lâ ilâha illâ allâh...There is no God but God...
Utilizing a plastic chair near the southern edge of the hotel roof, I covered myself with a light jacket as I swindled from Jerusalem long, long glances at her old city. Eagerly I wanted to dive into its corners and basements, hollows and grottos, however, I feared leaving the security of the hotel. Never having left my home continent before, my legs were still new.
My view of Zion encompassed the Sepulcher, Al-Aqsa and the Dome, cumulatively called Al-Haram Al-Sharif [the Noble Sanctuary]. Knowing where the Western Wall was I sought to identify the ancient shrine but it eluded me under the triangles and domes of structures and tops of trees dotting between them. Anticipation welled of the feel of the Wailing Wallʼs smooth towering stones as I would pray there with head covered. The power of it’s history would surely knock me to the ground with joy.
That did not happened.
Disappointment settled densely in my lungs when I did pray at the wall's wailing base two days later. God did not reside in that place, not tangibly as I expected. He was supposed to materialize with sensations through my hands, as my American (southern Christian at that) upbringing had edified. Jerusalem was the palace of God; a city of heaven. However, these stones were just as stoney-like as the ones in my backyard, except these were touched by a billion more hands.
I was pregnant with anticipation when I reverently pressed my fingers against the oil smoothed stone. And when electricity didn't move through my body, I experienced a miscarriage; giving an early birth to a long dead god. The little ʻgʼ kind. The moment, solemnly frustrating in nature, was like Abramʼs father (in the Hebrew Midrash; מדרש) who just realized that his idols whom he carved were not powerful enough to destroy themselves, saying “they were carved by my own hands.”
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Contunied on 11/1/11
Continued from Chapter One: Allah-hoo Akbar
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