Journey To Jerusalem

Jerusalem, sacred to three faiths, is a city that has inspired more love and devotion, more bloodshed and anguish than anywhere else on earth. Here religion and fanaticism collide; here is a place where truths must coexist. Jerusalem is a magnet to the thinking world. Marco Polo, Gustave Flaubert, Herman Melville, Mark Twain and Aldous Huxley have all visited the Holy City, and its hold on the imagination remains undiminished to this day.

I cannot recall the precise moment when I first came under its powerful spell, but once the improbable notion of journeying to the city took hold, I knew I could not be swayed to opt for a “safer” destination.

Old Jerusalem is an austere place, both physically and psychologically; an impression heightened by the city’s unlikely location. Perched high above deep ravines, it falls away to the east into the barren landscape of the Judean desert, ending in that deep natural cauldron called The Dead Sea. To the west, cultivated hills give way to a burgeoning modern metropolis - New Jerusalem.

Within the city walls, built by Suleiman the Magnificent, the Old City is divided into distinct areas: there is the Armenian Quarter, the Christian Quarter, the Muslim Quarter and the Jewish Quarter, each with their historical nooks and religious crannies, national monuments and sacred shrines. Mosques with bulbous domes; vaulted stone churches with magnificent belfries; synagogues, newly restored . . . all seem to manage to coexist within the city. The best view of the Old City is from the ramparts that surround it. If one is lucky, the view is accompanied by a musical backdrop of chiming bells, liturgical plainchants and the muezzin’s voice, sounds that have not changed in centuries.

I found myself drawn to the Muslim Quarter with its labyrinth of steep, narrow lanes and myriad little shops. lt is a noisy and chaotic place. There is the constant clamour of bargaining, relieved only by the braying of a passing donkey. Here, masterful salesmen alternately lure, cajole or ply customers with coffee to clinch deals. Brightly coloured crockery and gorgeous necklaces, amulets and trinkets adorn stalls; tawdry souvenirs and tourist bric-a-brac pour out onto streets; religious icons and fake antiquities shelter behind glass cupboards; colourful, aromatic spices delight the senses; and sugary cakes and sweets tempt the palate. It is a marvellous place in which to lose oneself.

In contrast, the Jewish Quarter seems sedate. But I was in luck. A bar miitzvah was in progress at The Western Wall. So wearing a cardboard skullcap, I made my way through the participants, pelted by showers of sweets, and managed to photograph unnoticed among the swirling velvet-trimmed gabardines, gigantic fur-rimmed hats and bobbing side-curls. But with youthful soldiers commanding the area, fingers sweaty around the triggers of their M-16s and Uzis, I soon felt a little uncomfortable and quickly made my way up to the Temple Mount.

Dominating the vast platform of the ancient Jewish Temple Mount, now a Muslim sanctuary, is the magnificent Mosque of Omar, framed by medieval arches, windows delicate with faience lattices of iridescent blues and greens, glistening against a translucent sky. It breathes an exquisite peace and beauty that is at odds with the noise and congestion of the surrounding streets.

After a few days in the Old City, l began to feel trapped. I needed to escape the embrace of the omnipresent wall. I travelled east in a rented car into the Jordan Valley, past the awesome, sterile landscape of the Judean Desert. The road heads south from Jericho, skirting The Dead Sea. Refreshed after a swim but reeking of sulphurous fume, l headed for Sde Boker in the Negev Desert. It is easy to understand why David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s first Prime Minister, chose to be buried here. It is a place of utter peace and solitude.

On the road again, l headed north to Galilee via Tel Aviv. My most memorable experience in Tel Aviv was the rescuing of my rented vehicle from the jaws of a tow truck. Galilee stands in stark contrast to the barren, desiccated terrain of the south. It is as peaceful as it is vernal, with snowcapped Mt Hermon rising majestically across the border, surveying pastures of unbridled splendour.

Down by the water’s edge, a songbird rises, and a distant fishing boat chugs in a faint rhythmic murmur. Nearby, within a grove of eucalypts, stands a Franciscan chapel — all that remains of the ancient town of Kefar Nahum (Capernaum). Behind me, rising to a knoll, is the Mount of Beatitudes. There is no mistaking the land’s deep and abiding sanctity. It is a fitting place to end my journey.

Moses Tan
Images are from a 2017 trip; text is from a photoessay written after my first trip in 1996.