I never felt like I deserved to go to Jerusalem. It’s a city that in my imagination oozes religiosity. Only those who said “Next year in Jerusalem” and meant it ought to go. Or perhaps anyone with deep ancestral roots in the area, ranging from the various groups of Arabs and Jews who’ve seen the likes of the Ottomans, Brits, and Jordanians come and go.
In general, I’m talking about people for whom Jerusalem means something more than a place to grab some humble brag shots for social media. Not some American shmendrik who’s about as pious as the village idiot from Chelm.
Although I forced myself to the sights, like The Wailing Wall with the Dome of the Rock glistening in the background, I can’t say it sparked a spiritual revolution within. I actually felt a little guilty. This is something many of my ancestors would’ve been incredibly moved to see for themselves. As far as I know, I’m the first in my line to have seen this place in presumably thousands of years. Yet there I was, feeling like I stole some teenage girl’s front row seats to a Billie Eilish concert.
Next time, we cross into the Palestinian Territories through Checkpoint 300 for a stay at Banksy’s Walled Off A Hotel and to learn more about a certain hunk of junk that towers over the Palestinians living in the adjacent Aida Refugee Camp.