A Spring Break trip post.
Visiting the Ibrahimi Mosque in Hebron was one of the most memorable experiences during my ten days in Israel/Palestine. Although I could describe the experience itself in a single paragraph, the impression that the visit made on me cannot be fully appreciated without an understanding of the city’s religious and political significance.
So, a bit of background...
The Bible first mentions Hebron in Genesis 13: Abram moves his tent here and builds an altar to the LORD. Then, in Genesis 23, Abraham’s wife Sarah dies in Hebron, and Abraham buries her in a nearby cave, which he purchases from the locals (there is a politically relevant lesson to be learned from that purchase -- another time, perhaps).
Fast forward 3700 years, and welcome to Hebron’s Cave of the Patriarchs. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah are all believed to be buried here. The only absent Patriarch/Matriarch is Rachel, who was buried near Bethlehem after dying in childbirth.
Built on top of the cave are a mosque (ancient) and a synagogue (modern), adjoining each other. The shrine to Jacob and the shrine to Leah are located entirely in the synagogue; the shrine to Isaac and the shrine to Rebecca are located entirely in the mosque; and the shrine to Abraham and the shrine to Sarah are located directly in between the two, such that one can approach the shrines from either side.
Talk about close quarters.
And now, Hebron’s political significance. The Cave of the Patriarchs is located in the city’s oldest quarter -- home to 40,000 Palestinians, 500 Israeli settlers, and 1500 to 2000 IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) soldiers, who are charged with enforcing policies of occupation: Palestinians cannot make renovations to their homes, cannot have locks on their doors, cannot step foot on roads that come too close to settlements or the synagogue.
Palestinian markets have been forcibly closed and abandoned for the sole reason of proximity to Israeli settlements. Our group walked down a couple of empty streets that were lined with dozens of doors bolted shut, the Star of David spray-painted over them.
I saw a Palestinian boy, no more than eight years old, yelled at and briefly chased by an armed IDF soldier. The boy had been straddling a cement barrier (perhaps two feet tall) that exists to keep Palestinians from coming too close to the synagogue. He was about a hundred yards away from its grounds.
All of this is in the name of defending the Israeli settlers -- many of whom formerly lived in the United States and all of whom have adamant Zionist convictions -- from potential violence.
But sometimes, it goes the other way: instead of defending Israeli settlers, IDF soldiers must defend Palestinians. A friend of mine from the United Kingdom works with an organization that routinely accompanies Palestinian children as they walk home from one of Hebron’s major Palestinian schools. The organization does this because settlers frequently line the walkways and intimidate the children. Sometimes yelling, threatening, spitting, throwing stones. Occasionally, it gets so bad that IDF soldiers need to physically intervene.
As you can imagine, this city has a sad history of violence. The earliest and most infamous tragedy occurred in 1929, when Arab rioters massacred over 60 Jewish men, women, and children and wounded 60 more (thank God for those Arabs who offered assistance and protection to hundreds of other Jews in Hebron). There have been both Arab and Jewish attacks since then. The most recent massacre occurred in 1994, when the Israeli physician Baruch Goldstein entered the Ibrahimi Mosque and opened fire on Muslim worshippers, killing 29 and wounding 125. (Goldstein has been eerily venerated by certain Israeli Zionists since then, and the understandably embarrassed Israeli government has done its best to eliminate this.)
How’s that for religious and political weight? If you’re still reading, congratulations. Now I can tell you about visiting the Ibrahimi Mosque.
As you can imagine, I was very nervous. Here I am with a group of 20 western Christians -- the only westerners in sight -- marching into indisputably Arab territory, volatile and unpredictable. We didn’t really march, of course; we were treading lightly. But in the moment, and in my hyper-sensitivity, I feared that the slightest of movements would be seen as intrusive. Are we sure it’s safe for us to be here? My anxious mind wandered as our group passed through security, put on impromptu head-coverings (the women, that is), and finally, entered the main room.
I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but I didn’t expect what I saw. Lots of orange and green and purple. Beautiful ceilings and pillars. Men on one side, women on the other, lots of people lounging around on the floor.
Someone in our group asks if we can take pictures, and someone else says “Sure,” and a dozen cameras appear. I am not okay with this, and I am thinking about how I am not okay with this when I turn around and see a couple more cameras.
Two Muslim women are taking pictures of our group.
They are smiling. We smile back
Then we pose with them for more pictures.
Like we are friends.
Mundane. And yet profound.
Are all Muslims prepared to interact with Americans in this way? Certainly not.
But these people were Muslims.
And they were people. With bodies and faces and smiles.
And I don't want to forget that.
