Travel Biography - Week 55.

Settling Down in Jerusalem.

It was August 1994. I had just been dismissed from Stella Carmel Guesthouse and Christian Conference Centre, not as an employee, but as a volunteer. And it wasn't because I was lazy or my work was below standard. Rather, it was due to bad relationships with the other volunteers. If anything, the work provided a recluse from interacting with others, as once a task was assigned to me, I always carried it out alone.

But here I was, at a hostel in Jerusalem, 150 km or 92 miles south of Haifa, the northern city being near the village of Isfya, where the guesthouse was located. As I lay on one of the beds in an empty dormitory during the middle of the afternoon, I was broken, my spirit shattered. And this lousy feeling remained in me for the next twelve months.

I spent my time sauntering aimlessly through the Old City's narrow streets. The accommodation I was in was New Swedish Hostel on Souk David, where I stayed a year earlier in 1993. Heading west from the hostel would have brought me to Jaffa Gate with the Citadel right next to it. Opposite the Citadel was Christ Church, the only Anglican Church in Jerusalem and one of the centres of ITAC. 

Thousands of Jews Pray at the Wall, 1994.

From the hostel, had I sauntered in the opposite direction, eastwards, I would have arrived at a crossroads with Souk Han Az-Zeit leading north to the Damascus Gate, and south as the Cardio towards the Western Wall Plaza. Had I carried on eastwards from the crossroads, I would have passed through Bab El Silsith Road to Bab El Silsith itself, one of the gates into Temple Mount and facing the beautiful golden Dome of the Rock. Back in 1976, I recall entering the Temple Mount via this gate. But for security reasons, in 1994, as at present, the only public access to the area was via Bab Al Magharbeh, south of the Western Wall, and approached by a tightly-secured ramp.

A Special Gathering at the Western Wall.

It was while I was on one of these walks that I saw what looks to be crowds of Orthodox Jews passing through Souk David after entering the Old City via Jaffa Gate. Not just a few, but thousands of them. It looked to me that the Arab-owned market streets were suddenly taken over by Jews, nearly all dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, and each head capped with a yarmulka or skullcap. They poured en masse through Souk David, heading east towards the Temple Mount. But it wasn't the Mount they were heading for, but the Western Wall. Also, it was a Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath.

Later that afternoon, I made my way to the Western Wall Plaza and reached a lookout that gave a panoramic view of the Plaza. From my vantage point, I saw thousands upon thousands of Jews cram into the Wall area in prayer. Just behind me, a couple of crew members set up their TV cameras at the Plaza and began filming. Some ultra-Orthodox Jews also assembled at the same overlook. They didn't look very pleased. One or two of them had stones, and they began to hurl the stones towards the cameramen. They consider working on the Sabbath a capital offence, punishable by stoning to death. Although only a few stones were thrown, fortunately, none of them hit the cameramen or me, rather it was more of a token and a warning that the most orthodox among the Jews still took their beloved Torah as their rulebook for daily living.

There was no start or end of prayer. As the first crowd poured into the Plaza, they made their way to the Wall and prayed there as long as each saw fit. Then as each individual left the area, more piled in. And so it went on, leaderless yet everyone kept in order. As more poured in whilst others left, there were no scuffles, no loud protesting, no partying in the way I saw the Sabbath initiated, and no form of trouble. From where I was standing, I felt safe as I watched on - despite the few stones that flew through the air right behind me.

I spent quite a while standing at the lookout as the mass prayer continued incessantly. Never in my life had I witnessed such a large crowd gather at the wall for prayer, and so continuing without interruption throughout the afternoon. Despite my combined feelings of brokenness, crushed, fear, and anger over the dismissal from the Conference Centre, a spirit of journalism began to take over, the strong sense of curiosity filled my soul with the ever-spinning question turning within my head - What's going on?

At the Demonstration.

I made my way back to the hostel to cook dinner, as was my normal custom whilst I was in Jerusalem - or for that matter - whenever I was away from home. Some other backpackers were also at the hostel combining kitchen and dining room. The conversion was centred on a demonstration that will take place in the New City after dark when the Sabbath was over. I tried to get some answers from those in the room on the reason for the protest and whether there was a connection between the coming demonstration and the mass prayer at the Western Wall. I was given a clue. Apparently, the Palestinians wanted to establish East Jerusalem as their State capital. But the Israelis were hard against that. Having claimed back the region during the 1967 Six-Day War, no way would they have been keen to hand it back to the Arabs, even if peace was promised.

After dinner, it was already dark as I made my way to the protest. I exited Jaffa Gate and after navigating across a junction, I walked up Jaffa Road into the Jewish New City. Soon, I began to see the large crowd of protesters gathered at Zion Square, a wide pedestrianised space from which Ben Yehuda Street, also fully pedestrianised, branched off. Quite a contrast from 1976, when both Zion Square and Ben Yehuda Street were motor traffic thoroughfares.

Zion Square. Ron Hotel is on the right. Stock Photo

Facing Zion Square was the Ron Hotel - the very place I stayed for my first night after arriving in Jerusalem in 1976. (For the record, it's now the Jerusalem Hostel.) The centre of the huge crowd was the hotel. Inside there were two important officials and their attendants, Yitzhak Rabin who was the President of Israel before his assassination on November 4th, 1995, and Yasser Arafat, leader of the Palestine Liberation Organisation, or the PLO. In the same hotel where I slept 18 years earlier, these two men were sitting facing each other across the table and discussing whether Rabin would allow Arafat to make East Jerusalem the Palestinian capital. Apparently, the agreement was signed, a move that would cost the President his life just over a year later.

I mingled in the large crowd of angry Israeli protesters, probably numbering several thousand. It felt claustrophobic, as each person was pressing hard towards the hotel. I stood right in their midst, facing directly at the hotel. Not that I was actually protesting. Rather, I was a bystander looking in and identifying with the Jews. In comparison with the staff and volunteers at Stella Carmel, I felt at one with this crowd and protested along with them.

Here and there there were TV cameras and their crew. This time, there was no stone-throwing, as the Sabbath was officially over and they were allowed to do their job. The sight of the TV cameras made me wonder whether this protest would appear on BBC News in the UK.

But more striking was the huge banner that was held up high behind me, being waved to and fro above the heads of the crowd and visible to all. What was on it was a professional piece of artwork that had me stunned, not knowing whether to feel shocked or burst into laughter, as it might have been unlawful had it appeared at a London protest. As I write this biography, I want to express exactly what I saw, therefore, I write with the hope that the reader can understand the implications of the demonstration and what it means to retain what was won during the 1967 Six-Day War.

The banner showed the President of Israel, stark naked, and bending down whilst looking behind with a degree of nervousness. Directly behind him stood Yasser Arafat, also stark naked and with an erect penis, ready and about to sodomise the President. The artwork was professional enough to recognise the two characters instantly. The banner remained high in the air for a while, among the loud chanting and shouting, along with the cheers brought about by the presence of the motif. A while later, the banner was deliberately set on fire, turning the artwork into ashes among the cheers of the onlookers.

As the protest continued, the claustrophobia began to get the better of me, and gradually I began to worm my way back out of the crowd. With everyone else still fastened at the hotel, making my way back out from the pressing crowd wasn't that difficult. Back out, I felt relief to feel the cool breeze of the fresh night air as I made my way to the almost deserted Jaffa Gate of the Old City. Within its walls, in contrast to Zion Square, the Old City was quiet, empty of people, all the shops closed, and deserted.

Back then, although I knew why the incessant prayer at the Western Wall and the demonstration at Zion Square were about not making an agreement between Israel and Palestine over East Jerusalem for a false promise of peace, I never found out the result of the talks in that hotel until much later. This got me to think about all those prayers - thousands upon thousands of them - and all at the Jewish holiest site as well, which apparently remained unanswered, as the agreement was eventually signed. Had I found out back then, with the Stella Carmel disaster so fresh in my mind, that could have dealt a fatal blow to my faith. Yet an important lesson was learned: to listen to what the land is telling me.

Other Places Visited.

However, during Post-Stella Therapy Month (as I now call it) there were quieter, more "mundane" venues to visit. One venue was the Israel Museum which includes the Shrine of the Book, itself near the Knesset, the Parliament of Israel. Although the Canaanite coffins looked rather humourous, decorated with a mask resembling those of the Egyptian coffin, however, the figure of the Canaanite dead engraved on the cylindrical coffin was shown as a cheerful guy sticking both his thumbs upwards, as if cheering a victory.

The Shrine of the Book was built to resemble the clay jar in which it was found within the Quram Caves near the Dead Sea. Among the Dead Sea Scrolls (which includes fragments of Genesis chapter 1) there was a complete scroll of the prophet Isaiah, this manuscript copy dates back to the Hasmonian Period, approx 100 BC. By comparing it with modern Hebrew manuscripts, the copying accuracy was so astonishing, it's proof that the contents of the Hebrew and Greek Bible can pass through thousands of years without any tainting of the original manuscript! Hence, a shrine was built to house the scroll, which was displayed in a sealed glass case.

One other venue that's worth mentioning here. That was Christ Church, opposite the Citadel which is next to Jaffa Gate. It's the church where the Reverend John and Christine Claydon worshipped. This couple were members of the ITAC Committee, and it was Christine who accepted me when I first applied to be a volunteer. When I turned up for the morning service for the third Sunday since my dismissal, they expressed surprise that, after all this time, I was still in Jerusalem. However, without being rude to them, I made known to them that I refuse to be beaten by the early dismissal from Stella Carmel. However, despite my weekly attendance, I didn't warm up to the church, especially the Church of England.

The Shrine of the Book, Stock Photo.

However, on Sept 5th, 1994, after passing strict security, I boarded the plane for the return flight home. Leaving Israel nine months earlier than I originally planned, I was still feeling gutted and devastated, even though the month I spent in Jerusalem was therapeutic. It has helped me set my focus on the next flight, the one to New York J.F. Kennedy Airport exactly a year later in 1995. Amazingly enough, my funds lasted right up to the moment I waited at the departure lounge of Ben Gurion Airport. It was there where I had spent the very last shekel. However, in my wallet, I still had the £10 note I purposely left intact throughout the trip. It would pay the train fare from Gatwick to Bracknell. And so, after spending the longest uninterrupted duration I ever experienced outside the UK, a total of 13 weeks altogether, I finally turned the lock on my apartment's front door.

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Next Week: What it takes to prepare for a flight out to the States.