Why I Love Jerusalem Yousef Bashir
Jerusalem -- The city of God and the city of peace. The Canaanites fell in love with Jerusalem, as did King David, Jesus, and Muhammad. Through their pure spirits, I have been in love with Jerusalem for the last 5000 years -- I, and the rest of my people. The Palestinian people have known no other home than the city of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Who would not love their homeland? When I think of Jerusalem, I imagine the miraculous one-night journey that carried Muhammad (peace be upon him) from Makkah to Jerusalem. And then from Jerusalem to Heaven, where he met his fellow prophets, all eager to greet the last and final messenger to humanity. I think of the story of Umar who liberated Jerusalem and freed it from the Byzantine rule in 637 A.D. I think of how he entered the city humbly after Patriarch Sophronius insisted that he personally come to open the city. I think of how he courteously declined an invitation to pray at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, fearing that future Muslim generations would feel compelled to follow him and pray at the Church but deprive their fellow Christians from their place of worship. When my people witnessed such an honorable example of leadership, faith, and tolerance they welcomed Umar with open arms and joined the new religion of Islam. As did the rest of Arabia, which had recently emerged from an age of ignorance when Arabs prayed to idols made out of dates. I think of how Umar allowed Jewish families to resettle back to Jerusalem. I think of how he made it clear he was not going to oppress or persecute anyone wishing to live and worship within the city. Jews, Christians, and Muslims would live and worship in peace and harmony in that place for hundreds of years, until the first Crusade in 1095. God must have smiled upon me the day my mother took me with her and my grandmother to
visit Jerusalem. I remember how ecstatic they were when they learned that the Israelis had approved their permit to visit Jerusalem. Suddenly, both women were jumping up and down, all around the kitchen, as if they had been transformed back into little girls excited about their first encounter with life. It made an immense impression on me. There, in my mother’s kitchen, I first witnessed the power of the city of Jerusalem. My father drove us to the Erez checkpoint at the northern border between Gaza Strip and Israel. We had to walk through an endlessly long tunnel, then were welcomed by metal gates and gloomily tangled barbed wires. We were all searched one by one. I went through first, then watched my grandmother and mother get searched from head-to-toe by female Israeli officers. When all was done and we were clear, we boarded a mini-bus that carried Palestinian workers into Israel. Once we got to Jerusalem, it was as though we had been transported back in time. We forgot about all that had transpired over the centuries and all the blood that had been shed. Once within the sight of the Dome of the Rock, we began our peaceful march toward its glorious presence. Our breathing slowed, our anxieties ceased, and our prayers began. All the dreadful check-points were forgotten, all the soldiers, the curfews, the destruction, the racism, the exile, and all the restrictions imposed on all Palestinians. I thought I would hear my mother and grandmother plead with God to free us from the Israelis and to make them pay for the pain they have inflicted on our people. Instead, my mother and my grandmother sobbed. They sobbed incessantly. My mother prayed that the city would be open to all, and that she would be free to come back as often as she might wish. She prayed for forgiveness, for peace, and for good works. Her prayers made a lasting impression on me.
16
