Today, I walked through the Muslim quarter down a cobblestoned Ala’ e-Din St. toward the Al Aqsa compound and attempted to weave through a group of Orthodox Jewish boys, who were chanting loudly in front of the entrance to the holy site.
Emotion filled their eyes as they cried out in Hebrew –words that had little meaning to me as I did not understand. The passion was unmistakably clear. The group of 15-17-year old Jewish boys cried out with a deep devotion – calling to the Temple Mount.
The group appeared to move as one: round-and-roun
d in a rhythmic dance. My body instinctively jumped back against the narrow corridor wall as the twisting and winding mass of kippah clad boys moved in unison.
Pressed against the wall. I could only watch the feverish flow of energy. One boy would break from the circular formation and throw himself toward the open entrance to the hallowed ground– and then fall back into the circle as another moved to take his place.
Nearby, Israeli police watched on, seemingly reluctant to get involved.
At the entrance to the Al Aqsa compound stood two frail Arab males in their late 60s.
The Hebrew chants from the boys grew louder-and-louder—and moved closer-and-closer. I thought for sure the boys were going to rush the entrance.
Could these two Arab males even stop a mass of impassioned Jewish boys? Would the Israeli police officers intervene to prevent their entrance to the holy sites? Later, I would learn that Haram al-Sharif, or the Temple Mount as Jews call it, is considered holy ground in Judaism. According to the Torah – a sacrosanct document, the Temple Mount is too holy for prayer, which is why Jews gather at the Western Wall.
And then, a startling BANG.
A sound in the distance that reverberated down the narrow corridor. The reluctant Israeli officers awoke from their perch and guided the Orthodox boys toward King Faisal Street.
With the Jewish boys now moved from the entrance, I proceeded to make my way forward. I had come to visit the Al-Aqsa mosque.
Are you a Muslim? One of the 60-year old gatekeepers asked in broken English. I shook my head, “Today is only for Muslims,” and he gestured me away with the wave of a hand.
I felt disappointed. This was the second day I had been turned away, and I left Jerusalem the next day.
Aimlessly, I wandered through the Muslim quarter and arrived at a restaurant on Via Dolorosa St near the Damascus Gate. I felt hungry and decided to go to Basti Restaurant & Café. The sign out front made a bold claim:
“Best Baklava and Arabic coffee in the Old City.”
It had another notable feature – a direct view of a portable steel barrier guarded by Israeli police adjacent to the restaurant. Israeli police units such as this were strategically set up at various intersections throughout the Old City. A small unit of officers in groups of 4-6 remained stationed to monitor the activities.
I ordered my favorite: a falafel with a tabouli salad and hummus and sat down to eat. I hadn’t planned on sitting at a table with a direct view of the makeshift Israeli police unit.
I was more interested in my plate until I looked up and saw a giant of a man wearing a Jerusalem police officer’s grey uniform. He looked menacing and was standing in front of the steel barricade. Even from behind the glass in the restaurant, I avoided eye c
ontact.
Suddenly, the Giant’s outstretched limb planted with precision on the shoulder of an Arab teen who had been walking by. The Israeli unit pounced like a well-oiled machine.
Immediately, the clean-shaven Arab teen was behind the steel barricade. He was dressed in a similar style to other Arab males of his age with acid-washed skinny jeans, a fitted white t-shirt, running shoes, and short hair parted high atop his head to the side.
I felt guilty watching the action unfold from behind my plate. I know, I couldn’t have intervened even if I had wanted. Pedestrian traffic continued to pass as well without anyone stopping to break pace.
The Arab teen’s demeanor was cool, calm, and collected. It was almost like he had been through this a hundred times before.
The Giant officer grabbed the teen’s backpack, threw it to another officer standing ready, and kicked apart the teen’s legs in one fluid motion. Now, pressed into a wall – crushed against the weight of a Giant Israeli police officer.
Racial profiling is a common tactic employed by many militarized police forces. In Israel, it is justified by the rationale of keeping the population safe from terrorists. But as I sat there watching the scene unfold and thinking back to the earlier gathering of Jewish boys who appeared to be in a state of euphoria as each boy rushed to enter the forbidden holy site, I couldn’t help but notice the difference in treatment, as those boys were gingerly unushered away by sleepy Israeli police officers, other Arab boys were searched under the guise of security.
Of course, the situations are different. And I know no more than what I observed. Still, the divisive nature of the terrorist other was as much a part of the lexicon in 2017 as it is today now 3-years later.
Divisive narratives about out-group “others” do not occur in a vacuum. They are embedded in societal norms and reinforced during times of conflict by communities that continue to draw demarcation lines in the crowded Old City of Jerusalem.
