That’s a religious detective, a voice whispered inside me. He’s waiting to pass judgment and inform on me.
I recited the Fatiha with a calm that was almost like contemplation.
“Please go in,” said the policeman, who had stepped back a little.
I climbed what remained of the eleven steps, passing the policeman’s rifle. Then I stopped directly in front of the religious detective, and gave him a disapproving look. The man, who was in his fifties, smiled, and spoke to me calmly:
“Sir, I’m a delegate of the Islamic awqaf department. It’s we who are asking these questions.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir, but why do you have to ask? Suppose I were a Christian and wanted to visit al-Aqsa, or even an atheist. Since when has it been forbidden to visit the holy places?”
“No, sir, don’t misunderstand me; we’re just afraid of settlers and Jewish fundamentalists slipping in. You know the situation. Every day or two, they try to storm the place.”
I sat on the wide side staircase which leads up to the Dome of the Rock, and phoned my mother.
“You seem happier this time. There’s laughter in your voice. Ha!”
“Is there anyone in the world who could be in Jerusalem, Mother, and not be happy?”
“Heh! It’s a gift from God. They won’t give me a permit to visit Jerusalem. So my son visits it, and I visit through him.”
“Of course, Mother, consider it as your visit, and a sanctification of your pilgrimage to Mecca. I’m going to the Dome of the Rock in a bit—I’ll pray two rak‘as for you, and another two rak‘as in the Haram al-Sharif. Okay?”
“Okay, and you . . . do you want me to pray two rak‘as for you to reward you in God’s sight?”
“Don’t worry about it, Mother. Are you happy?”
“I’m okay. And Jala . . . Julu . . . I mean, Julie. May my tongue be cut out, I keep forgetting. Ah, that’s right, she’s a Christian. By God, you’re both as bad as one another! I’ll leave it to God to judge between you.”
I stood inside the Dome of the Rock, not far from the door I had entered through, propped up by my emotions. I took off my shoes and put them on a wooden stand near the entrance. I walked like someone walking between two ages, holding on to neither of them—not even the present in which I found myself—toward a corner at the side, where I prayed two rak‘as. When I had finished, and recited two salaams—“Peace be upon you, and the mercy of God. Peace be upon you, and the mercy of God”—I stayed sitting there for a few minutes, contemplating the Golden Dome from the inside, and the verses of the Quran that decorated it. I looked in the direction of the Rock, which I couldn’t make out completely because of the repairs to the roof being undertaken by a team of Jordanian specialists. I got up and walked nearer. The Rock was irregularly shaped and a meter and a half high at its maximum. Under it was a small cave, with an area of 25.5 square meters at most, making the Rock appear to be suspended, which has given rise to all sorts of legends and fantasies about it. These legends have enabled anyone who hasn’t visited it to mix myth with religion and fantasy with reality, producing tales and stories about it that are widespread throughout the country.
“There’s a story, Amina, that the Rock flew and caught up with the Prophet (on whom be blessings and the best of peace) on the night of his ascension into heaven. The Prophet (blessings and the best of peace be upon him) chided it. ‘Have some manners!’ he said. So it stopped where it was . . . and it stayed suspended in the air.”
My uncle’s wife had told this story to my mother, taking advantage of her ignorance and my aunt’s superiority to her in studying up to the sixth elementary grade. When my mother did not comment, and seemed to doubt what she had heard, my aunt continued:
“Did you know, Amina, that if a pregnant woman goes under the Rock, she’ll have a miscarriage?”
“Oh! I seek refuge with God, the Almighty One. Lord, protect us!”
My mother believed what she had heard, and commented on the words of her sister-in-law with a naiveté that I had not previously been aware of (I was a child at this time). “Do you know, Umm Hatim, that if God gives me life and I visit Jerusalem, I won’t visit it when I’m pregnant? I’m afraid for what is in my belly.”
I praised God when I heard that. My unborn sibling would be safe!
I left the Dome of the Rock, borne along on my amazement at the design of the unique building and its interior decorations, and of the Dome itself, which lifts the person looking at it to new heights of pleasure in artistic contemplation. I headed toward the Haram in a southeasterly direction, went into the mosque and performed two rak‘as, then emerged, my spirit soaring on an ethereal sense of repose born of the two visits.
On my way back to the Suq al-Qattanin, I detoured in a westerly direction to the Western Wall. A strange curiosity led me to make acquaintance with the place, which had now become known as the Wailing Wall, visited by fundamentalist Jews lamenting the loss of the temple. But my curiosity could not overcome the fact that the visit would not bring me any advantage or hold out the prospect of any particular pleasure. Indeed, it offered the visitor a strategic national obstacle course, beginning with the electronic security barrier guarded by a group of armed soldiers at the entrance,
