Thursday evening I stood on the rooftop of the house that has been my home when in Jerusalem. This was the last night of a two-week stay, after having brought a group of college students on a study visit of biblical sites. This roof-top is a place for contemplation, for prayer; and I spent the evening in both.

There is a non-stop intensive energy in Jerusalem that is difficult to describe. The day we arrived, careering uphill from the airport in the Nesher shuttle, I was uncertain that I actually wanted to be there. That energy can be wearing on the spirit as well as the body, and I was already weary. Could I cope? There is a well-known phenomenon called the ‘Jerusalem Syndrome’, in which people with strong religious passions seem to be tipped over the edge of reality when they arrive here. This trip we met two Messiahs; one a rather short woman, and the other a bearded man from London; both dressed in white. The man had a priestly sort with him, who didn’t seem to speak. They were not the first crazies I have met over the years.

This is the point. The first time I came to Jerusalem, nearly twenty years ago, the dominant impression I came away with was, ‘There is too much religion here.’ That impression is reinforced every time I visit. Sometimes I wonder how many people share this with me, for impressions of Israel can be as diverse as the number of visitors and pilgrims. Responses to the ‘Holy Land’ can be of two types: many people find exactly what they are looking for; others are disappointed because they do not. No, just a moment; I must be honest; this dichotomy is not entirely accurate, either. In both cases, people may find what they are looking for, and in the process not see the things that do not fit the expectations. This is the more dangerous approach, because the chances are that the bits that do not fit are people—people whom one cannot ignore.

So, I realise that what I describe here is but one perspective that may influenced by expectations that are not wholly obvious to me. But, I still believe there is too much religion in Jerusalem.


My roof-top is in the Old City—within the medieval walls. For tourists and pilgrims, this is where one passes along the streets of shops to get to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or to the Qotel (Western Wall, still called the ‘Wailing Wall’ by many Christians who don’t realise that the Jews don’t wail there any more), or to the Haram-esh-Sharif (or, Temple Mount as it was)—the holy places of three religions. The Old City is divided into four quarters, Muslim, Christian, Armenian, and Jewish, and these divisions are played out in everyday life. My roof-top viewpoint encompasses them all.

Above the streets this night the City is deceptively restful. Odours of cooking; the wailing of a child who is not really crying; kites flying and falling; all the smells and sounds of normal human life rise to this vantage point. If ‘normal’ is a term to be used for the Old City. How can the sight of children of four or five years of age playing with toy guns be normal here?

As the sun sets and the lights go on, I can see the green neon glow of nine mosques without turning my head. I can also see the domes of nine churches. Synagogues are not visible from above, but the Jewish Quarter is unmistakable by the new, gleaming stone of its post-1967 buildings. The only other clear evidence of Jewish piety is on the Mount of Olives, where nearly one-third of the real estate is now taken by the graves of the pious (and wealthy) who have booked front-row seats for the resurrection.

Prayers begin from the mosques, broadcast from speakers. To non-Muslim ears the sound of the multiple and simultaneous calls to prayer join together in a cacophony that sounds much like ‘weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth’. I am sure that is not how it comes across to the devout, and gradually the dissonance attains a stark sense of beauty; nevertheless for me it never obtains more than a profound sense of sorrow rather than comfort.

This Thursday there is another nuance to the sounds of the City—this is Jerusalem Day, the celebration and affirmation by Israelis of the ‘unification’ of Jerusalem by the annexation of what was Jordanian Jerusalem following the Six Day War in 1967. This is not a religious holiday, but a national day. Beginning the night before, there are outdoor concerts and parties all over the city. On the day, groups of Israelis merge from every direction to march through the Old City.

As I stand in the evening darkness, I can hear young people walking through the narrow streets. I can also see residents of the houses standing on their roofs and balconies watching—Christian, Muslim, perhaps secular—as the youngsters parade by, wrapped in Israeli flags, singing nationalist songs. As they come down my street, I see teen-aged girls, looking very much like normal teen-aged girls having patriotic fun; the sort of thing one might see in the US on the 4th of July. But, it is never so simple in Israel.

Once again I see that one person’s patriotism is another’s nationalism. And neither is neutral or without mortal consequences. But this is a bigger subject, which will have to await another article.

This is ‘The Holy City’.