Years of praying toward the Western Wall— of staring at photos of soldiers and men in prayer shawls weeping at its ancient stones— have given way to disappointment.
The first thing that strikes you is the stench— the dirt, the unwashed streets, and the piles of uncollected refuse that litters the streets of East Jerusalem and the Old City. I have gone back to my township days in South Africa— To Soweto, to Dobsonville, to Snake Park. This holy city is a third world slum.
Of course, it isn’t all like this;
I made the mistake of avoiding the birthright programs and whistle-stop bus rides that hurry old Americans and bleary-eyed penitents from the sanitized end of town.
I have walked instead along Saladin Street, through El-Wad, and the dingy avenues of the Muslim and Christian Quarters—small doors with damp, darkened rooms, jackknifing higgledy-piggledy in the shadows, while above them television aerials like metal trees strain skywards, desperately trying to grow toward the light.
But this squalor is not racist; it is not unequal— As I trudge back through the religious ghetto of Mea She’arim, two black crows eye me suspiciously, pecking at the rancid poverty on the streets, while standardized men in dark attire, like Oompa Loompas scurry back and forth with concentrated purpose.
Tomorrow, I will hire a car and leave the city— explore some other part of this ancient land and the home of my people. I will leave behind the tour guides who force themselves upon you and rob you blind for the courtesy of advising you which corner to turn. I will cross to the other side of the road and steel my nerves against the terrifying rush of Israeli traffic and its flagrant disregard for life.