Pilgrimages symbolize the experience of the homo viator who sets out as soon as he leaves the maternal womb, on his journey through the time and space of his existence. — Pontifical Council, 1998.
Charles and I set out on foot for Jerusalem’s Old City, entering at Jaffa Gate. We pause by the information booth. The booth is not yet open but a map is posted. Unfortunately, the section that says, “You are here” is rubbed out.
We approach a police officer. “How do we get to the Kotel?” “It’s closed now,” he says. We know he is joking; the wall is open 24/7. We don’t laugh.
At the Kotel Plaza, the normally overcrowded women’s section is empty. So, I ask Chas for five minutes. As I run in, my right hand rips a corner off a notebook page. My left hand fumbles for a pen. I scrawl a very short prayer to press between the stones. I write: “?”
Just past the plaza, a line of people stands by a weathered wooden bridge. “Announcement and warning!” says a sign. “Entering the Temple Mount is a violation of Torah law.” We join the line.
At the metal detector, the security guard checks our American passports. “Yoush?” he asks. Perhaps he is making conversation; perhaps he is asking, “Are you Jewish?”
The Temple Mount is open to visitors four hours a day. At 10:00 am, guards outside let the last visitors in. At 10:00 am, guards inside ask all visitors to leave.
Charles and I are the last two people allowed to enter.
We cross the wooden bridge, walk through a narrow indoor gate and WOW! Everything opens onto a hidden expanse: a huge open-air park with two mosques, an olive grove, paved walkways, and broad steps. We glimpse the splendor of the original Temple. We feel the holiness vibe; a funnel of light flows down from heaven. We merge into the sky.
The magic lasts about 90 seconds.
A man waves his walkie-talkie at us. In heavily accented English, he says, “You have to leave.” He says it again and again, as if it is the only English phrase he knows. No one can argue with him; his only response is, “You have to leave.”
People pause by the gate. A few leave, but most linger. A feral cat hops out of the wall.
We join a tour group that seems to have permission to stay. We meander respectfully along the courtyard’s back wall to another gate. No one wants to leave. Everyone lingers.
“Exit!” says the guide, in Spanish. “It’s time!”
Through the gate’s narrow tunnel and to the right, the guide pauses his group, describing Jewish-Muslim tensions in Jerusalem. We walk through the circle of people; out to Via Dolorosa; then take a right, a left, a right.
And we are now completely lost in the Old City streets. Sun doesn’t reach these cobblestone alleys, but local shoppers do – seeking socks, phones, toasters, and conservative Muslim-style dresses, in bright colors with fashionable details. Deep in this maze, we are the only tourists.
Now we grasp the magic of the Temple Mount from below. Out of this crowded web of city life, eleven hidden gates open onto its light, the vast bi-directional funnel of the divine-human encounter.
Despite the sign’s warning, we know we did not step on the Holy of Holies. At most, we have caught a glimpse of its light through the fabric of ordinary life.
Pilgrimages symbolize a person’s experience on her journey through the time and space of her life.
Photos by Laura Duhan Kaplan
