By Robert Fisk
The Dome of the Rock mosque: green and gold are the colours of paradise
So
there was this chap, a bearded guy, spectacles, a settler, asking for a lift
from Hebron to Kiryat Arba.
And
Kiryat Arba is quite a settlement, home to Baruch Goldstein who killed about 50
Palestinians before he himself was killed by the survivors, and Don, our man in
Jerusalem – who was driving – said "Are you sure?" and my companion
and I, anxious to hear "another point of view", said "Why
not?" and this chap climbed in to the back seat next to me. And as we left
Hebron, he pointed to us and said: "Jew? Jew? Jew?"
And
I was a bit taken aback and let Don do the talking, and he said:
"No." That kept our mate quiet for a bit. He had a gun in his belt,
which I didn't really like. But armed Palestinians had killed Jewish settlers,
so I kept my mouth shut. Then we reached Kiryat Arba and an enormous chap –
with an even bigger beard – came to the car window with an equally enormous gun
and said we could enter. And this settler beside me said: "The Land of
Israel – for Israelis. Arabs. In London." Well, I see, we murmured. A bit
like the Balfour Declaration in reverse, I suppose. "His Majesty's
Government views with favour the establishment in Britain of a national home
for the Arab people ..." Well there you have it, I suppose.
So
then I called up from the King David Hotel – the best hotel in Jerusalem, I may
add, whose Jewish and Arab staff are the best advertisement for a one-state
solution, albeit that they may not agree with me! – and asked if the Waqf would
permit me and my companion to visit the Haram al-Sharif, the Dome of the Rock,
the Esplanade. And they called back and said yes, 9am sharp, Monday morning,
and I could touch the footprint of the Prophet. I did – if indeed, it is his
footprint, but this I cannot, alas, vouchsafe – and sure enough, I entered the
great mosque which looks so like the Omayad mosque in Damascus and wondered at
its beauty.
Gold
and green are the colours of paradise, so I was told – I can believe it – and
then, across the Esplanade, I was shown the Carrara marble aisles which that
old trickster, Mussolini, gave to the holiest mosque in Palestine, and I
remembered, of course, the Grand Mufti and his trip to Nazi Germany, and his
visit to Hitler, and I recalled my student days, researching his speeches and
his appeals to send the Jews of Europe to the East... Did he know?
And
then I walked across the carpets and there was a plastic casket in which the
Palestinians had boxed the cartridge cases of the Israelis who had fired tear
gas at them in the 1990 killings here. "Saltsburg, Pennsylvania," it
said. "For outdoor use only." Well, I can imagine. Saltsburg? Nice
little town?
But
then another question. What on earth, in this holy of holies, are these
cartridge cases doing? Is this really their place? Should they be here, so
close to Mohamed's footprint? Well, yes, I suppose they should, in one way. But
I wonder. And then to a brunch at the Hamam el-Ein – the Bathhouse of the Well
– which is being carefully restored close to the Esplanade and I talked to a
fine Palestinian woman who described Israeli occupation in the language of
Conrad. "Israeli occupation," she said to me. "They search
everything on you; they go into your soul." That really is an
"ouch".
And
then we left Israel and the West Bank. "Please don't stamp our passports.
Please don't stamp our passports," we pleaded. And the Israelis did not
stamp our passports. And then, on the Jordanian side of the river, "Please
don't stamp our passports. Please don't stamp our passports," we pleaded,
and the Jordanians did not, although the Jordanian emigration officer at Amman
airport did stamp our passports, thus allowing the Lebanese to see we had left
Jordan but never entered it – but the Lebanese ignored the Jordanian stamp.
All
of which makes me think that the Holy Land, Jerusalem, "Al-Quds",
"Yerushalayim" – the Israelis print the Hebrew name of the city in
Arabic script on Arabic road signs, I notice – is all a bit mad. I don't think
I've ever been to a city where people go insane the nearer they get to it.
I
once entered the Seven Arches Hotel above the Mount of Olives (and above the
grave of one R Maxwell) – and do not ever, ever stay there, O reader – to find
a group of Christians linking hands and praying and not prepared to let me
through the lobby until they had finished praying. When I told them I was in a
hurry one of the Christian men threatened to punch me in the face.
Funny
place, Jerusalem. Funny place, Hebron. What on earth did God do to them?
This commentary was published in The Independent on 08/10/2011
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