Jerusalem – KensView

Crossing the Line

Back in their homes in a divided land,
Two teenagers online devised a plan—
West Jerusalem girl, so bright and fair,
East Jerusalem boy, with mind of care.
They decided to meet at twilight hour
In a city torn by rivals’ power.
But as they embarked, the cell service failed;
Thus their doubts and nerves quickly upscaled.
Heading for rendezvous in a school yard
Each sought a way to dodge the patrol guard
Despite confusing, unfamiliar streets,
They at last came together, hearts a beat—
She donning a dress with stripes blue and white,
He a jersey visible in the dim light.
They smiled shyly, both feeling some fear;
But as they talked, reservations disappeared.
They compared details of their lives and dreams,
Finding they weren’t as unlike as it seemed.
He told her proudly of family and home,
Of struggles past and hopes he did not own.
She listened with empathy in her eyes,
Quietly challenging both factions’ lies.
She whispered of her concerns and desires
In a future offering just raging fires.
Then he grasped her hand with a gentle touch;
And felt his heart flutter a bit too much.
As the night gave way to dawn’s rising light,
They knew time together would soon take flight.
But in one another, they’d found a spark,
Seeded bond that defies the shadows dark.
They leave the encounter, still hand in hand,
In a land where peace is just a dreamland.
Though the prospect seems a long way away,
They keep hope good sense will return one day.

Old City

To stroll the walls of the Old City
is to walk a line surrounding history.
Outside is modern life, bustling streets
lined with hotels and tourist shops.
Inside is rich tradition, much older
and long the vortex of many faiths.
Many pilgrims fill the lanes to visit
the temples, mosques, and churches.
Tiny gardens behind homes of stone
are shaded by ancient trees.
Their branches reach out and, in some places,
cover the city walls like curtains.
Narrow lanes open into wider streets
with busy shops and open stalls.
Men sit sipping coffee,
fingering their prayer beads or just talking.
Women crouch in the shade of inner courtyards,
sorting beans and legumes—and talking.
How is it that some call this place,
the world’s biggest thorn in the side?

Jawdat

I met Jawdat just as I entered
by way of the Damascus Gate.
“Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City.
Are you looking for a guide?” he asked.
A quick glance discomfited me,
For he looked no older than I myself.
But he expertly continued,
“This Gate is The Center of the World.
It is an excellent type of Islamic building,
and do you know what its sign means?
There is no God but God
and Muhammed is His Prophet.”
What convenient luck for me, I thought,
as he offered to guide me for the next few days.
“There is the immovable ladder of
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Someone put it against that wall, and
no one dares disturb the status quo.”
“Make sure you cover your elbows
when tucking prayers in the Wailing Wall.”
“Remember remove shoes in al-Aqsa,
so you can see the wonderful decorations.”
He offered little personal insights
To spice up our series of walks.
“Let me treat you to some Turkish coffee
along with a delicious slice of kanafa.”
“The sabbath, the busiest day of the week, is
when Arabs and Israeli teens eye the miniskirts.”
And “Someday I will go to your country
to study and get an American wife.” Also,
“My family is originally from Jaffa
but was thrown out the Day of the Nakba.”
Once when we dined late after curfew,
he vanished after helping me enter my hostel.
For four days there was no sign of him,
though I enquired from shop to shop.
At the market there was a wary silence
until my last day his familiar figure re-emerged.
Jawdat approached and pulled up his shirt
to show me the IDF’s purple marks.