"I'm just saying ..."

It is “Lilat Al Gabr,” the “Night of Destiny,” 27 nights into Ramadan, and thousands of Palestinian Muslims are heading for “Al-Harem Ash Sharif,” the place Jewish people and most Christians refer to as “The Temple Mount.”  (Thank you “google.”)

Sally and I are in the crowd.  It is incredibly noisy, and people are literally rubbing shoulders with their fellow pilgrims.  I’ll tell you this:  Palestinian women know how to use their hips in a crowd, and some of the village women are as hard as nails, and a whole lot tougher.  They remind me of Iowa farmwomen.  And this I say as a compliment to both.  One woman, about 60+ I’d say, is carrying a 2-litre bottle of water on her head.  And I kid you not; I had to trot to keep up with her in order to get a picture.  The Palestinians, especially those from the villages, are an extremely adroit people, very skillful and athletic.

Now, I know that I can’t do justice to any kind of description of the Muslim Quarter of the Old City on a Ramadan evening, especially this evening, Lilat Al Gabr, the night “the heavens are opened.”  Impossible.  You’d have to see it for yourself.  It’s loud and chaotic, and unless you know something about these folks, it can be a little scary too.  It doesn’t need to be, but it can be, and for some it just is.  The narrow street connecting the Damascus Gate with Al-Harem Ash-Sharif and the Western Wall is filled with smoke from cooking meat.  We’re walking through this main artery of the Old City right at the time of the “if'tar,” the breaking of the fast, and everyone is sitting and eating and drinking and smoking and talking, everyone at the same time, and nobody in their “quiet voice.”  Families are walking – fast -- toward the Al Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, both of which are located on the Temple Mount.  Men and boys have prayer rugs tossed over their shoulders.  One small boy is wearing his like a superman cape.

“This must be like Mardi Gras in New Orleans,” says Sally.

“Except nobody’s drunk and the women are covered head to toe,” say I.

“I’m just saying …” says she.

“Right, it’s festive,” say I.

“Yeah, festive, like Mardi Gras.”

“Except none of the men are dressed in drag,” say I.

“Are you done?”

“I’m just saying …” say I.

There are Israeli soldiers and police all along the route.  I see an older policeman coming out of a Palestinian shop.  He turns, smiles, and waves at the shopkeeper inside, and I get a mini vision of what could be.

It’s a good night for Jerusalem.  We walk all the way to the Western Wall, which is the sacred place of prayer for the Jewish people, and is located just below Al Aqsa Mosque.  We think maybe we could hear the festivities on the Mount above, what with all the people up there and all.  But, we couldn’t.  We head back the way we came and found that soldiers by the entrance to the Western Wall are now keeping all tourists and Jewish people out of the street through which we just passed.  I ask one of them why. 

He says, “This is their night and we want to respect that.  We do the same to them on some of the Jewish holiest nights.” 

“Right,” I say.  “Okay, that’s good.”

A young man standing nearby, says, “Yeah, well, you don’t want to be on that street tonight.”

“Why is that?” ask I.

“It’s filled with Arabs,” says he, and what he means is more than what he says.  And you know what he means.

“What?” say I – it’s not a question.

“It’s not that,” says the soldier, glaring at the young man.  “It’s not that,” repeats he.  “It’s their night.”

“How do we get back to our home?” I ask the soldier.

“You live on this side of town?” The other young man asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Go be with them, then,” says he.

I say nothing, because I don’t know what to say to that.  What does that mean anyway?  Pick a side?  If you’re with them then you can’t be with us?  If you're with us then you can't live with them?  What does that mean?  What I love about tonight is that the Western Wall is filled with Jewish people praying, and right above them the Muslims are doing the same.  I don’t know what all the praying is about, but I’m thinking it’s a good thing – excepting those prayers asking God to pick a side.  Heaven may be open tonight, but not for prayers that ask God to favor one people over another, or worse, prayers asking God to destroy one people in favor of another.

The soldier is working hard to keep our eye contact.  He wants us engaged with him, and not with the young man to his right.  “Come,” he says, “I’ll show you.”  We know several ways back to our home, but we don’t tell him that.  He wants to help us, and we want to let him.  “Go this way,” he points.  “Then take two rights and you’ll be on a road parallel to this one.  It will take you back to the Damascus Gate.  Okay?”

“Okay, thanks.”

He must have radioed ahead to soldiers along the way, because when we would get to a corner, a soldier would say, “Here, you go this way.”

We walk home side-by-side, and silent.  Each of us is lost in our own thoughts.  As we walk up the steps outside the Damascus Gate and onto the busy street – there are still thousands of people streaming into the Old City – Sally says, “It’s kind of like Mardi Gras.”

“Yeah, kind of.  Yeah, I guess.”

“Except?”

“No trombones,” say I.

“Trombones?”

“Yeah, you see any trombones in there tonight?”

“Trombones?”

“Yeah, Mardi Gras has lots of trombones.”

“This is not New Orleans,” says she.

“That’s what I’m saying, except in New Orleans you’d still hear someone say, ‘You don’t want to go down that street, there are …’”

“Right.  There is that.”

“I’m just saying …”