We went down to the garden and Nada brought out tea. Then we listened to Fahmy telling the story of his family. He concluded by saying bitterly, “And here is our latest loss. Do you see the house over there? Just above my left hand?” Everyone turned to where he was pointing. “That’s the house of my younger brother Mustafa,” he went on. “He emigrated to America a year ago. He said he couldn’t stand the situation at home. Every morning, I would be drinking my coffee here in the garden, and I would wave at him or he would call out to me, to say good morning to each other. May God have mercy on him, he didn’t listen to my advice—he quit the house and emigrated with his family. Anyway, some months ago, I was standing in the morning with a cup of coffee in my hand as usual, probably thinking of Mustafa, when I turned toward the house and saw a Jew who’d planted a chair by the door and was sitting as though he was in his ancestral home. I went crazy, hysterical—I contacted the police, and submitted a complaint. Months have gone by, but the wretch won’t leave the house. He ripped the door off, he’s taken up residence there, and the police aren’t willing to take any steps against him or get him out. We’re waiting for a decision from the courts. And I’m afraid it’ll be the same for Mustafa as it’s been for thousands of Palestinians who’ve quit their homes and taken the keys with them.”
Next morning, Julie and Aida decided to go back to the Khan al-Zeit Market to buy herbs and spices. Aida said Julie was insisting, and that she really liked Abd al-Mun‘im Qasim’s shops. Salman agreed to go with them and spare me the trouble of waiting for the two women to explore the huge variety of produce on offer. He said he would call in at a number of Jerusalem bookshops and seek out some new publications. That gave me a chance to visit the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock on my own.
The four of us passed the Damascus Gate amid a crowd watched by three armed Israeli soldiers. We walked on down the few steps in front of where al-Wad Street intersects with the Khan al-Zeit market, where we became part of the crowds vying for their share of the delights of the city. Julie and Aida didn’t need a guide, or even Salman’s help, to take them to the Suq al-Attarin inside, for the smells of the superb Palestinian herbs and spices were enough to draw them by the nose to such shops as were left in the market, though many of them had closed because of the taxes and other irritations, as well as continuing Israeli intimidation.
When the smells reached my nostrils, I left the others and headed toward the Dome of the Rock through the Cotton Suq, after agreeing that the other three would visit the Temple Mount and Dome of the Rock later while I went on my own to the Holocaust victims’ museum known as Yad Vashem. We would all meet in the Ramada Renaissance Hotel in the evening.
I was now in the Suq al-Qattanin, the Cotton Suq, the most beautiful market in Jerusalem, built by Sayf al-Din Tunkuz al-Nasiri, the governor of al-Sham in the reign of Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad Qalawun in 1336. I looked at its colored stones, and its half-barreled roof, supported on pointed arches. I walked slowly under the eight openings through which the light and air penetrated, allowing the suq, which was crowded with people, to be ventilated. Like millions of other people, I sang to myself and to the city I loved:
For you, City of Prayer, I pray,
For you, most splendid of dwellings, Flower of Cities . . .
Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, City of Prayer, I pray!
I sang, and whenever I came to a bit I couldn’t remember, I re-sang what I could. When I reached the end of the road, still singing, I went up the first steps that eventually lead to the mosque of the Dome of the Rock, where an Israeli policeman stopped chatting to his female colleague (whose face looked Ethiopian) and indicated that I should stop. I did so, and my singing trailed off at “For you, City of Prayer, I pray.”
“Hey, you, where are you going?” he asked.
“To the mosque,” I replied.
“It’s forbidden.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s forbidden. Don’t you understand?”
“That’s odd. Can you explain why it’s forbidden?”
He blocked my way with his M16 rifle.
“I told you it’s forbidden.”
“I wish you’d had the same courage to say that in front of my mother. Do you know, if your government had tried to stop my mother from visiting the holy places, she’d have slapped you in the face and shouted, ‘Go away! Is there anyone in the world that stops God’s servants from visiting God’s houses except your Occupation that’s as filthy as you are?’”
“But it’s forbidden.”
“But you haven’t told me why it’s forbidden.”
“Where are you from?”
“From this country. A Palestinian, if you like.”
“Do you have ID?”
“I’m a British Palestinian.”
I raised my head, and my eye caught sight of an Arab man sitting to the side of the people going up to the mosque. I was about to put my foot on the next step up again, when the policeman pushed his rifle forward until it touched my chest and surprised me by demanding that I recite the Fatiha.
“Why? Has someone died? I’ll recite it for sure after I’ve entered the mosque, praise be to God for my visit there.”
“If you don’t recite the Fatiha, I won’t let you past.”
I was taken aback, and growing increasingly angry. This stranger wanted me to prove my Islam to him. Did they teach the Israeli police the Fatiha for this purpose?
At this point, the strange man
