I’ve long been interested in Israel. This was mostly fueled by my parents’ love for the country, since I was...
Worshipers pray in distance from each other at the Western Wall in Jerusalem’s Old City, amid coronavirus restrictions, March 26, 2020. Photo: Reuters / Ammar Awad.
I’ve long been interested in Israel. This was mostly fueled by my parents’ love for the country, since I was never able to visit. But I just arrived here to participate in a program combining high school courses, with educational trips around the country. After several weeks of quarantine, we finally went on our first trip to the City of David. I was excited to see “Israel in action.” Specifically, I was ready to connect to the country. In fact, I was yearning to.
It was when I entered Hezekiah’s Tunnel, the water tunnels beneath the city, that I first felt the impact I was seeking. As we entered the tunnels, modernity slipped away. We were wading through ankle-deep water, in a narrow cave where I could barely stand, in complete darkness besides our flashlights. The ceiling dripped onto our heads, and the water below was icy cold on my exposed toes. Soon, however, we were deep in, with no choice but to push through. That’s when the singing began.
Chills crept up my spine as our voices echoed through the tunnel, carrying the melody of “Im Eshkachech” up and down through the dimly split darkness. I decided to turn off my flashlight. In the darkness, I thought of my ancestry as a Jew. I thought of my forebears who walked through this tunnel thousands of years ago, through the darkness, braving the unknown of the rushing water and narrow winding tunnel simply to survive. These were people committed to their God and kingdom, people who had sinned and repented, but had ultimately come back to their nation. Jerusalem was conquered, their Temple had been destroyed. But ultimately they won, because their conquerors became dust, and we are here today, alive and strong.
After drying off and reorienting at the end of the tunnel, we began the long walk back up to the top of Jerusalem. It was fascinating to walk the long, cobbled path, up through the glowing sunset; each corner turned was unique. Eventually, we reached a terrace with a stunning view. Shaded by palm trees, it seemed to be the optimal place to look over one of the valleys of Jerusalem. The terrace overlooked a large Muslim neighborhood, sprinkled with murals and graffiti, displaying the vibrant diversity of the city. As the final sliver of sun set, I absorbed the glow of the gilded light over the whitewashed stone houses. Then, as I heard someone say, “This is Yerushalayim shel zahav,” I understood the pain my ancestors felt to leave this golden city.
We continued to hike up the long winding road towards the Kotel. The first thing that struck me was how small the Kotel was. It has such an intense presence within Judaism, and the photos you see and the masses of people make it look as if it’s a mile long. But I could have walked the length of the men’s section in under a minute.
I stood, staring up at the wall, when my eyes fastened on one specific man. There was nothing inherently special about him, besides the fact he was wearing a watermelon green sweater, but there was something about him standing there, swaying, eyes pressed shut, and edged with tears. He gripped the edge of his bookstand, knuckles white, feet firmly planted, a tiny dot of green among the sea of black hats and suits. What struck me was not the singularity of his green sweater, but that in the end, he was no different from any of the other Jews around me, silently crying in front of the wall built by our ancestors. Suddenly, I realized that I felt sad — because this is all that we, as Jews, have left: a tiny portion of the outer wall of our Temple.
And yet I also felt joy, because this pile of old stones meant the world to every person there, including myself, and because it represented the unbreakable bond between me and thousands of years of my ancestors and tradition.
Overall, that day far exceeded my expectations. I connected to my ancestors in a way unlike ever before. On the bus ride home, I had a single closing thought: I once read that sometimes people who experience intense trauma organize their lives as “before” and “after.” Now, traumatic is certainly not the word to describe that day, but I do think it holds the same function in my life. Sitting on that bus I knew there was an Eitan before today, and an Eitan after it.
