“All opinions are that of the author and not necessarily those of the website that it is published under.”
We struggled to make our way past the small collection of women at the door that only swelled the closer we got towards the inside of the mosque. It was Friday, an hour before the prayer were even to begin and many of the women didn’t even bother trying to make their way; they sat outside with their prayer rugs listening to the khutba (sermon) from the loudspeakers in anticipation for the Friday afternoon prayer to begin. I would have been not only satisfied but quite content to remain outside under the shade of a tree or not, just as long as I did not have to budge my way through one grimacing face after another only to be eventually stepped on, elbowed and nudged over and over again. Just like many, no doubt, I abhor crowds. I don’t go into any sort of panic attack but I begin feeling uncomfortable and this feeling of self-loathing seeps into my brain first then begins to wash over, ever so slowly over every cell of my being until I am ready to scream but I never do. You’ve heard the saying, “I can’t stand myself right now,” no doubt. It means I am tense, uncomfortable and pressured and my biochemistry is out of whack, my skin feels as if belongs to another, my head is not mine, I don’t know who this body or mind belong to. It’s an indescribable feeling that makes you want to disown your very physical and even metaphysical existence. I clench my teeth and bare it because it won’t last forever, nothing ever does and we are always made the better for a situation, it’s outcome especially, if we just bear it with clenched teeth even a clenched smile if necessary and as much kindness we can muster. So…I finally sat, squished like a sardine, a baby sardine between two big mammas and despite the nudging and one woman actually fell right on top of me, I felt a strange sense of serenity. I couldn’t help but marvel at the calligraphy of Arabic on the high part of the walls, how the light pierced through in iridescent rays through the windows, falling on the heads of the women like halos, illuminating the top of the dome, it was breathtaking and it made me happy. I am not, after all, a very difficult girl to please. Give me a sunny day and waving braches, a cool stream to walk along with perhaps, a chirping bird or two, doesn’t matter what type it all sounds like a composition of nature’s greatest concertos and I am happy to be alive. Honestly, just a sunny day would do.
Out after the prayer I noticed a line of boys and men walking arm in arm, quite peacefully chanting. No anger or violence of any kind and they were so small in number that it really failed to sustain any sort of attention from anyone leaving the mosque. The grounds of the Haram of Al Aqsa were vast and behind the doors of the Old City, it was practically it’s own sovereign little nation. The politics and history of the place are too long and contentious but as of right now, today it is a place of worship for the Muslims of Palestine. As we were making out down the steps and towards one of the doors that led back into the old City we were met, as soon as we’d walked through the door by a violent gust of riot police. The area was already packed with women, old men and children mostly, I could barely get a step or two in front of me to make any distance towards my destination when out of nowhere, they blew right through the crowd, it was so shocking that I was stunned at first, by, the sight of riot police? What prompted the riot police to come stampeding away at a crowd to try and get inside the holy site? They had these plastic shields and they were dressed in a manner that might suggest they were preparing for combat and they pushed us and shoved and it all happened so quickly a feeling of terror gripped my heart as I witnessed a mother grab for her child for fear of being separated. She held on so tightly her veins began to bulge blue and red and the look on her face of distraught fear, tightened into a contortion that made me angry and sad and afraid. The riot police slammed through the old men and women, they had very little care for who they hurt or who was in the way. I’d been living in Jerusalem now for three years and this was the first time I’d been to the Friday prayer. I do my best to avoid the prayer on Friday due to its overcrowding and complete chaos that ensues trying to get into the Old City and out. It’s my day off and I want to relax and I can pray at home but this was a favor to my brother-in-law who was visiting and you cannot refuse the request of a guest or visitor, it goes against the laws of Arab hospitality and social etiquette and God would be very unhappy with someone denying another the right to worship in the Al Aqsa mosque. Now, although I was shocked this was not an uncommon event. The riot police came almost every Friday, for no reason really except to instill a sense of dread in the worshippers, make their presence known in a way that would make us understand where the REAL power lies, that we are not free, we are still under occupation and to basically watch what we do or rather don’t take too much enjoyment in living because we are here to remind you that you are in hell and will stay here as long as you remain in the Old City. It’s not an uncommon tactic or practice but rather it is expected of a colonial power to exercise their might in this way and even worse to make the natives understand that they do NOT have the right to self-determination, well, they have no rights period. I’ll never forget that feeling, never, I will never forget the look on that mother’s face, never. If I never forget what will the child remember? He couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7. How will he view the colonial power? Will he love them for their rule or fear their cruelty or challenge their power regardless of the consequences to himself and those that he loves? I imagine he will grow accustomed to such Fridays at Al Aqsa and eventually grow immune but the question I ponder upon is how that immunity will serve him and those that continue the struggle to worship at Al Aqsa.
“All opinions are that of the author and not necessarily those of the website that it is published under.”
