Tunnels, walls and stones

I must admit, I found it a bit disappointing that I'd passed so easily through the infamous Ben Gurion International Airport passport control. After I picked up my bag I didn't really know what to do with myself — the flight had arrived early, and I wasn't being held up for questioning. I had some waiting to do until my ride would arrive. I spoke to one of the Palestinian men on the flight after we'd retrieved our luggage — a warm and soft-spoken man who made my first real interaction in Israel a reassuring one.

I found the cab ride to the guest house where I'd be staying more difficult. Up until this point, I'd only read about "the wall" that partitioned the areas around Jerusalem, separating Arabs and Jews, Arabs and Arabs, and Arabs and their livelihoods. A tunnel was built under the new highway that "Arab Israelis" can use to access their fields, transportation or families and friends. The tunnel is open for at least 20 minutes, at least once a day, so as long as one's business isn't at all time-sensitive or enduring, this set up is accommodating.

The driver described all this in detail with barely a hint of resentment, but only continued to reinforce his hope that one day Jews and Arabs could live in peace, once again, with one another. I don't think it was that his anger had finally retreated over the years into resignation and hopelessness, but that his optimism was simply more powerful. "It is our self-serving leaders that create these problems," he said. I sensed that he referred to people and problems on a greater scale than just those that he lives amidst.

As we approached The Old City, I tried to picture all that had happened there, and all those that died to defend it or conquer it. I imagined Salah ad-Din and his scores of cavaliers holding patiently outside the city gates, waiting for word of surrender from the Crusaders that never came. Then I imagined the ensuing carnage, and the blood that stained the earth, then the stones that were laid atop that earth as the city was rebuilt — again and again.

We climbed the Mount of Olives, just east of The Old City; Mustafa, the driver, deftly weaved through the crowds of tourists who crossed the street anywhere but at the crosswalks, the parked cars and buses taking up much of the driving lanes, and the young boys selling their window washing services. We passed the Church of all Nations and the Garden of Gethsemane. As we went further into East Jerusalem, faces turned more to shades of olive and brown. Garbage began to crowd the streets and sidewalks. Smells were stronger and more offensive here. This place was no one's priority.

We slowed in front of a four-story building surrounded by a high gate. I thanked Mustafa and greeted the children playing beside the car. Dust made the air feel thick, but the pure, youthful tone of al Aqsa's muezzin, reminding of maghrib prayers, carried easily. I opened the gate, picked up my bags and entered.