A visit to the Temple Mount is not a pleasant experience if you happen to be Jewish as reporting recently
http://tinyurl.com/pdv3gcd
I didn’t intend to write
about my trip to the Temple Mount on Tuesday morning. Having written about
politicians visiting the site and arguing about it in the Knesset so many
times, I felt that I was remiss in never having been there myself, and simply
wanted to get a sense of what it’s like.
However, since I wasn’t there to cover news, I decided not to wield my press
pass and to visit like any other Jew on a tour of our religion’s holiest site.
I mentioned the idea to my parents, who had met Temple Mount Heritage
Foundation chairman Yehuda Glick earlier this year. They called him, and he
helped organize our tour with guide Eyal Sapir.
As I said, my plan was to get some background information, but I’ll be honest,
I’m a religious Zionist, so I was also very excited to visit the Temple Mount
from that aspect, though I knew that I couldn’t pray there.
The moment my group arrived at the security check at the bottom of the Mughrabi
Bridge, it became clear to me that this was going to be a humiliating ride –
although I didn’t know how degrading it would get. The strange thing is that
both Sapir and the police said it was a relatively uneventful, quiet visit,
leaving me to think: Really? The norm is for Israeli Jews to be treated like
dangerous criminals just for wanting to walk around? In the State of Israel? I
suppose I knew from what people like Glick and other activists have said, but
to experience it was jarring, and that was what changed my mind about writing
about my visit.
From the start, the sense was that the police work for the Isalmic Wakf, which
manages the site, and not for the citizens of Israel. They treated us with
disdain, and catered to and tried to anticipate every inane complaint by Wakf
staff.
“Don’t make this a hard day for me,” the police officer sneered at us. “No
praying.No bowing. No lying on the ground. No singing. No dancing.”
At the top of the Mughrabi bridge, a police officer looked me up and down and
murmured something about my clothes. I’m religious. I know how to dress at a
holy site. I wore a head-covering, a longer skirt than usual, and a shawl
covering my elbows.
“Your skirt,” the police officer said. “It completely covers my knees,” I
responded, invoking the rules of every religious school I attended.
I was frustrated. I’m not used to being treated like I’m guilty for existing. I
took to the one outlet I had to express my outrage, twitter: “On the way to the
Temple Mount, not sure who’s treating me with more suspicion and disdain – the
police or the Arabs.”
Soon a Wakf employee showed up to express his outrage at the collective calves
of myself, my mother and my sister, who is so tall that most maxi skirts are
midis on her – that’s a lot of calf. Several more Wakf men closed in on us.
Sapir calmly let us know that we don’t have to listen to them, but the police
had other ideas, and made us wait at the entrance until they procured long
shawls that my mother and sister wrapped around their waists.
I tugged my skirt down a couple more inches. After that inauspicious beginning,
we started the tour, with Sapir showing us remnants of Second Temple columns.
He kept calm, despite the hubbub behind us. As Sapir talked, we heard shouts in
our direction of “Allahu Akbar” by the infamous Morbitat, women in black paid
by the Islamic Movement to harass Jews visiting the Temple Mount, who were a
few meters away.
In the past, they would get right up in visitors’ faces, but recently, the
police has required them to keep their distance. At the end of the trip, we saw
more of them by the Chain Gate, where police were not letting them enter the
compound, so once again, they yelled at us from a short distance, loud as ever.
Wakf guards followed us every step of the tour. Not only followed us;
surrounded us in every direction. There were 12 of them, 16 of us and three
police officers. Some of the guards were dressed just like Shin Bet guards;
others wore polo shirts with Wakf insignia. I smiled at them; they stayed
stony-faced at all times, except for when we committed some mysterious offense.
During the tour, we were constantly yelled at for doing things that tourists,
or at least people who didn’t look like religious Jews, were doing, first by
the Wakf officials in Arabic, and then by police translating into Hebrew.
Things like stopping too long (whatever that means) to take a picture or
sitting on a ledge.
I wasn’t stopped from taking pictures, probably because the Wakf was unaware of
my running commentary on twitter, but they were not happy when I took a picture
of the Wakf officer who was taking pictures of the group. (“Say cheese!” I
tweeted.) Meanwhile, the Wakf men could smoke and throw their cigarette butts
on the ground without a problem. The amount of garbage spread around the area
was not only offensive to my religious sensibilities, but was mind-boggling
considering that they must have a lot of staff with little to do if 12 of them
were needed to stalk us.
At one point, my family took a photo together in front of the Dome of the Rock,
and we were shouted at for touching. It didn’t matter that I told them the man
with his arm around my shoulders is my father. No touching. The cop at the
beginning forgot to tell us that rule.
The most Kafkaesque moment of the trip was when Sapir stopped at a pathway that
led to where the Holiest of Holies was and talked to us about the Temple. I
closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would have looked like then.
I was reminded of the prayers describing the State of Israel as the “first
flowering of the redemption,” and that here, in this litter-strewn plaza full
of unfriendly people, is where that redemption will, God willing, come to
fruition.
Sapir’s guiding moved me to tears – though the distress the Wakf guards were
causing me, along with the ongoing sandstorm probably helped – and I took my sunglasses
off and wiped my eyes.
Suddenly, I heard shouting in Arabic and saw one of the Wakf stalkers pointing
right at me. A policeman turned to me: “You can’t close your eyes and cry.
That’s like praying.”
For the rest of the tour – this was midway through – it seemed I had my own
Wakf guard who stayed close to me and took pictures of me. My sister managed to
take a great picture of me with a big smile, next to my personal guard
scowling.
Looking back at the trip it seemed fitting that crying was the offense I
reprimanded for.
As the prayer says, our forefathers sat by the rivers of Babylon and wept while
they remembered Zion, and there I was, weeping for the same reason at the
Temple Mount.