City Walls - Jerusalem

I entered Jerusalem on a bus after spending a night and a day in Bethlehem. "O little town of Bethlehem how sweetly do you lie" it is not. It is the sight of military curfews and now a massive wall that encircles the town and area around. It was built to keep Palestinian "bad guys" in so they couldn't mount terrorist attacks in Jerusalem. It also keeps everyone else in, increasing unemployment amongst Palestinians who used to work in the capital.

One evening I stood on a hill with a local Christian man - a man beaten yet joyful because of Jesus - and looked out over Jerusalem. "I am like Moses," he said. "I can see it, but I can't go there".

Set against the backdrop of distant desert hills, medieval walls, medieval churches and mosques and contemporary architecture life in Old Jerusalem must be one of the most unique places on earth. Walking through the Damascus Gate, I hear "Allah Akbar..." - "God is Great..." - cry out from distorted speakers and I leave the sirens and horns to fight amongst themselves. The souks smell of raw meat, spices, and olive wood. You turn a corner, past a soldier and a police officer, both armed with an M16 or M14 and batons in their rucksacks and you arrive at one of the many churches, welcomed by "no gun" signs, the smell of incense, hushed voices, darkness, candles, glistening metal and priests and monks who act more like bouncers than spiritual guides. Getting the pilgrims/ tourists through the little hole that is supposedly where Jesus was buried is their main priority. I wasn't there for quiet reflection, just to have a look, but even if I had wanted to, we were quickly ushered out to keep the queue from getting too long.

Once again out into the bright sun - sunglasses back on - I turn down some smaller streets into the Jewish Quarter which soon reveals itself as wealthier by it's cleaner streets and quiet courtyards. Today is Yom Kippur - the Day of Atonement - and so families are at home, shops are closed and Jews are making their way to the Western Wall. All are dressed in black and white, ranging from a fairly standard black skirt or trousers and white shirt, to full on black robes and huge hats that would suit the Russian Steppe in winter rather than the Middle East in late summer.

Turning another corner once again the evening sun glistens off the gold roof of the Dome of the Rock - without doubt Jerusalem's most beautiful building, surrounded by a courtyard and olive garden of peace and quiet in a busy, bustling city. It's only open to non-Muslims for an hour and I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time.

Having re-entered the buzz and once I've passed through the airport style security run by young men with handguns 'holstered' rude-boy style in their baggy khaki trousers I enter into the area of the Western Wall, where a festival atmosphere reigns in the cool of the evening. Men and Women take to their respective sides to pray against the wall. Others use the library to read psalms. Set slightly back from the wall are plastic chairs and a Rabbi shares his views on something. Though I can't understand the language I watch him for a full 15 minutes. He speaks with authority, without notes, he speaks clearly, seems to repeat his points and makes his ever-growing audience laugh and nod their heads in agreement with his oratory eloquence. At times, bent over his lectern, he rubbed his bald head in a Marlon Brando manner as if massaging his mighty mind before standing tall once again to proclaim I know not what. As I leave some men have found a space to sleep under a blanket, perhaps tired after a long journey to be here, without somewhere to stay, or simply wanting to sleep near this sacred sight.

Rising early the next day I and my travelling companions head to the Garden Tomb. This is next to a bus station and outside the Old City Walls. In the late 19th Century archaeologists found this place and discovered a tomb. Unlike the traditional location at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre - this fits much more the location described in the Biblical accounts. But as our guide made clear, "It doesn't really matter where Jesus was buried, because he's not there, he is risen and is in heaven. You can find him there." I walked into the simple tomb, smiled at the notice on the door "He is not here, he is risen", exited and joined my friends in reading about the resurrection and singing about it. This garden is a place of light, a place of joy in the truth of Jesus and in deep contrast to the dark, 'religious' so-called Christian churches in other parts of the city where 'reverence and sadness' seem to be the order of the day. It seems to me that even in the location of his burial, Jesus continues to challenge the religious leaders with his simple message of "come to me in simplicity and with rejoicing".

You won't find Jesus in Jerusalem, unless you're spending time with Christians, you're praying or you're reading the Bible. But you can do that anywhere!