In Israel, on birthright, you are taken to places of the utmost historic and religious significance. They seem to lurk around every corner in that tiny country. We traveled by bus up and down, left and right, from border to border, the whole thing measuring about eight hours from top to bottom. In each place we stopped, we were told about the history, religious significance, and given opportunities to explore as we chose.
When I was younger, and visiting sites of historic or cultural significance, I often felt something deep within me—a weighty feeling—which seemed to grow like an airy lump in the pit of my stomach. It was as if I could somehow sense everything that had once occurred there all at once, memories which lingered on like a thick, hazy fog.
I expected to have this feeling frequently while in Israel, especially when we arrived in Jerusalem. Even if I was not raised religiously, I understood the significance of this place in the world, it’s role in shaping so much of what we think we know today.
Driving into the city, I started to feel that weight—first glimpsing the rolling hills dotted with small, white houses; the sand-colored fortress walls of ancient temples; and, most prominently, the Dome of the Rock, a shimmering golden dome that sits above what, for Jews, is the holiest site in the world.
We could see the dome from almost every vantage point, and we seemed to be circling it as we made our way through the labyrinthine city, 30 20-something Jewish (and in my case half- Jewish) Americans with Teva sandals and faces white with too much sun tan lotion. We clashed horribly with our sacred surroundings.
In other countries, a group our size and appearance might’ve invited suspicious or disapproving, maybe even pitying, glances in our direction. But here in Israel, it seemed to be a sight welcomed by locals. Israelis often went out of their way to say hello and inquire if we liked their beautiful country. Very much, we’d respond. That was how it was for most of the trip, but in many parts of Jerusalem, I felt oddly foreign, unwelcome almost, for the first time. I was a stranger in a strange land.
I kept my eye on the dome. It is perhaps the most significant site in the city, meaningful to each of the three major religions, and for Jews in particular. It is not the dome itself that is important but what’s underneath, what is thought to be the site of the foundation stone—the point at which Jews believe the rest of the world extends and the place where heaven and Earth meet. It was the site upon which King Solomon built the First Temple, and where the Second Temple was built after the first was destroyed, and where a third, Jews say, will one day be built again.
We made our way through the ancient streets, and came to the top of a stairway that led us down into a wide plaza below. Across the way we saw the dome, as close as we had been to it. It glistened proudly in the hot sun. We paused as our tour guide offered a few words of historical and religious note. I stood at the edge of our group and stared out towards the temple.
Inside, I was waiting again for that feeling to come, to feel the weight, but since getting off the bus it had gone away and had not yet come back. That was strange because surely of all places, this would be the one where I would have felt something. I must not be close enough, I thought.
Finally we made our way down the stairway and into the basin below. At the far end stood the Western Wall, the closest point at which Jews can pray to the Temple Mount, which, under Muslim control, does not permit Jewish prayer of any of sort. They therefore pray at the base of the wall.
Standing at ground level I saw instantly how chaotic a site it is. Hundreds of people, men mostly, were gathered near the wall, shouting and crying out loud, agonized prayers. The base is divided into two areas separating men and women. The men’s side was much louder, filled with fervent religious devotees shouting and singing, some were sobbing. Many were on their feet with eyes closed and one arm extended towards the wall. Others swayed wildly in rocking chairs back and forth. The women were much more subdued, equally pious and emotional, but less outwardly animated. The men’s side is also much larger and has access to a synagogue cut into the hillside, an extremely beautiful, cavern-like space, filled with tall, elegant bookshelves fitted into the rock walls. More important and larger books are lit and encased in glass displays.
I stood awkwardly in the middle of the large rectangular space, the Western Wall loomed high over my head. I felt even more out of place with a giant camera wrapped around my neck. I tried to be sneaky and take a few photos of the truly frantic scene around me. It seemed to not matter at all, though, because most were totally unaware, blissfully perhaps, of my presence.
Rather than share in the pious joy that many seemed overwhelmed by, I found the whole experience oddly unsettling. The warmth and generosity I felt in the rest of the country was replaced by a sense of foreboding. These people seemed crazed and possessed. Again I felt I was intruding into a world that I did not and, somehow, should not know.
As I walked awkwardly on, trying to erase my discomfort with thoughts of the historic monument before me, a man approached. Like many there, he was Hasidic, dressed in a black suit and hat. But, like a Monet painting, from afar he appeared stately and elegant, even peaceful, but up close he was disheveled. He looked homeless almost, with yellowing, rotten teeth; a white, frayed beard; and skin wrinkled and discolored by the sun. I was shocked by how much I had misjudged his appearance. As I looked more closely at those around me, I saw there were many more like him. Upon closer inspection, they were all over, blending in silently with an otherwise clean and scrupulous group of worshippers.
The man asked if I wanted a tour. He must have clearly seen from my bright green T-shirt and farmer’s tan that I was not from the area. Taken aback, I agreed.
In an instant we were off, and he sped me through the wide open area, pausing briefly at the wall to say a quick prayer. He mumbled often in Hebrew, and I was unsure if he knew I couldn’t understand or whether he cared. We sped-walked into the synagogue carved into the mountain-side. I admired its beauty. It truly was a sanctuary, timeless and cozy and coated in a soft orange glow. My frantic guide turned back often to make sure I was following behind.
I tried to stop and ask him questions but he waved me off and motioned for me to follow. We made a quick lap and in the span of thirty seconds were back outside. We stopped and again he rushed through a prayer, mumbling under his breath with a head tilted downward and an arm on my shoulder. Finally, he stopped and opened his eyes, staring straight into mine. He mumbled something again, this time gesturing with an open hand. He seemed at first to be offering something to me, a spiritual invitation perhaps, a welcoming at last to the holy site.
But no, he was asking for money. I stood dumbly for a moment before I could react, staring back into his wild eyes. He didn’t seem to see me. I offered him a few shekels and went on my way, unable now to shake a new feeling.