All Roads Lead to Jerusalem

by Jenny Lynn Jones

  CHAPTER 22

  Where Angels are Forbidden to Tread

  …Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes long after those who worked the desolation are but atoms of earth themselves.

  - CHARLES DICKENS

  Blame it on one too many Indiana Jones movies, but of the things I really loved about Jerusalem, indeed the whole country, was the fact that it was often just plain creepy. There were stories of the Crusader massacres in Jerusalem, when witnesses reported that the heart of the Old City was awash in Jewish, Muslim, and even Eastern Christian blood up to the knees of the victor’s war horses, and the story of Mamilla Pool, a huge stone reservoir constructed by Herod the Great during the first century BCE in the heart of a Muslim cemetery. Today, it’s virtually hidden in plain sight, directly across from the US consulate! Even more bizarre, it’s surrounded by broken chain-link fencing, scattered garbage, and used syringes from the drug addicts who’ve found it a convenient spot to shoot up.

  I visited the place a few times, and it was always completely deserted, a clearing in the heart of what was becoming the trendy part of town, complete with a new pedestrian mall sporting Rolex, Crocs, and Gap stores, the newest additions to the ancient landscape. It was a weird place, though, and was recently the site of a supremely ironic and controversial new museum, the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s Museum of Tolerance, constructed atop the Muslim cemetery (bodies dug up and all). It was also home to one of the largest, yet least known, massacres in the city’s history.

  It was hard not to get caught up in the site’s grisly story, which I first read about in a 2006 Jerusalem Post article by Israeli columnist, Gil Zohar. I learned that there, in the spot where I was standing, an estimated 60,000 people had been slaughtered in “the killing field of 614.”

  In a classic Jerusalem outcome, three hundred years of Byzantine Christian rule ended when the Persians invaded Palestine and took Jerusalem after a twenty-day siege. According to Zohar:

  …Once Jerusalem was in Persian hands a terrible massacre of Christians took place, and the Jews are accused of having taken the lead in this massacre…How many Christian prisoners of war were murdered by the Mamilla Pool? A precise number is of course now impossible to verify, but Israeli archaeologist Ronny Reich puts the tally at 60,000 before the Persian military stopped the carnage. One eyewitness, Strategius of St. Sabas, wrote: “Jews ransomed the Christians from the hands of the Persian soldiers for good money, and slaughtered them with great joy at Mamilla Pool, and it ran with blood.”

  Today, the only evidence of the massacre is a burial cave discovered in 1992 by a construction crew working on a parking lot. On the entrance, they found a Greek inscription reading, “Only God Knows Their Names.” Inside, they found it filled with thousands of bones (mostly women and children, because many of the men were away fighting the Persians elsewhere in the country).

  And although many Israelis and diaspora Jews seemed to be uncomfortable with the story, perhaps feeling that it was damaging PR even after 1,400 years, others like Judith Mendelsohn Rood, Professor of History and Middle Eastern Studies at Biola University, suggested that “…believers in the God of Abraham, Jews, Muslims and Christians together should hallow the blood-soaked ground of Mamilla.”

  After all, as Professor Rood pointed out, “The importance of the archaeological research isn’t only to understand the history of the land and to verify the truth of the facts we know from our sources, but…sheds light on the development of human culture. Therefore, its importance overrides nations and borders.”

  I thought it sounded like a great plan. It was certainly more appropriate than building a Museum of Tolerance dedicated solely to the plight of the Jewish people, yet built upon the destroyed remains of their Muslim neighbors. But then again, that was Jerusalem.

  The day I visited the pool, alone, and with pepper spray firmly in hand, I made my way through the cemetery, carefully walking over a carpet of old pine needles and dust as I kept a sharp eye out for the discarded syringes littering the sinking graves and crumbling mausoleum. Finally, I came upon a broken fence surrounding the old pool, and looked down into the stone expanse, now dry and overgrown in the reddish light.

  I soon found a large enough hole to squeeze through and descended into the pool, wandering across its floor, imagining how it must have looked on the day when so many people were slaughtered here, looking up helplessly at the Jerusalem sky.

  I think one way to regard religion is as one big Ghost Hunter’s episode, where we have an intense desire to know that there’s more to this world than meets the eye, and that maybe all of the pain we have to experience in life actually means something. Still, in the Holy Land, this quest for meaning has too often led to atrocities, racism, and cruelty. What many outsiders don’t understand is that the history of the place has produced a legacy that endures today, regardless of the strife that accompanied it.

  The place was called Topheth, Gehenem, or just plain Hell. Located in the valley of Hinnom, just southwest of the Old City, it is believed to be the location where the Canaanites sacrificed their children to a god named Moloch, symbolized by a large metal statue/god fashioned in the shape of an immense bull. According to Rashi, a twelfth century French rabbi:

  Tophet is Moloch, which was made of brass; and they heated him from his lower parts; and his hands being stretched out, and made hot, they put the child between his hands, and it was burnt; when it vehemently cried out; but the priests beat a drum, that the father might not hear the voice of his son, and his heart might not be moved.

  Eventually the practice of child sacrifice fell out of favor as the older, pagan religions were replaced by Judaism. But even then the valley was cursed to remain a place of darkness and filth; it was a large, constantly burning cesspool of dead bodies, animal carcasses, offal, and refuse from the city. According to the Hebrew Bible, or the Tanakh, “They have built the high places of Topheth…to burn their sons and their daughters in the fire. On account of this abomination Topheth and the Valley of Hinnom should be called “The Valley of Slaughter”, for they shall bury in Topheth, till there be no place to bury.” (Jeremiah 7:31-32).

  The day I took the kids and Manar to see it, though, we were surprised to find only a beautiful, grassy meadow punctuated by ancient olive trees sending their roots deep into the soot and bloodstained soil below. It actually turned out to be an awesome place for a picnic…and as we sat on the grassy ground over what was the most despised locations on earth, I said a prayer for the souls of the victims, and hugged Karim tight—listening to the wind rustle through the trees as if to sigh for the pain this site had once absorbed.

  There seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of sites like Topheth; these were places that sparked the imagination and forced people to confront the history behind many of their long-held beliefs. It was the same urge, I’d wager, that prompted many pilgrims, the faithful and the curious to flock to the Holy Land over the millennia, trying to extract Jerusalem’s deepest secrets, oftentimes with the goal of somehow “proving” that their religious outlook was the “right” one.

  It was with this kind of determination that one of the greatest Holy Land explorers to come out of the West was born. He was a real Indiana Jones, by the name of Sir Charles Warren.

  Warren was an officer and archaeologist in The British Royal Engineers in the late nineteenth century and was fascinated by the underground structures—the basement level, if you will—of the Temple Mount. Famous in his day for his work as the former head of the London Police and especially for working the Jack the Ripper case, Warren and his partner, Charles Wilson, were recruited by the Palestine Exploration Fund (PEF), an organization founded under the auspices of Queen Victoria in 1865. Its purpose was to promote research into “the archaeology, history, manners, customs and culture, topography, geology, and natural sciences of Biblical Palestine and the Levant.” This was actually a convoluted way of saying what
they were really doing—using their Bibles, measuring tape, and survey equipment in a quest for definite proof of the Christian faith, an activity Warren dubbed “biblical archaeology reconnaissance.” Of course, maybe finding a treasure or two wouldn’t hurt, either.

  Although Warren managed several dangerous and often stealthy major excavations close to the south-eastern walls of the Old City, his most significant “discoveries” were the underground tunnels and structures beneath the Temple Mount, about which he penned several letters that would later become a journal of his adventures. It was in these letters that Wilson described what it was like to undertake “sneaky archaeology”—explorations of forbidden sites that were scientific, but also had elements of a spy mission/religious quest. Whatever Wilson’s true motivations, the work was daring and incredibly difficult, often conducted in semi-secret, without flashlights, safety harnesses, or climbing equipment. Worse, much of the expedition was conducted in winter, making the work in the wet, cold underground even more challenging. As Wilson wrote about his descent into one of the chambers:

  On lighting up the magnesium ire and looking about me, I was astonished, my first impression being that I had got into a church similar to that of the cathedral (formerly a mosque) at Cordova. I could see arch upon arch to north and east, apparently rows of them….On the cement a number of white hands were painted, probably as a charm against evil spirits…After floundering about some little distance, however, I could see that there was a limit to these substructures at no great distance to north and east. In the meantime Sergeant Birtles was making great efforts above with very little result; do what he would he could not get past the narrow opening to the cistern, and at last had to give up the trial and go and get leave from the owner to pull down the upper mouth of the shaft, and then he very soon appeared at the bottom, his shoulders considerably injured in his exertions. In the meantime the excitement of our “find” had begun to wear off, and the water felt cold. I was just giving the sergeant some sage advice as to how he could direct his steps to the best advantage, when I stumbled over a large stone and fell into the water flat on my face. As just as present the weather is frosty, and the rain is generally accompanied by sleet or hail, a bath in one’s clothes is anything but pleasant…

  I was surprised when I first read Wilson’s work. After all, I’d been to the Temple Mount several times and I’d never heard mention about these places—it seemed to me impossible that anything of real size could be found beneath the platform. But that’s when I came across an old oil painting of the largest of these “secret chambers,” (although, back then, well-known to locals) known simply as the Great Sea, painted by the water colorist, William Simpson, who worked with the Fund during the same time as Wilson.

  There was just something about that painting that captured my imagination, along with the fact that despite numerous searches, I hadn’t been able to come up with a single photograph of the place. In fact, it seemed that Wilson and his surveyors were the last Westerners to see the underground structures; after them, there was no further mention of them, as if they didn’t exist at all. It didn’t take much research for me to discover the reason behind this dearth of new information, descriptions, or photographs of the sites Wilson described.

  Everything on the Mount—its features, history, measurements, access to archaeological exploration, whatever—was a forbidden subject. That was because both the Israelis and the Palestinians were terrified that the other might find some remains or archeological evidence supporting their particular religious belief. Perhaps the Temple was located in such or such a place, and therefore the Dome of the Rock must be destroyed to make way for it. Or perhaps the Islamic authorities on the sight might discover some fabulous artifact, such as the Ark of the Covenant. Just the same, many believed that poking around under stuff just wasn’t a good idea in general (especially in the Holy Land, where there are scorpions under those rocks). They were concerned that it could change the future of who ultimately “got to keep” Jerusalem in the long run.

  For centuries across the Western World, the Temple Mount was considered to be the literal center of the universe, and was used for religious purposes by the Jews, Romans, Muslims, and Christians for thousands of years. It was the site where Abraham was said to have prepared to sacrifice his son, Isaac, and where the First Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, as well as the Second Temple destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. It is also where, according to Biblical tradition, the third and final Temple will be built one day.

  The Mount is the point toward which religious Jews turn during prayer, but is considered so holy that many of them will not walk on its surface at all, lest they inadvertently enter the area still imbued with the Divine Presence of God.

  Today, Muslims also consider the site to be holy—third only after Mecca and Medina in Saudi Arabia. Islamic, Jewish and Christian faithful share many of the same prophets and prophetic stories with which the sites are associated (with small differences of detail—Abraham prepared to sacrifice Ishmael, not Isaac, as in the Biblical story, for example). It is also mentioned in the Koran as the “Farthest Mosque” from which Muhammad ascended to heaven on his “Night Journey” to lead the other prophets who came before him (including Adam, Moses, and Jesus).

  In fact, all of the structures and the land within the Mount are considered to be “the mosque” referred to in the Quran. And the black-domed Aqsa building on the southern side of the Mount is distinguished as one of the oldest Islamic buildings in the world.

  The more I thought about Simpson’s painting and read Wilson’s journals, the more obsessed I became with a need to see them. The problem was, I knew there was no way a foreign female American with pitiful Arabic skills and a huge chip on her shoulder could possibly gain access. Still, I pored over Wilson’s maps and drawings, reading all of his descriptions of the tanks, cisterns, and chambers. It was then that I came across an old engraving of the inside of the Golden Gate (Mercy Gate in Arabic). This was the immense, walled-up double arched passageway leading from the Mount of Olives to the to the Temple Mount through which people (and, according to Jewish tradition, the Divine Presence of God) passed.

  The next time I was on the Mount, I made a point of ending my usual walk around the quiet, wooded area beneath the platform so I could look at the Golden Gate. There, I saw a long flight of stairs descending onto a wide, arched courtyard where the gate stood, built into the wall like an immense closed portico. As always, the area was deserted. I stayed there for a few minutes, caressed by a gentle breeze that rustled through the olive trees—and felt something that reminded me of peace.

  There was only one problem—the Golden Gate and the underground chambers weren’t open to the public. In fact, the large gated building was locked and “sealed,” strictly off-limits to all but a select few of the Islamic authority in charge of the site. Still, the more I thought about it, the more I felt I needed to get inside—partly to see if I could. The Mercy Gate was literally a place where almost nobody had the right to be.

  It suddenly occurred to me that the combination of my chosen faith and the indelible otherness that I’d fought so hard to erase over the years, might actually be a strength for once in my life. Maybe my outsider status would actually work in my favor.

  I just hadn’t quite figured out how.

  Amani (in a “tagim salah” or prayer outfit required on the mount), Karim and Ibrahim exploring the Eastern Wall and ramparts from the Temple Mount.

  The immediate family, Safa, 2014.

  Exterior view of the Dome of the Rock.

  Karim, Amani and Ibrahim exploring the Dome of the Chain the “mini” Dome of the Rock (now closed for renovations).

  Manar, sidekick extraordinaire, at the Dome of the Rock during the evening prayer. Now, as an older teenager, she is forbidden from entering Jerusalem.

  View from the roof of “the castle,” our home.

  The view from our neighborhood in Safa toward the Mediterranean Sea
.

  View from the top of the Eastern Wall toward the Mount of Olives where Jesus is expected to return. View to the Church of All Nations.

  Army tower and gate used to close the village.

  Part

  Four

  All Roads to War

  CHAPTER 23

  Beautiful Day for a War

  Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

  -JOSEPH CONRAD

  It was on a sunny, unseasonably warm day in the end of December, and the kids were playing outside with their cousins. I could hear them joining into the Arabic conversation with the blustery vocabulary of the very young. To my relief, they were truly bonding with their cousins—Ibrahim joining in with the boys playing Jaish and Shebab, the local version of cowboys and Indians, Amani playing “school” with the girls, and Karim, always joined by his two cousins, Ahmad and Muhammad. The little boys, aged four and five, had big, dark brown cartoon-cute eyes and could empty my cookie jar faster than a thirsty horse can drain a bucket. Together, the three of them were an awesome force. Now, looking back on that day, I’m convinced it was its peaceful comfort that made what was to happen seem even more horrific.

  I was standing next to the open windows in my kitchen, enjoying the breeze and sunshine after days of frigid cold. Manar was visiting, looking up something on my computer, and I was washing dishes and lamenting the loss of my beloved coffee press after dropping it on the tile floor. That’s when we heard it—the sound of fighter jets streaking across the sky. Although it was normal to have a constant hum of military aircraft above the West Bank, the sudden volume told us that something had to be very wrong. It only took one look between us for us to both to sprint for the stairs to an upper balcony, where we could better see what was going on.