It was a crisp September morning when my husband and I entered the Old Walled City of Jerusalem. It had only been two months since the end of the Six Day War in 1967 and Israel’s overwhelming victory against their Arab neighbors and the defeat of the Jordanian army. Through military force the Israelis had taken over control of East Jerusalem and the West Bank and tensions were high throughout the occupied territories.

As we entered the Jaffa Gate and stepped onto the ancient paving stones within the walls of the Old City, I had a feeling of unease. Few westerners had ventured into East Jerusalem since the occupation, and all eyes followed us as we traversed the crooked and sometimes steep flagstoned streets just wide enough for a donkey, with ancient cave-like rooms used for shops that dated back to Roman days, and the mysterious dark doorways leading to open courtyards with more dark openings leading to the unknown. We were eyed with suspicion as we encountered armed Israeli soldiers patrolling the labyrinthine alleyways.

We found an old pilgrim’s inn run by the Franciscans called the Casa Nova tucked away in the heart of the Old City, located not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was built about 1850 with those three-foot-thick walls, and each room was like a chapel. The inn was almost empty of pilgrims, and the Franciscan in charge eagerly showed us a room, explaining that the W.C. was at the end of the long hall, and that meals were served promptly at a set time. The inn had a constant turnover of fascinating people, and every meal in the old spacious dining room was an experience.

After an unforgettable month at the Casa Nova we moved to a two-room house in a Greek enclave located just behind the Armenian Quarter. The little house had thick walls and a cupola roof and had been used by the Green Orthodox Church for storage and was located across the tiny courtyard from the church. The Old City was divided into different quarters: Christian, Armenian, Moslem and the ex-Jewish Quarter. Our enclave had a high gate that was locked at night. We always made sure we were home early.

Jerusalem is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, with its age estimated to be 4,500 years. The Old City is barely a third of a square mile, and is surrounded by the 16th-century walls of Suleiman the Magnificent, which roughly follow the course of the walls built by the Romans to encircle Jerusalem in the second century. Our days were spent exploring Biblical sites and getting acquainted with the endlessly colorful and fascinating inhabitants who, despite their hardships, were the friendliest and most hospitable of any people we had met.

Our dearest friend in Jerusalem was a Palestinian Christian named Joseph, who grew up in an orphanage in the Old City. He was a guide at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was built on the site where Christ was buried. He had little formal education and spoke fluently eight languages. He would entertain us endlessly with the history of his beloved Jerusalem and stories of the fascinating people he had encountered. Materially he could not have been poorer, but he was rich because he possessed the virtue of gratitude.

Though we were Americans we became known as “The English.” We were visited once by a Texas couple we had met in Eilat on the Red Sea, which was a modern seaside resort built by the Israelis in plain sight of the shimmering white Port of Aqaba, which was “enemy” territory. Realizing how difficult it was to find one’s way around the Old City, we told them to locate the Armenian Quarter and to ask anyone where “The English” lived. They did this, and were escorted to our ancient home by a horde of Arab children.

We made many trips around Israel and to the occupied areas of Bethlehem, Jericho, Hebron and the mysterious Jordan Valley in the Dead Sea area. We swam in the Dead Sea, which was incredibly buoyant because of the high mineral content.

During our long stay in Jerusalem each day was met with excitement and expectation. Every Friday at 3 p.m., the Franciscans, with the faithful, would retrace the steps of Jesus from the Pretorium to Calvary. We explored the deep valley of Cedron, where it was crossed many, many times by Jesus when he was going to the Temple; and on the Mount of Olives, which appears just as it was over 20 centuries ago, we sat beside the same olive trees that witnessed the agony of Christ and His ascension into heaven.

We frequently visited Bethlehem, which was only six miles down a winding road south of the Old City. The side of the road was still strewn with burned-out military vehicles, and we saw stone houses that had been heavily damaged during the Six Day War. A favorite halfway point was a high ridge where we could stand and see Jerusalem and Bethlehem.

On Christmas Eve there was a solemn procession from Jerusalem to Bethlehem by the clergy of Jerusalem and led by the Patriarch down the six-mile road and ending up at the Church of the Nativity. That year there weren’t many pilgrims because of the war, the occupation and security concerns, but the local Christians, and we, gathered at the Manger Square to listen to choirs sing Christmas carols and concluding with Midnight Mass at the Church of the Nativity.

It was within the walls of the Old City that I was the most content and happy. I remember so well the humanity of its people, and the scent of the old marketplace. To this day when I smell oregano, thyme or frankincense I’m transported back to Jerusalem.

Jerusalem means, of course, City of Peace, and to some it might seem the most ironic of misnomers. I found it to be the most appropriate of names.



Ann Wolfe

Tifton