Wafts of saffron and mint tea flirted with my attention as I took in my surroundings. Worn tarps were strewn overhead, a weak defense from the pounding sun on this typical desert day. Thousands of years of striding feet had worn the damp stone into a smooth pathway. I set out that morning determined to wander. It was the fall of 2014, and I had no tour to show up for, no destination or must-see site. I wanted a day of sights and sounds: an encounter with the everyday rhythm of this unique place. I meandered through stone walls and vendor stalls and strangers often in large groups, their identity revealed by the garments they wore. Matching t-shirts: a group of tourists. Black robes: Christian priests. Tzitzit: Local Orthodox Jews.
I turned a corner, not unlike the many corners I had already navigated and saw a rare sign; black letters painted onto white tile read, Via Dolorosa, meaning in Latin, “sorrowful road” or in Arabic and Hebrew, “way of suffering”. I placed my foot with intention, mindfully observing my steps, knowing this is where Jesus walked, the legend of this path a part of my own religious heritage.
The old city of Jerusalem is separated from the rest of the city by an outer castle wall. There are four quarters: the Armenian, the Jewish, the Christian, and the Arab. As an American school teacher, I was traveling to study religious holidays and traditions, the life ways of people. My muse for the trip was Jerusalem, a cacophony of Christian, Muslim, and Jewish practice, along with intersecting cultural, ethnic, racial, and national significance.
I had not heard of the Via Dolorosa until a year before, when a Jewish student of mine had traveled to Israel for his bar mitzvah. I was still a new teacher then and early in my career. Upon return, he declared with enthusiasm he had walked the same path as Jesus! A brainiac of a child he was fascinated by the history, showing me maps, teaching me the translations, and describing his own experience of the sacred path with his parents. The Via Dolorosa is not one single street, but segments of several streets, mirroring the path the Romans forced Jesus to walk, carrying the wooden cross on his way to his own crucifixion. A grim history, but one my student was enthralled to understand. As I meditatively stepped down each stair, I remembered my student, his round adolescent face and high-pitched twelve-year-old voice. With each stair, more gratitude emerged for the gift of having him be my teacher about a place where our religious traditions interface.
Nearby a voice caught my attention. It was close, raw, with even vibrato, as steady as a stream of tea being poured. I could hear each deep inhale fueling the next melodic arc. Through a narrow sliver of an ajar door, I saw a man inside a small room standing on maroon carpeting with bare feet. A white robe cloaked his sun-kissed skin, so long it only revealed his toes. He had round face, short beard, and a gray prayer cap sat on his head. He swayed as he sang with closed eyes, clutching the microphone with one hand. With each vocal phrase, he gracefully moved in synchronous motion. His voice hung just a moment ahead of a similar echo. Then it occurred to me, this man is the voice of the muezzin, offering the noon day call to prayer; it is his voice from the speaker overhead.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
A vendor caught me staring. He sat on a stool just outside the door of a tiny shop, wearing worn khaki pants and a blousy white linen shirt. His space mirrored the many stores you encounter throughout the old city filled with trinkets and tokens of religiosity.
Wandering the old city means encountering food stands next to sacred sites, security forces amongst tour groups. The myriad web of religions is as complex as the stories of violence, alongside so many things for sale. Maps are hardly helpful. Instead, symbols tell the story of your location. On one block shops are full of white and blue tassels, next to two-handled jugs, and stars of David, quintessential Jewish items. A slight turn and you are immersed among Christian pilgrims flocking to make purchases of crosses in all shapes, sizes, and materials. Keep walking and patterned maroon rugs fill stand after stand as stall owners beckoning you to come in for tea, a traditional Arab custom.
A palm-shaped emblem blurs the lines between distinct faiths, nationalities, and even the quarters of the old city. The ancient symbol, a simple outline of a five-finger-hand, has been a part of this region of the world long before the traditions of Judaism, Islam, and Christianity came to be. Interpretations vary. In the Muslim tradition, one view is the outlined hand is the Hand of Fatima, representing the hand of the daughter of Muhammed, symbolizing feminine power. In the Jewish faith, the same symbol is known as the Hamsa, which represents the hand of G-d and is a reminder that it is by G-d’s strong hand the Israelites were led to freedom.
When the State of Israel was first established the Hamsa was frequently on display. As Jews immigrated to the newly established Jewish nation from Muslim majority places, sometimes not by choice, the Hamsa was carried with them. Even now, the symbol is shared, the story and name not identical, but still revered as a source of protection and good luck.
The synthesis of the significance came to me. I’m in the Arab quarter, hearing the noon day call to prayer, on the street where Jesus walked, in the religious capital of Israel, the only Jewish nation in the world. This is Jerusalem.
The conversation with the vendor continued.
“Yes,” I replied to the vendor. “I’ve been able to hear the call to prayer in a few places now and this offering is quite beautiful.”
“Where have you been that you’ve heard the call to prayer?”
“Morocco. I’ve come here from Morocco. I was there for Eid.”
“For Eid al Adha,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands once in sheer delight.
I smiled bashfully and nodded with pride.
“I loved Eid. Multiple homes invited me for the celebration. Even strangers in the streets would say, ‘You are a thousand times welcome.’ It speaks to Moroccan hospitality and how the tradition is lovingly shared with non-Muslims. How was Eid here?”
“Eid was not good this year,” he said, lowering his head. “Hard to celebrate when your people are dying in Gaza. They are trapped. They have no way out. They have no option to live anywhere else. We hear only from them when someone we love has died.”
In the summer of 2014, just a few months before I visited, a conflict set off another round of violence. While hitchhiking home, a common practice among young people in this part of the world, three Jewish teenagers were abducted and killed. Two Muslim teens were burned to death in retaliation; one was American. A ceasefire had been in place, but these events prompted military action by Israel and while the igniting incidents were in Jerusalem, Gaza was punished. People died. Children. Parents. Military operatives, official and unofficial. Those called heroes and those called terrorists. Death spares no one. This too is Jerusalem.
I acknowledged his loss with the only words a stranger can say. “I’m sorry,” I stated softly.
He replied with an accepting nod. We let silence fall between us as we tuned into the male voice, mid-range, warm, and clear. The muezzin held one note with a straight tone, the sound expanding the longer it lasted, his breath sustaining the power of the single note. The phrase ended with the slightest of lilts.
The vibrations enveloped me. The delay between the live voice and the amplification transformed the chant into a deepened layered chorus, one voice, into two, and yet united. His call to prayer reached every quarter of the old city; those at the Western Wall and those waiting for their tour to begin at one of the gates. The Christian pilgrims, the Muslim vendors, the Jewish leaders. Walls are a useless barrier to voice. In that moment, no religion, nationality, or cultural heritage, could stop the beckoning of the call to prayer. I wondered, what if all stopped to listen?
The muezzin finished his chant and through the crack in the door I could see someone enter from another room. The man’s eyes remained shut as his companion gently guided him by his elbow, his blindness not a limitation to the power of his voice.
