My Jerusalem Marathon

Sounds from the Marathon along Dereh Hevron and First Station waft up the road and, at times, blare into the kitchen. I stare out the window.

Pumping music had started at an ungodly hour and continued during the morning, more on than off. I was housebound, or at least couldn’t take the car, as both exits to the neighborhood were tightly sealed off: yellow-vested guards, a barrier, and red-and-white police tape. In short, I couldn’t go out painting as I usually do.

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So I decided to join the fun and go for a walk along the route.

To my surprise, there really was nothing going on. Streets were more or less deserted and when I reached the band that had been playing music at the traffic circle near the Khan Theatre, they were beginning to pack up. I climbed stairs up to Givat Hatanach towards the Zion Hotel enjoying the wind moving through the spring yellow-green and what is left of my hair. Down below, on the road, entrepreneurial kids were collecting discarded plastic bottles. One had filled two large garbage bins – one green and one orange, tied them together tightly with the red and white police tape and was attempting with difficulty to maneuver his eight-wheeled pick-up “vehicle” down the slope towards Sultan’s Pool. Since nothing was going on and the marathon had petered, out except for two stragglers - girls pushing girls in wheelchairs up the steep Cinemateque slope, I decided look for other interest.

I followed my feet down into Gei ben Hinnom past the climber’s “cliff” – it looked so small - and came to the crossroads at the bottom. A choice: straight up the steep up winding road to return to Abu Tor, take the footpath up the hill to the Armenian Cemetery with Schindler’s grave, left along the road to Silwan or sharp left to… I’m not sure where. I opted for Silwan. It felt like I was a tourist out in the country who had wondered off track, and I happily took pics of gnarled olive trees and shivering fields as I walked.

I intended to work my way to the Western Wall since I had once wended my way that way before, and although the route was not the same, I knew the general direction would lead me up the Kidron.

Country road-style soon gave way to Arab-village-style: cars, mini-buses, side-walks merging into bedrock or road, garbage, posters of Al Aksa and a lot more red green ‘n black. I spotted a brown sign which directed me to “The Western Wall”. I started but took a diversion and I entered Breikhat Hashiloah excavations. Not exactly what I remember.

Curious, I went in. Nobody stopped me. I hardly hesitated as I followed a path leading to a scaffolded underground mine-like entrance. The sign intended for visitors said it was open, led to the Western Wall, was narrow, at times slippery, and one should mind one’s head. Not intended for the claustrophobic. It said it would take 30 minutes. "Yalla! why not?" Left, right, left, up, up, and soon it was me, moist green walls, the odd muddy puddles and fluorescent lights up ahead as far as I could see. Nobody else.

I was walking, it seemed, under Silwan in a biblical tunnel up to the old city. As I got further and further from where I had entered the tunnel, a nagging thought entered my brain: “What if the exit on other side is locked? After all, today is Friday. They would lock both sides when closing. There is nobody else in here. Nobody even knows I’ve even gone for a walk. Police would never find me.

An opening scene for a book or movie. I wonder if there is cell phone reception underground.” These were thoughts rather than actual worries as I carelessly carefully climbed my way up the stepped street tunnel constructed during the 2nd temple period. Step, step, squelch, up, slide, step. A sign saying “400 meters to Exit” was welcome and soon I emerged into daylight of an archaeological site. “This might be the parking lot next to David City entrance where digging was going on,” I thought. It was.

Now outside, and out of the site, I looked up at the imposing old city walls, gave a thought to the pilgrims who would have climbed the stairs up to the Hulda Gates to enter the temple, considered taking a photo of the black Al Aksa dome against the dark blue sky at this imposing angle (decided against it: been there, done that) and looked back at the crowded hilled valley of Silwan. Lovely!

I was enjoying being here. Breeze was quite cold but the sun was shining. Muezzin chanting dominated the airwaves merging with busses, hooting taxis and revving motorbikes .

OK. So where to next?

Past Yad Avshalom - so impressive the way it stands there carved into the rock, past the Russian church with those exquisite glowing golden onions, round the corner and to the right and up, up, up, towards Dominus Flevit Church. I wanted to see that picture postcard view through the church windows.

My thigh muscles strain and my chest heaves as I push myself up -walls on both sides of me. The Church, unfortunately was closed but the view from the mount of Olives improves with every backward step: Those domes that all claim to have the answers are there - the golden Dome of the Rock, The blue-grey domes of Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and now the white dome of the Hurve.

I take photo after photo after photo as I get higher and higher and as the clouds cast different shadows. I’m at the top with the decked-out tourist camel behind me and the peddlers selling 10 postcards for a dollar while the guides explain in Japanese and Russian whatever they explain.

On my way down, almost at a run, moving quickly I meet Richmond freshly arrived from London. He seems to be doing something interesting so I stop. He was adopted at birth and is a fulfilling a promise he made to himself. He is setting up a large white candle in an elaborate silver candle holder in a hole in the wall overlooking the bleached graves on the Mount of Olives. He has pledged to remember his beloved late parents every year by coming to this exact spot - this window in the wall - where last year he released their ashes to the wind. He is a believer. They educated him as a believer. They died before they realized their dream to visit the holy land of the scriptures, which he knows well. We chat. He places a framed photograph of his parents next to the candle and positions a small decorative silver box containing some remaining ashes of his parents into the wall. His emotion touches me. I ask if I can take a picture.

Time to get moving.

I decide that Friday afternoon Silwan feels less attractive than in the morning as my return route. I take the road that passes the Armenian cemetery down the hill to the crossroads where I had started out, and this time, begin the steep ascent home via Abu Tor.

I trudge up. My legs are tired. The marathon must be well over by now. Black birds against the sky. I hope they don't fly. Click. Not sure why. I’m hungry.

So...

Up the road.

Up the steps.

Up the path and through the park.

Along to the right.

Up the slope and almost home.

Up the steps.

Reached the top.

Down to the street and...

home.

Photos by Jack Pillemer

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