Jerusalem Hot Date

Outer Woman, Inner Child, in Love with an Old City

The driver directed me to the Damascus Gate. Was that really a place? It reminded me of the title of a romance novel of my turbulent adolescence, where the protagonist surrenders to love under the desert sun. The opening chapter of our story came to a screeching halt when he noticed that I was still schlepping a suitcase.

“You’re going in with that?”

“Yes..why not?”

“There’s a lot of steps. That’s going to be a problem”.

“It’s too late now…if I take this suitcase somewhere else, I will miss it. I’ve traveled too far to miss it. And I refuse to be late.

“Ok..it’s up to you.”

He took his fare, and deposited me at the top of the stairs — alone, hot, and hungry, in a country that I had not seen since pre-eternity. My right hand gripped a 45-lb suitcase, while my back balanced five pounds of books. The secret compartments of my shoulder bag held $300 American dollars, and my so-called, “golden” American passport.

All of my valuables felt utterly useless in that moment. At the entrance to the Damascus Gate, the doorway to the Old City of Jerusalem, I landed at the realization that I was completely alone in the world. If asked, not a single friend or family member would have been able to identify my whereabouts. There was no husband to rush over to grab my bag, no father to call for extra cash, and no children to holler to, “Hey, where do you think you’re going? Get over here and help me!”

It was just me, and the Black girl from the Bronx who lives inside, walking together, for a holy appointment with our beloved. We decided that she should lead the way.

She took a deep breath, looked around, softly whispered, “Bismillah” (in the name of Allah), and began her descent.

Her first courter spotted her from the other side of the wide steps. Without waiting for her request, he lifted her suitcase, and with the ease of carrying an infant, whisked her burden to the bottom. He looked up at her, while she slowly made her way down the age-worn marble. Their eyes met. He smiled, nodded, and was soon whisked again, this time, into the growing crowd.

“Oh, what a lifesaver”, she thought, “That wasn’t so bad. The rest should be easy”.

She was easily spotted by the first group of soldiers. Their eyes met. One nodded to the other. “Just put your street face on, girl,” she whispered to herself, “They don’t know about that here…put it on and keep walking.” It worked! She breathed, and finally gave her body permission to sway with the swelling crowd.

She had a date. And she wasn’t going to miss it.

She imagined the scarf vendor’s wallet speaking to it’s emptiness. “Here comes an American girl. With a suitcase! Smile at her. Ask her what she needs. She knows she needs an extra scarf to get in. Listen to her story, and she’ll buy them all! Tell her that the rest of the way is easy, and she’ll come back to you a thousand times. He listened, and followed Wallet’s clear instructions. After selling her a scarf and sleeves, she promised to return to buy more.

The next set of steps were wider than the first. Since the scarf vendor assured her that she was almost there, she tackled them with glee. After all, she had already managed two flights, navigated security, and negotiated shekels for dollars. What more could she possibly have to face today?

She had spent her entire life in the land of, “Easily Distracted” — sparkly, glittery, colorful chachkas, always managed to catch her by surprise, yank her gaze, and lead her off of her path. Today, however, she was unfazed by the elaborate garments, unmoved by the invitation to smell the Turkish coffee, or deterred by the whiff of sweet perfume. Today, the only color in her inner vision was gold. She held it in her heart, as she pushed forward, up the mountain of people and stone.

Her journey seemed to expand with each step, as she calculated every move. The slightest shift to the right was met with the annoyed stares of a community who could not understand her choppy Arabic, motivation, or presence.

Her desire to keep moving was met with the sun, who matched her passion with searing heat. The sweat that poured down her back, for the first time in her life, served as a cooling reminder that she was inching closer to the end of the road.

He found her at the point where the road veered to the left. “What’s in the bag?”

“Clothes, sir. Just clothes.”

“Do you have any flags?”

“Flags? I don’t understand. Why would I have a flag? I am an American.”

She didn’t bother to inform him that the last item on her list of items to take to Jerusalem, right after a suitcase into the Old City, would have been one with a damn flag in it. Out of respect, she bowed her head, mirroring her ancestral mothers when asked for their papers, and held out her passport. He glanced down at her shiny new gate pass, and nodded her on to the next station.

Prodding more carefully than ever, feeling the handle begin to bite through her uncalloused hands, she was approached by a Dutch man.

“Are you taking that with you?”

“I have no choice…it was either bring it or miss everything.”

“They are going to stop you, you know..”

“I know. But I still won’t miss it. I will tell them if they ask.”

“Well, you already have a no, why not see if you can get the yes.”

She smiled and nodded, grateful for a moment of validation. She re-adjusted her street face, and waited for the next soldier to spot her.

While nodding past the one on her left, he nodded to the one on her right.

“Whoa, where are you going?”

“Al Aqsa, sir. It’s almost time for the prayer.”

“Where are you from?”

“U.S.”

Once again she showed her papers. This time, she was also required to share her lineage. He clearly didn’t know that the descendants of slaves could not easily answer questions about genealogy. Four generations was the best that she could offer. He settled on her father’s first name, and the origin of her husband’s last.

“Are you a Muslim?”

“Yes”.

“Can you read and write Quran?”

“A little…very little sir.”

“Then recite Al-Fatihah.”

She sang the ancient healing prayer, the call to every cell to bow in submission. She sang the prayer that a week earlier, had been sung over her daughter’s bed. She held her voice with compassion and strength, looking firmly into the soldier’s eyes. Perhaps he knew that this prayer was also a plea that she made to her Lord, several times a day, to keep her on the path of righteousness. In her song, she also pleaded to be released.

She glanced at the golden light from the corner of her eye. A well of tears began to form in the other corner.

“Don’t be angry, sister”, whispered a voice from behind her…he’s just doing his job.”

“I’m not angry. I’m just ready.”

The final guard was not a soldier at all — just another man, who lovingly gestured to her to adjust her purchases around her shoulders and arms. He smiled as he gave her permission to finally cross the now invisible barrier between her and history.

There were no more further attempts to halt the tears. They raced down each cheek, showered each breast, and landed in her heart. They summoned the release of adrenaline, gifting her with one final push.

The golden dome in front, the barriers in the shadows, she could finally choose to stop, land, and bow.

With her suitcase beside her, she found a spot on a stone platform to pray. Despite their quizzical glances, the five Arab elders around her made room for their dark-brown sister with the heavy burden.

The elder with the most shade in her spot moved forward, motioning her to take cover from the summer sun at high noon. With her head near the ground where the Prophet once ascended, and where her sheikh once led thousands, she prayed for forgiveness, expressing the deepest gratitude for both the trials and the gifts.

The elder from the left approached her after the prayer. Before she could speak, the woman grabbed her hand, searching for a finger that could host the ring in her hand.

Their fingers met on the ring finger of her left hand, just above the wedding band that she had worn for half of her life.

“Habibi” (my sweet), she softly whispered, while gently sliding the ring on the only finger that answered her call. Mama Elder nodded, then disappeared into the exiting sea of smiling faces.

The Black girl from the Bronx softly slipped back inside the dignified African Woman from Everywhere. We smiled, then laughed aloud.

After the crowd began to dissipate, I rose, and walked through the courtyard, back up the stairs, up and down the hills, across the final courtyard, and the last final flight of stairs. I landed at the top of the stairs into the welcoming arms and air-conditioned car of my spiritual brother, the son of my sheikh, who I had surrendered to never meeting on this trip. We raced through the city streets for lunch and the chance to meet the rest of my new family.

“Entering Jerusalem always requires a trial”, he told her, “Congratulations…you passed!”

I glanced at my ring, glistening in the sun’s light. My date with the Old City’s holiest site of my faith had become a marriage for the rest of my life.

I smiled…rested…and waited for the holy honeymoon.