All Roads Lead to Jerusalem

by Jenny Lynn Jones

  I didn’t really expect a response, after all, who the heck was I to say anything?

  I decided that we were ready to come home, or as the kids said, to our other home. After all, I’d actually surpassed our goal of spending a year in Safa by a few months. It appeared I wouldn’t get permission from the Waqf to see anything, and I was just plain tired. I called my husband the next day and told him that I booked our tickets.

  It was two weeks later that I received a response from Yusuf saying that he would meet me again—why, I wasn’t sure—but I wasn’t about to miss an opportunity, however slight, that he might change his mind. Imagine my surprise then, as he sat across from me in his small, stone office telling me that he would try to get me the permission I needed. Sitting back in his office chair with a smile, and a faint, bewildered shake of his head he agreed to ask the Mufti of Jerusalem for the access I wanted. Then, he added, “Don’t be surprised if the Israeli Police try to stop you.” As long as I was prepared for that and the Mufti agreed, however, I would be clear to go.

  I was beyond happy on my drive home from the city that day…so happy, in fact, that I didn’t even mind being stopped and playfully interrogated for close to an hour by a tough-looking, tattooed Israeli army unit. One thing I’d unfortunately learned was the difference between honest banter and sexually aggressive mockery. Because this was the former, I could let it go (as if I had a choice anyway), and relax into the soldier’s blissful tirade about my using my brains to stay in a nicer place—somewhere like, “Califoan-ya…”

  Well, he did have a point.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Haunt of Jackals

  Open thy gates of mercy, gracious God!

  My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

  -WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Two days before we were scheduled to leave, I received a final email from Yusuf. I’d all but given up on hearing from him again, and I assumed the Mufti had either declined to give me permission, or he simply forgot about me and my silly request. However, in his usual brisk style, he wrote back a single line—”Between 10:00 and 11:00 tomorrow.”

  This would be a mere twelve hours before our departure for the Jordanian border. It seemed they’d agreed to unlock the iron doors to the Gate of Mercy and let me in.

  The next morning I woke early; excited but very nervous. Ironically, it was the anniversary of the destruction of the First and Second Temples. Known as Tisha B’Av—it was a day of mourning across Israel—and, as was usually the case with Israeli holidays, Palestinians from the West Bank weren’t allowed to cross into Jerusalem. This, alone could cause a major problem, depending upon the checkpoint (and the mood of the soldier manning it).

  Anticipating that I might be turned away, I headed for the city three hours before the scheduled time. Sure enough, a young soldier tried to turn me back at the checkpoint for being “an Arab.” But in no mood to waste time driving to the next checkpoint a good twenty minutes away (where the same thing could happen), I put on my friendliest face and explained that I really was an American tourist, as it said on my passport’s visa entry. Thankfully, and despite looking very dubious, he finally let me go.

  When I arrived in the Old City, it was heavily patrolled by security and police, but eerily absent the normal Palestinian crowds. Instead, gaggles of bubbly tourists roved through the markets clasping ribbon-festooned tambourines and strumming guitars, singing French and Russian renditions of “Kumbaya.”

  Turning from the main alleyway, I headed into the dark, vaulted Cotton Market. Long and narrow, the place embodied Jerusalem of old—wafts of incense and burning charcoal hung in a perpetual cloud, deepening the gloom, and I felt that I was floating with sheer, unbridled happiness and what could only be described as relief.

  It was then, as I approached the big staircase that rose out of the market and onto the Mount, that I noticed an elderly ultra-orthodox Jew praying at the foot of the stairs. It was the closest his faith would allow him to approach the place where his Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, and again by the Romans in 70 CE, and where Jewish and Muslim blood once flowed together in the streets, spilled by European Christian Crusaders who believed them both heathen.

  Stooping, the man placed a lit mourning candle on the step of a tiny shop, which the owner quickly picked up and angrily threatened to throw away. I stopped, transfixed by the scene, as an Israeli soldier stationed at the platform entrance walked over, took the candle and placed it at his feet where no one could touch it. It flickered as I walked by, a perfect symbol of this sad place.

  I emerged into the bright sun of the Mount and headed over to the office of the Chief Architect on the Mount, Isam Awwad. There, inside the little, domed building, he told me that Yusuf had instructed him to unlock the Gate of Mercy and the underground cisterns for me, including the Great Sea, even though, according to Awwad, he was virtually the only person the Israeli Police allowed to enter the Golden Gate—even other Waqf workers are normally prohibited. In fact, when a professionally dressed young co-worker at an adjoining desk heard where we were going, he begged permission to come along, offering to take pictures for the department. Smiling indulgently, Awwad agreed, the three of us set out from the office, shadowed by an elderly guard carrying a huge ring of keys.

  We walked east across the platform toward the Gate, stopping to unlock each of the smaller cisterns on the way. I looked inside, peering down into each one, awed by the clearly visible layers of progressively older stone that made up the surface of the platform, down to what must be the original layer above the chambers, yellowish and worn into smooth, shiny blocks.

  We walked on to the Gate of Mercy, but the guard with the keys couldn’t seem to unlock the outer gate to the stairs, taking so much time that it gave the Israeli police patrolling the Mount a chance to notice that we were up to something.

  Suddenly, two officers were on the scene, taking my passport and questioning me and Awwad, who continued working on the lock as if without a care in the world. Finally, with the help of another Waqf guard, they finally got it unlocked and Awwad beckoned me forward, locking the gate quickly behind us to prevent the officers and a growing group of onlookers from following us down the long flight of stairs to its iron-grated doors.

  Inside the dark interior, it was much larger than I’d imagined, and as I walked over to the famous archer windows—normally visible only from the outside—where men once defended the city with powerful bows and gazed up at the huge twin domes arching over stained-glass windows, I felt as if there might be hope for me to fit in as me…even here. And as I touched the giant columns topped by carved cornices that some say were gifts from the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon, I thanked God, feeling a wave of peace I hadn’t since I prayed at night, alone in my backyard, way back in Oregon.

  A cold wind rushed up as two men unlocked and pushed up the large steel lid above the Great Sea. At first, all I could see was blackness and a dense cover of cobwebs, until my eyes focused enough for me to see the immense chamber. Just like Simpson’s painting, completed more than 140 years ago, it had remained the same; its immense cavernous space reaching from its dark, black water four or five stories to the ceiling, directly under the paving stones on the Mount. So, too, the same giant boulders jutted up from the surface, and an old pirate-type chest lay perched atop an outcropping of pebbly gravel, like a small island on a river. I couldn’t believe that I was seeing it with my own Western Muslim eyes.

  AFTERWORD

  At Home in Seattle

  At home in Seattle, I hear airplanes above me, and see floatplanes instead of fighter jets and drones, green grass instead of barren rock, and best of all, I can drink real lattes instead of the abomination that is Nescafé, the unofficial drink of the West Bank.

  No doubt about it, life in the Holy Land was hard, sometimes annoying and occasionally downright terrifying. It makes me wonder why I miss it so much.

  I was nervous to come back—loving the new me an
d afraid of a “relapse” like a junkie fresh out of rehab going back into the real world. More, the kids are homesick for Safa, hating Seattle for its lack of donkeys, cousins, and mourning the loss of the freedom they had to roam around and “be kids” in the village. But we keep in near constant contact with the family over video-cam, and I’ve promised the kids that we will try to spend every summer in Safa until we decide where our “permanent” home will be. It’s funny, though, now that I’m away from the family in Safa, I realize how much I miss them. I think I really have a “place” there now—just in my own way. I even miss the kids climbing into my house through my windows.

  I’m starting to believe that, for us, all roads lead to Jerusalem, and I still think about moving there for good. After all, in just a little over a year, the place brought out a sense of independence, confidence, and even courage in me and my kids that I never thought possible. More, it taught me that there are people who will accept me for the strange hybrid I am—American/Muslim, rather like a brocco-flower, I suppose, odd, but still stronger for the mixing.

  Still, the Holy Land isn’t some kind of theme park for the faithful; it definitely has its dark side. Yet, as so many who have walked its desert paths, dusty roads, and cobbled walkways know it is still a place of miracles. At least it was for me.

  I became transformed in the Holy Land, and I found out that finding a place where I “really belong” has more to do with being comfortable in my own skin than finding approval outside, whether it’s from my husband, family, or community (although I’d prefer no more calls from the Secret Service). I can even live with hanging around Seattle for a few more years—maybe.

  As for my husband, he’s got some adjusting to do, poor thing. He’s actually uttered the cursed words, “I want my old wife back,” and you can be sure I made him pay for that one. You see, it’s not that anything obvious has changed, but I am a lot more, well, stubborn than I used to be, and a lot less willing to “take the leg.”

  But I’m also happier, and I hope the benefit of that will appear in the long run, rather like the beauty of a toned body after a few months of torturous cardio.

  And as for my daughter, Amani, the one who started all of this on the mat back in Taekwondo? She came home from school the other day with a poster from a class project. On it, she wrote: “Someone I admire: My mom, because she is kind and she is free.”

  Now, as I put on my own uniform to attend Taekwondo with her, I pray that she too will always be kind and free of the struggles that I, and a generation before her, have faced.

  Author’s Note

  This memoir consists of memories, observations, and personal experiences that are mine alone. I neither have the authority or expertise to speak for anyone else. In almost all cases I have used real names but have changed a few when I felt the repercussions of my writing may have caused discomfort to the individual. Although I have used actual place names, many of these are controversial, and are in some ways politically, ideologically, or religiously “loaded.” In almost all instances I have chosen to use the common English names and spellings with the intention of preserving as much clarity as possible for the reader, and I categorically refuse to intentionally use place names as way to further political or ideological goals. For that, you must look to the “experts.” Perhaps the most notable example of this is my use of the term Temple Mount, rather than the Arabic, Haram ash-Sharif or “Noble Sanctuary,” and although I find the Arabic meaning more inclusive, I have used the more common Western name without any intentional implication of “ownership.” Similarly, I have in most cases referred to city names by their Western spellings instead of their Arabic or Hebrew ones. I hope that any offense I have caused by this choice may be forgiven.

  Although it is obvious that I have intense sympathy for the Palestinian cause, I have done my best to present events as they actually occurred without either exaggeration or sugar coating. I do pray for the end of Israeli occupation and settlement, which is in clear violation of International Law, and hope that there will be a just solution to the ongoing Israel/Palestinian conflict for everyone. However, I do not condone any form of government, resistance, aggression, or punishment (collective or individual) that preys on civilians—especially children—and I know that many Palestinians and Israelis feel the same. War is horrible and inherently filled with suffering, yet the abandonment of basic moral standards in war (especially upon an utterly captive population) is, in my opinion, beyond defense. I believe that both sides must hold themselves to standards of International law, including the Geneva Conventions and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Absent these basic principles, I fear the Holy Land will remain in a state of perpetual conflict to the detriment of all.

  Acknowledgments

  I began the process of writing this book almost five years ago, and during the time that I lived, researched, and finally wrote the thing (and, as most writers will tell you, at the end of a book project, the work becomes a vicious thing to be beaten down into submission), I was blessed with the support, help and understanding of many amazingly kind, selfless, and encouraging people—without whom I would never have finished. So, I would first like to thank my agent, Laney Katz Becker, at Lippincott Massie McQuilkin, my editor, Claire Gerus—both amazing beyond belief, Megan Trank, and Michael Short, and Felicia Minerva at Beaufort Books, and especially my publisher, Tracy Ertl at TitleTown. Thank you for taking a chance on this hot potato of a book.

  In Palestine I owe special thanks to Dr. Ahmad Atawneh, and Dr. Loai Ghazawi at Hebron University, as well as Dr. Yusuf Natshe, and the entire staff at the Al Aqsa Awqaf, who helped and trusted me out of the kindness of their hearts without asking for a thing in return. I would also like to thank Sa’ed Nashef, Kifah Hamdan, all of my students at Equiom—Maha, Anas, Mohammad, Ayman and Imad—you all kept me semi-sane during some difficult times.

  I owe a million thanks to the people of Safa, and my husband’s family—too many to mention here, but particularly Khalid, Dr. Mohammad, Huda, Rawan, and of course, my side-kick Manar. You all helped and supported me and the kids while ignoring my many faults—no small thing.

  As for my husband, Ahmad, thank you for helping me on this journey, and for your understanding, encouragement (even when you didn’t agree with me) and technical help. Thanks to my father and step-mother for forgiving me for taking their grandchildren “over there,” and a huge and very special thank you to my kids, Ibrahim, Amani and Karim who were brave and always game for the ride. I’m so very proud of you all.

  Finally, I would like to thank the countless people in the Holy Land, Palestinian and Israeli, who show that there truly are good people in the world—even in the harshest of circumstances. I was never in a situation—large or small—in which some stranger wasn’t quick to offer assistance. In particular, I’d like to mention Omar Haramy at Sabeel, Yoni Mizrahi at Emek Shaveh, and all of the people who work and hope for a just peace for everyone. My heart goes out to you all…and then, last but not least, thanks to my classmates and instructors (especially Jennifer Berg) at True Martial Arts—you all make Taekwondo live up to its reputation of being exponentially better than therapy.

  Recommended Reading

  BOOKS

  Palestine: Peace not Apartheid: Jimmy Carter

  This side of Peace: Hanan Ashrawi

  I Shall Not Hate: A Gaza Doctor’s Journey on the Road to Peace and Human Dignity: Izzeldin Abuelaish

  To the End of the Land: David Grossman

  Sharon and My Mother-in-Law: Ramallah Diaries: Suad Amiry

  Image and Reality of the Israel-Palestine Conflict, New and Revised Edition: Norman G. Finkelstein

  Fateful Triangle: The United States, Israel, and the Palestinians: Noam Chomsky

  LINKS

  Tikun Olam: Make the World a Better Place http://www.richardsilverstein.com/tikun_olam/

  Peace Now (an Israeli peace organization) www.peacenow.org.il/site/en/peace.asp?pi=51

  Women in Black (Isra
eli and international women’s peace group) www.womeninblack.org

  Breaking the Silence, Testimonies of former Israeli soldiers, http://www.breakingthesilence.org.il/

  B’Tselem (Israeli peace group) btselem.org

  Christian Peacemakers Teams (nonviolent intervention) www.cpt.org

  Combatants for Peace (former IDF and Palestinian fighters against the conflict) www.combatantsforpeace.org/event.asp?lng=eng

  Sabeel: Ecumenical Liberation Theology Center (Palestinian Christian peace group) http://sabeel.org/

  Friends of Sabeel North America, http://www.fosna.org/

  Ecumenical Accompaniers for Peace in Palestine & Israel (witnessing and supporting) www.eappi.org

  Gush Shalom (Education and direct action by Jewish Israelis) www.gush-shalom.org

  Quakers with a Concern for Palestine-Israel, network of Friends groups in North America, www.quakerpi.org

  Machsom Watch, (checkpoint monitoring by Jewish Israeli women) www.machsomwatch.org

  Rabbis for Human Rights (Justice for Palestinians and Israelis) www.rhr.israel.net

  The Parents Circle, Palestinian/Israeli Bereaved Parents for Peace, http://www.theparentscircle.org/

  Archaeology in Jerusalem: Digging Up Trouble. Tim McGirk. Time magazine (World) www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1957350,00.html#ixzz1unq5ZTgH

  About the Author

  Jennifer Lynn Jones was born and raised in the tiny town of Independence, Oregon, where she converted to Islam from Christianity at the age of fourteen, after reading an English translation of the Quran as part of a high school class assignment.