ghazali, the 12th century Muslim theologian, leading a study group on the reconciliation of legalistic and mystical Islam and underneath an olive tree writing his Revival of the Religious Sciences. From Al-Awar’s mouth, the Haram comes alive, teeming both with the conflicts that have defined Jerusalem’s strife alongside the spiritual truths that make this city transcendent.

As we followed Al-Awar to the Haram, we passed a Muslim cemetery where the old Arabic stones crowd one another, vying for recognition when the final judgment comes. Across the Mount of Olives, we could see the adjacent Jewish cemetery, a reminder that the faiths which live in Jerusalem all believe in the resurrection of the body, an apocalyptical tradition centered around the Temple Mount as a site of ascension.

Throughout the Muslim cemetery are green coffins with the words sadaqa jarya or “the only things that stay are good works.” When a Muslim dies, coffins are used as a transport from the mosque to the burial site, but not put in the ground. The presence of them around the cemetery points to the Haram as an active Muslim site, while the Jewish cemetery across the way remains quiet.

As we entered the Lion’s Gate, we were greeted by yet another guide, Ahmad Abu-Hadid, who has been ushering tourists and dignitaries through the site for 30 years. Abu-Hadid quickly condensed into a few minutes some 1,300 years of the site’s Muslim history, from the construction of the Dome of the Rock under the Umayyad Caliph Abd al-Malik in 691 C.E. to the Jordanian government gaining access and control of the Haram in 1951. The Haram is a vast plaza, with minarets on all four sides, the Dome of the Rock in the center, and the Al-Aqsa Mosque to the furthermost right, the third holiest mosque in Islam after Mecca and Medina. While the women of our group put on long loose skirts offered by the waqf, the Islamic religious trust in cooperation with the Jordanians who control access to the Haram, school children nearby played volleyball and old men sat under trees drinking tea.

The serenity of this Saturday morning proved to be deceptive as Al-Awar explained attempts by right-wing Jews to bomb the Dome of the Rock and the continued attempt by fundamentalist ultra-Orthodox Jews to assert their presence on the Mount, and their dream of destroying the Muslims sites and building a third temple.

“There is a fear of violence, a constant fear of Muslims losing control here,” Al-Awar said as we meandered around the Dome and towards the Al-Aqsa Mosque. To counteract these provocations Muslim citizen groups called Murabitin (for men) and Murabitat (for women) were formed in 2010 to safeguard the Haram. From Sunday to Thursday, they sit in circles studying Islamic thought, on guard for those seeking to undermine the status quo, the latest governmental iteration of which says only Muslims can pray on the Haram but tourists of other faiths can visit.

Even in the midst of these tensions, the Haram acts as a great source of unity for those of the Islamic faith in their connection to their religion and their God. Muslims from all over the world flock to the site, seen as the place where the Prophet Muhammad ascended into heaven, to meet the prophets and speak with God. The Dome glittered magnificently on this cloudless day, as the sun beat down and the devout recited late morning prayers.

As my classmates were ushered into the Dome of the Rock for a brief visit, I was unable to join them because I was overcome by a terrible dizziness. One could say it was dehydration or the overwhelming feeling of approaching the divine. At a place like this, no one ever really knows.


Life on the margins in the West Bank

BETHLEHEM — On Thursday, the fifth day of our journey, we heard from three separate communities in the occupied West Bank about their engagement with the land. In the morning, we visited Deheisha, a Palestinian refugee camp to the south of Bethlehem. Then, after lunch, we travelled to the nearby Jewish settlement of Alon Shvut, where we spoke with a professor of the Har Etzion Yeshiva. And finally, in the evening, we went to the unrecognized Bedouin village of Susya.

We woke up in the Palestinian homes where we spent the night and then regrouped and traveled to Deheisha. Omar Hmidat, the son of the local imam, came to greet us and be our tour guide. Hmidat, 26, is majoring in media studies at Al-Quds University as part of the Bard College honors program. His thesis is on “the visual narratives of Palestinian political expression” – something that was evident from his in-depth knowledge of the murals that dotted the encampment.

The camp itself was created in the aftermath of the Arab-Israeli War when, in 1949, refugees from Hebron and 45 villages west of Jerusalem sought temporary asylum. According to official statistics from 2015/16, there are as many as 15,000 people living on an area of one square kilometer. Over the years, however, the population has expanded rapidly and as many as 22,000 people now live immediately outside the camp, Hmidat said.

Though the camp is largely comprised of permanent structures, the UNRWA is still operative in the area.

While the community is less reliant on the UNWRA for aid than it once was, Hmidat explained to us that its presence is also symbolic. It is, he said, “proof of the right of return” for Palestinians.

The meaning of “right to return,” he continued, has evolved from the refugees’ right to resettlement in their former homes to a broader understanding of access and basic civil liberties. Deheisha is located between Zone A, governed by the Palestinian authority, and Zone B, which is under joint Israeli-Palestinian security control.

After touring the refugee camp with Hmidat, we went to his home where we met his father, Sheikh Ibrahim Hmidat. He took time to explain to us that life was hard and dispiriting for the residents of Daheisha, but that Islam has helped to sustain the community, giving it hope for the future.

After lunch, we met with Rabbi Yair Kahn at Har Ezion Yeshiva, in the settlement of Alon Shvut. A student of two luminaries of the Modern Orthodox movement, Joseph Soloveitchik and Aaron Lichtenstein, Kahn serves as the editor of the yeshiva’s virtual Bet Midrash Talmud series.

The rabbi opened the conversation by saying, “To be Jewish is to be part of a nation.”

Through references to the books of Esther and Ruth, it quickly became apparent that Kahn derived his authority from religious texts, and not international agreements and treaties. Where the people of Deheisha spoke in terms of checkpoints, economic self-determination, and water rights, Kahn repeated time and again about “providence” and “the hand of God” in guiding Jewish settlement of the West Bank.

Alon Shvut is a settlement in Zone C, administered by the Israeli military, but is considered part of what would be the future state of Palestine. As such, most of the international community considers its existence illegal under international law, a claim disputed by Israeli government officials who cite the existence of a Jewish community there before 1948.

Although the rabbi was reluctant to speak personally to issues of politics or theology, he stressed the importance of tolerance and, to some extent, pluralism, at the yeshiva.

“What we are taught here is complexity – that there are different opinions,” he said, “and that you must respect them even if you disagree with them.”

After leaving the yeshiva, we were joined by a rabbi of the more progressive Reform movement of Judaism, Rabbi Arik Ascherman.

Ascherman, the former president of an organization called Rabbis for Human Rights, now heads an organization called Torah of Justice. He led us to a Bedouin encampment at a West Bank community called Susya.

The Bedouins at Susya were uprooted from their community in 1986 when an ancient synagogue was discovered on their land and expropriated by Israel. Since then, a legal battle has ensued over rights of ownership and settlement. Before the election of Donald Trump in the United States, Ascherman explained, the Israeli authorities had made accommodations and allowed the Bedouins to build on their farms, but over the past year these talks have fallen apart. We had to chance to meet some of the families affected by the dispute, and they informed us, with Ascherman translating, that the Israeli army had dismantled their makeshift homes seven times in recent years. This encounter demonstrated the determination of displaced families to stay on their land, but also the precarious existence of Palestinians living in Zone C, where Israeli civil and security control is an everyday reality marked by checkpoints, outposts and growing settlements.

Speaking to the sectarian nature of the conflict and why he does this work, Ascherman reminded us of the need to exercise individual acts of kindness to chip away at harmful stereotypes between different peoples.

“I will do it again and again,” explained Ascherman, recounting an occasion when he was beat and arrested by the Israeli Defense Forces, “for a young boy to say, ‘A tall Jewish man in a kippah came to my rescue and told me not to be afraid,’ because if there’s any hope for any of us, it is that [Palestine’s] children are mine, too.”


The Holy Land is like a chessboard – it needs two players

NAZARETH — At 11:45 this morning, the muezzin called out the Muslim call to prayer in this city holy to Christians but populated overwhelmingly by Muslims. Just a few minutes later, as Muslim men lined up for prayer at the White Mosque, the bells in the tower of the Church of the Annunciation pealed loudly. It was a reminder of the tension between the faiths of this land, each of them vying for space, time and even the airwaves.

But one religious leader we met with today said that the conflict is not about religion.

“The conflict between Jews, Christians, Muslims and Druzes in the Holy Land is not really based on religion,” said Bishop Hanna Kildani, the new Latin patriarch for Nazareth. “The problem is the ground – to whom [does] the land [belong to]? When you play chess with someone, you need at least two players.”

Kildani was born in 1955 in Jordan and earned a Ph.D. in history from Saint Joseph Jesuit University in Beirut. In his view, religions should stop fighting about the land. Jerusalem, he said, is the one capital in the world that is accountable solely to the Lord and should therefore belong to everyone.

We were greeted with warm hospitality in the bishop’s office, just a few steps away from the Church of the Annunciation. Catholics believe that it was on this spot that the Archangel Gabriel delivered the news to Mary that she would be pregnant with a son.

The courtyard of the Church of the Annunciation was adorned with beautifully rendered artistic depictions of Mary from around the world.

Despite the bishop’s words, religious conflict abounds here. Recently, the Muslim group petitioned unsuccessfully to build a mosque next to the tomb of Shihab’al-din, a Muslim holy man. However, an improvisational “protest mosque” still stands.

Back at the patriarchate, Kildani said that Christians, who represent only two percent of the Israeli population, should build bridges, rather than walls, to other communities and between other communities.

However, he says that many Christian and Palestinian Arabs feel frustrated and disillusioned. “We recognize the borders of 1948,” he said. “We recognize the state of Israel, but not the occupation.” Former Israeli prime minister, Yitzhak Rabin, had been the embodiment for peace for him. Kildani said that he had tears in his eyes when this great statesman was assassinated. For him, Shimon Peres, the late president of Israel, had encapsulated the problem of the conflict of the land when he said that “we have a lot of history here in Israel, but very few geography.”

After we bade farewell to the bishop, we stopped for a quick lunch in the center of Nazareth before heading north to Mount Meron, the highest point in the land of Israel. Our bus made its way, first through gridlocked traffic and then a sprawling green countryside, to a trail that circled near the top of the mountain. We joined other hikers on a rocky and narrow path marked by white, blue and orange signs sprayed onto large rocks.

Professor Yarden took the lead. We made two stops along the way – one for a stunning scenic overlook with views of the Israeli city of Safed, and the other to talk about the religious significance of hiking in Israeli Jewish culture. Yarden explained that during the weeks around Passover, schools take students on nature hikes.

“Hiking the land and getting to know the land is part of the Israeli patriotic culture,” said Yarden. “To know the land is to take ownership of the land.” Early Zionists, who did not have strong connections to it, believed that hiking would help them reconnect to it. It helped them get to know the history of Israel, he said.

“Hiking the land was part of a civil religion, of a new Judaism – a secular one,” said Yarden. “But it brought the old devotion to a new object.” Indeed, we passed a group of about 50 students from Yeshiva Mevaseret who were hiking from the Mediterranean to the Sea of Galilee, while we ourselves were bypassed by a gaggle of young boys and girls.

Following the hike, we made our way down meandering roads toward Bet Jann where we met with Druze Sheikh Jamil Khatib. We drank tea and coffee in his living room before moving to his terrace, which overlooked the town of some 12,000 Israeli Druze citizens.

Khatib laid out a short history of the Druze and the centuries-long persecution they’ve endured that has pushed them to create private communities. Their house of prayer in Bet Jann is self-effacing, built in a non-descriptive area so that outsiders cannot recognize it. Khatib added that during prayer, men and women are separated, with men praying out loud while women do so silently.

The values and beliefs of the Druze community are important and need to be passed on to the people who understand them, said the sheikh, referring to the concept that outsiders aren’t allowed to join or even study the books of the community. Only Druze can learn and practice the faith and such an exclusion of others also prohibits intermarriage.

However, Khatib emphasized the Druze’s respect of other religions, saying that God created differences among us for a reason.

“Human diversity is just a reflection of the greatness of God,” said Khatib. “We all came from Adam and Eve and it is obviously God’s will and part of the plan.”

Following our conversation, the sheikh’s family brought in platters of home-cooked foods, including rice and lentil dishes, roasted carrots, a tart tomato and cucumber salad and stuffed grape leaves shaped like thick cigars. Khatib offered a Druze prayer to start the meal.

The meal concluded our third day in Israel with the sheikh’s words ringing in our ears as yet another lesson: “We should live in this world with an awareness that we’re temporary residents,” said Khatib. “We should try to improve but we should leave the world as good or better when we leave.”

Khatib said that we, as journalists, had a special responsibility to tell the story of the Druze in Israel. He noted that we came not just from New York but from around the world and he sent us off with wishes of good luck and success in our lives and work.