Perhaps the best way to describe this city is like Amsterdam’s bitchier sister who is just as hot, but more in the ‘I can kick your ass’ kind of way. Rotterdam has chewed me up and spit me out, yet I still keep coming back for more. With gusts of salty wind, huge skyscrapers, and an impossible grind of cars, trams, and bicycles, she doesn’t give you the time to think. People aren’t strolling canals in circles, but crossing bridges with a direct destination in mind. Here, you work hard and you play hard. Any questions? If so, catch the nearest train back to Amsterdam; maybe someone up there will give you the time of day.
It’s not surprising, then, that I’ve reached the first obstacle of my trip here. Head spinning, my body lies like a rag on the sofa. My brain is fuzzy. The television plays movie after movie, as if on repeat. Maybe it is on repeat. I’m not sure. The flu medicine must be kicking in.
A foghorn drifts through the window; a bicycle bell jingles; People scamper by, bicycle chains crank along screeching brakes as a stoplight turns red. A tram groans along its creaking tracks, crunching corners. A horn honks, a bridge erupts, some people (finally) stop. A ship churns along splashing water, a boy ambles for his ball, a crane cranks overhead. The bridge snaps tight again, it’s rusted rotting chains back in place. The road begins to whip with wet tires. I leap over puddled mirrors.
I can feel the big elephant in the room where I’ve landed, but it’s dark and I am speechless. Seeing parts of it only make it harder to give words to it’s enormous presence. It’s an eerie experience that I can finally say I’ve come to have. After the brief stay is said and done, I ask where I can find my truth in it all. I feel baffled and brainwashed by the situation.
Leaving Tel Aviv to go to the West Bank, I find myself breathing better and experiencing a hospitality not easily forgotten. The people are kind, the police don’t intimidate. I feel like I know a lot less than I did before.
This is trip is just a taste, like the appetizer in a seven-course dining experience. Hearing the verbal portraits of persecution from Palestinians, I am numb. Recalling bits and pieces from their memories of the uprising, running from bullets, and throwing stones at strangers entering sacred land renders me frozen. Sleeping until late in the morning with a festering fever, I awake from a horrible dream. Soon, I will be entering a glimpse into another world. This is no dream.
I am invited by an American girl who volunteers at a nearby refugee camp painting children’s faces. On the way there, she tells me why she does this. “It’s a way to at least make some instant impact. To make this place a little better than before. It’s a place where the children know they can’t leave, but can’t fathom why. They simply want to go to the beach, but the beach is impossible. The beach is in Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv is a world away.”
Losing my coins in the metal detector while passing the barren border, I show my ID to a windowed soldier. Catching the next bus to Jerusalem, without coins, I am paid for by the Palestinian gentleman in front of me. Boarding the bus at sunset, I say a silent prayer. Nightfall curves along the mountain pass as the lights of Tel Aviv signal my arrival.
“The stones are screaming blood.” I am haunted by these words of my Israeli friend Tsi-la as I sit writing and watching the bus stop swell. Our conversation this morning on the way to the station sits heavily at my heels. The bench is a relief for my dream like state of mind. At a red light leaving her street, I ask her how I can discover meaning within it all.
“This is not my Jerusalem,” she tells me.
“I do, however, believe that there is a Jerusalem inside every one of us.”
At the stop, soldiers shuffle over, weapons draped on waists, awaiting the arrival. The light turns green.
“The Jerusalem inside of me is a place where stone’s won’t scream murder, but where people can laugh. Where people are free to cry, too.”
Western women await in heat, trying to dress conservatively for the arrival.
“No matter what, though, a place where people can be free. This is my Jerusalem,” she tells me. “I envision a land, a promised land truly given to the people of the world. This is a land with a promise kept, but also a secret shared. I imagine a place governed by people of all countries. This microcosm is my vision of the world. A true holy land, a sacred space filled with sincerity and spirit. A place that does not scream or shed blood.”
Orthodox men with belt buckle beards arrive in tuxedo, just before the bus comes. I close my notebook.
She has wished me a pleasant pilgrimage. The blood screaming stones travel with me like a quiet whisper, a secret almost. They’re a secret we all keep to ourselves as we await our departure to the holy land. The approaching engine drones out my dream. We begin to board.
Easter Sunday in the holy city left me with more questions. I searched for what this eclectic environment meant and why it left me wanting more. Did I prepare enough for what I expected would move me in visiting such a site? Did I endeavor to give it enough meaning for myself? The truth is, I couldn’t find a way to make it ‘special’. Besides, what is ‘special’ supposed to really mean?
Perhaps there are just too many shiny objects in the way to see what is really there. Entering the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, people fight past each other mercilessly in an attempt to rub personal amulets against a rock where Jesus was ‘allegedly’ crucified on. It is a church constructed around a rock. Enamored with expensive gold objects and artifacts, they tell the story of a simple man who loved all the world’s people. Yet around this internationally protected zone, finding co-existence means police barricades, weapons around every corner, and vendors hawking goods in people’s face. I can’t help but feel that there has to be more.
My attention wanders. Within the narrow confines of the old city, women in hajibs bounce along among bare-shouldered babes as orthodox men ogle past to wail their wishes to the wall. Colorful scarves, tapestries, and t-shirts billow in the wind. Light enters the labyrinth of the old city.
I leap. Descending down a dirt path, I see the old woman. Grinning a wide toothless grin, I respond by returning the favor and continue on. Minutes later, I find a fountain. Feeling watched all the while, I Fill up my bottle and take a long gulp. It’s incredibly cold and quenching. As I turn to admire the view, I see the woman again. Admiring a much different view, she is staring at me.
“Esta fria!”
Loudly, she confirms the cold temperature of the liquid. Silently, we stare each other down with curiosity. Yelling a second set of Spanish syllables in an unfamiliar regional accent, I don’t understand what she’s said. Between her lack of teeth and my further lack of energy, I ask her to repeat.
“Are you deaf like me, too?” She inquires.
“No!” I scream back. She continues without answering.
“Also, don’t walk at night! And stay off the highway! And don’t go the wrong way! They have markers that help you, you know? Oh! And watch out for the wolves.”
There is more, I’m sure, but I can’t make out the entire web of warnings she has dutifully ordered today’s traveler to be aware of. All I can do for the deaf woman, grinning ear to ear, is assure her that I have some good information for the route. I also promise to avoid highways, wolves, and walking at night.
“Good, hijo.” She replies, as if to herself.
Satisfied, she wishes me a ‘bon camino’ as I walk on thanking her for the advice. Attempting a smile as wide as hers, I finally turn away.
In the distance, dogs bark, roosters crow, and geese quack. A plastic bag picnic dinner is waging war with wind, ruffling against leaves. Colder and colder, the sun sets behind the highest mountain. The rioja’s power to warm my center is failing, no matter how much of the bottle’s contents disappear. Fingers too cold to create poetry, my notebook gets put away. I begin walking and immediately lose myself dreaming of what, or perhaps who, will be encountered on the path ahead.
Related posts:
- boarding for Jerusalem
- Notes on a Pilgrimage: “everything is “alleged” here.”
- Notes on a pilgrimage: Palestine
- How to live a life of Pilgrimage:
- Glimpse, stories from {abroad}.
