Of weeping stones

An old friend passed through Jerusalem this weekend, and we met for a brief twelve hours to share a meal and try to squeeze in all of the stories and jokes that we've missed since our last meeting, more than eighteen months ago. The last time I saw him was in Bryant Park in New York City, where we shared two slices of pizza before he hopped back on a plane to Cairo, where our friendship first formed. The last time I saw him in Cairo, I had returned from Alexandria for only a day before my flight back to the United States, and we met for clinking Stella beers and peanuts at Hurrea, a Cairo bar historically famous for being a center of underground political and literary activity.

We like to joke about the peculiar and random circumstances of our friendship - instead of choosing a new restaurant or cafe in which to catch up, we choose a new continent.

Still, there is something very romantic about building a friendship on meetings in three cities so full of history and energy. This third meeting, though, felt somewhat different to me for its setting - unlike Cairo and New York, where dynamism and mystery fill the air like steam rising from the subways below, Jerusalem's positive energy is matched, if not overcome, by a feeling of tragic desperation, of a tension and urgency propelled by many years of conflict. The city is a source of hope for so many in the world, a symbol of faith for millions who only dream of setting foot on its narrow paths of ancient stone and dirt. And yet those who walk these streets live in constant fear of their lives, constant uncertainty of what might happen tomorrow.

A few weeks ago a group of us went to Jerusalem on a rainy Saturday afternoon to visit the Wailing Wall, the holiest site in Jewish tradition. We were mostly internationals, but a Palestinian joined us that day, the last day of the month-long Travel Permission that he had gotten for Christmas. We roamed the Old City as Jewish families slowly emerged from their homes, making their way towards the wall to end the Sabbath with prayers. We watched the worshippers gather, some chatting happily, others standing solemnly, marvelling in the wall's strength, others caught in almost trance-like prayer, their hands laid on the cold, wet stones as though they were extracting some divine energy. As usual, I was caught in awe of their undaunted devotion to their beliefs; I can't imagine believing so fully in something so abstract - I think the weight and responsibility of so much faith might be too overwhelming, too much pressure for me to bear.

Despite the obvious celebratory aura - the end of Shabbat means the beginning of a new work week - the whole display somehow felt desperately sad. My friend asked me why I thought they called it the Wailing Wall. I told her that I wasn't sure - perhaps it is crying for years of Jewish oppression and struggle, perhaps for those years when Jews were not able to access the site, or perhaps, like the city's streets, it is crying for a lost vision of peace that has been almost completely forgotten.

Jerusalem

I wept until my tears were dry
I prayed until the candles flickered
I knelt until the floor creaked
I asked about Mohammed and Christ
Jerusalem, luminous city of prophets,
Shortest path between heaven and earth !
Jerusalem, you of the myriad minarets,
become a beautiful little girl with burned fingers.
City of the virgin, your eyes are sad.
Shady oasis where the Prophet passed,
the stones of your streets grow sad,
the towers of mosques downcast.
City swathed in black, who'll ring the bells
at the Holy Sepulcher on Sunday mornings?
Who will carry toys to children
on Christmas Eve?
City of sorrows, a huge tear
trembling on your eyelid,
Who'll save the Bible?
Who'll save the Qur'an?
Who will save Christ, who will save man?
Jerusalem, beloved city of mine,
tomorrow your lemon trees will bloom,
your green stalks and branches rise up joyful,
and your eyes will laugh. Migrant pigeons
will return to your holy roofs
and children will go back to playing.
Parents and children will meet
on your shining streets,
my city, city of olives and peace.

Nizar Qabbani