When you visit Temple Mount, you are visiting a place so holy that, in ancient times, only the highest Jewish priest was allowed to visit once a year. And you are stepping your feet upon “Haram al-Sharif,” or “Noble Sanctuary,” which Muslims claim to be the point of ascension for the Prophet Mohammed to heaven, where he met with prophets from Abraham to Jesus and heard the direct word of God. For the faithful, perhaps angels will peak out from behind the glistening sun to sing. For the secular, maybe an overwhelming feeling of peace will wash over them. For the naturalists, there could be anticipation of birds chirping in concert with the wind.
None of that happened for us.
In fact, many in our group felt highly fearful and anxious. While much anticipation of peace was predicated on religious promise, those very claims superseded the value of empathy and civility to one’s neighbor.
The situation on the Rock is as follows: Jews are forbidden, by the Rabbinate, to go there for religious reasons. Jordan maintained control over the Dome of the Rock after the 1967 war and Muslims can go there to pray but the area is guarded by the Israeli military. In 1993, during Oslo discussions, Arafat made a comment that Jews did not have any historic rights to the land there. In response, very religious Orthodox Jews began to tread on their own religious law by ascending the Temple Mount to walk its perimeter— to demonstrate their historic right to the land– but they did not go to its center, where the Holy of Holies lies (also where the Dome of the Rock sits). Since then, Muslim prayer groups have grown around the Temple Mount, which is viewed as a show of defiance to the Orthodox Jews walking the perimeter. This has caused so much tension that the Orthodox groups, mostly men, who come up, are accompanied by a member of the Isareli police and a member of the Muslim waqf. The Israeli police are specifically there to prevent the Jews from openly praying, which is considered a particular provocation by the Muslims and has led to violence.
What happened on our visit played out as one of the saddest of circumstances. It was the last day of al-Aqsa Camp and about one hundred school-aged Arab Muslim children were playing on the Temple Mount between the Al-Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock. About twenty of them, about six to eight years old, were playing a pick-up game of soccer. Though this is a holy site to both groups, it was pointed out to us that the Orthodox would find the use of this site as a soccer field to be particularly offensive. As the Orthodox Jews approached, we heard ithe small voices of children grow loud and then louder as they taunted, “Allahu Akbar,” or “God is Great” in Arabic. Each time the the Jews got close to a group of the children, the children stopped what they were doing to chant. When the Jews passed, they went back to their camp activities. The adult counselor did not stop them and, in most cases, encouraged it.
Our guide explained this has been a fairly regular occurrence since Arafat’s comments, though I wondered if the tensions were particularly heightened because of both the kidnappings of three Israeli teens in the West Bank June 12th and the resulting IDF’s Operation Brother’s Keeper which has led to over four hundred arrests in the West Bank and the death of five Palestinians as of today.
Mark Twain visited the Holy Land too early to predict the 20th century conflict, but his version of the Hatfields and McCoys is rather prophetic. Like these two families, the anger and stories are passed down generation after generation; but the jaws of the argument has lost its teeth. It’s splintered and splattered.
As the children played soccer, their ball rolled into us –and they knocked it into us. But they emphatically yelled at us not to touch it. As Americans we were equated to the Zionists. I was not afraid. I was thinking about the stories of the children’s parents and grandparents, from where their anger came. I try to remember they are individuals with stories and reasons for their actions. That there is value to each narrative and the importance of asking, “why?”
Why does the Orthodox Jew risk breaking rabbinic law? Did his grandather die in Auschwitz refusing to renounce his faith?
Why does the Muslim child shout at me not to touch his ball? Did his brother die at the hands of an Israeli weapon furnished by America?
Why might an Orthodox Jew feel defiant in his march of the perimeter? Was his uncle killed by a suicide bomber in the second intifada?
Why does the old man shout in Hebrew to the Orthodox Jews, “Get of here!”? Did he lose his home in 1948, only to have his remaining olive groves lost to the new barrier?
Why do the Orthodox need to prove their historic ties to the land? How many stories do they have of expulsion for the one story they have of home?
Why does the Muslim woman encourage her campers to shout at the Jews? Is her husband held by the IDF occupation military without charges?
In the spirit of whatever brings us there, I wish us all: Shalom, Salam, Peace.
This post was originally posted at my travel blog Israel 2014: an Educator’s Study Tour