Reflections on the Old City and the Western Wall
"How can three religions exist in the same place without conflict?”
This was the only question I had on my mind while walking through the Jewish Quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem. All around me were old men in suits with black hats, long beards, and white string protruding from their white button downs. We quickly weaved through the crowds and the serpentine,narrow streets of millennia-old stone. Stone that has been walked upon by millions.
We were walking to the Western Wall. This was the moment I had been waiting this entire trip, my chance to have the conversation with God (let’s assume this to be true for the entirety of this blog post despite my skepticism). This was my main purpose for coming on Birthright: to have this discussion honestly in God’s land, the holiest place for Jews. When I first heard about the tradition of writing letters to God, I knew that this was important for me to have closure and peace.
I lost all sense of rational thought when I arrived to the entrance of the Western Wall. All I knew was that it was a big stone square with an enclosure that I assumed was meant for restoration. I thought we would have to go through the enormous stone structure, and view the crumbling, depressing, and probably musky stone. In front of me there was a beautiful stone wall that seemed to stretch several hundred feet high. I thought that this was a very appropriate and peaceful memorial that stood in front of the dilapidated wall, perhaps symbolizing how much the Jewish people have overcome and how much we have achieved. I was prepared to walk through this slightly ostentatious symbol to see the real wall, the gritty one, and have my ’moment with God’, and place my letter in hidden crevice in the corner.
I hadn’t even noticed that the men’s side was clearly more than two times larger than the women’s side. I was talking to a female participant about our expectations of this experience when I realized I had to go to the left and enter with my own gender. A guard looked me up and down and gestured for me to pass as I walked through the left side of a barricade. I saw hundreds of people kiss the wall. They held prayer books and bowed as they recited the words of God. Some of them placed their letters in cracks as they prayed right next to the wall. Balancing upon plastic white picnic chairs, others sought an untouched nook for their notes. This was the wall, the holiest place for Jews, and it was massive and awe-inspiring. This was the supporting wall closest to the Second Temple, destroyed thousands of years ago.
There were tables everywhere. People were writing their own truths to God. I walked up to an empty one and pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper and pen from my pocket. I didn’t write a letter beforehand because I knew that this place would give me inspiration. I first stared at the wall and knew that I didn’t even need to write anything. Someone already knew my truth, and knew the words I wished to express. This didn’t stop me from having the conversation I set to have. I stood at the table writing until I had no white space left.
Someone told me that we had to leave in a couple of minutes, and I should grab a chair so I could really stick the letter in the wall, make sure it’s in there well. I walked over to the stack of plastic chairs on the right and took one. I walked to slightly left of the midpoint of the men’s section of the Western Wall and stood on the chair. I folded the paper once, twice, thrice and crumpled it in my fist. I shoved it in a crevice among numerous letters that also resided in this crack -- letters written on different colored paper in different languages and folded in all unique ways.
Earlier that day, I remembered standing atop a roof, looking out on three sections of the Old City -- Jewish, Catholic, and Muslim. All worshipping God peacefully alongside each other, putting aside differences in the holiest of places… All of us heard the calming prayers emanating from the Muslim mosque in front of us, the stone crosses adorning the churches to the left, and the Star of David gesturing in peace to the right. Three religions existing simultaneously, all worshipping a higher power to grant them serenity and wisdom in the holiest of lands. Shalom means peace in Hebrew, and is also my older sister‘s name. My sister, whose spirit brought me to Israel, passed away almost two years ago on January 8, 2011. My sister, Shalom, whose name means peace, and whose memory will now always be part of the Western Wall, beckoning harmony for us all.
By Danny V.
