Al Quds

(Written Version)

My heart sank when I saw his eyes piercing right through me, right through my hijab to see what he wanted to see. I was a threat. I was to be squashed under a militant boot, all this he told me in his glare.

When they interrogated me, I wondered how the world believed that I could be the villain. I am only young. I am a Muslim, I am dressed modestly. They see the dress of the enemy.

I tell this story in fragments. The Old City of Jerusalem is golden and shining, rich with ancient life, ancient wisdom, a story stretching back through time. The Dome of the Rock is a glistening jem, the heart of the city and of our faith. The bluest sky above cannot compete with the marble and mosaics that decorate its walls with love.

It is for you O city of the prayer that I pray
It is for you O splendid home, O flower of the cities
O Jerusalem O Jerusalem O Jerusalem O city of the prayer
Our eyes are set out to you everyday

“Do you have any sharp objects on you you could use for self defence?” It was hours before I could cross the border. They took my passport and deliberated before granting me a visa; I was moved away from my parents, and my brother. They asked me what sheikhs I listen to. They took notes on me and spoke as if they knew my past already. What research had they done? Self defence. I am a young girl. Will they really hurt me?

Perhaps they fear comeuppance. They hold this land in such a tight grip that they are suffocating it. Their militant security is as if to say: don’t take it back, it is ours now, we want it. Don’t come back.

But this land’s people, they left with their keys, hoping to return home soon. That was 75 years ago.

Our eyes are set out to you everyday and I pray

Fairuz’s song played on the radio when we drove to the border of Jordan and Israel. Our driver told us its meaning, translating from Arabic. His home was Palestine; just a short drive away. He could take us to the border, but he would never be allowed back. This heartbreak has settled so deep within those who have been ripped from their homes.

My face was turned to the bright world outside, framed by the car window. As I listened to Fairuz, I saw the rolling hills of sand move in solitude with her voice. Our driver spoke to us with kindness, and told us of his family.

Do you know the true story?

“Israel said it ordered the airstrikes to prevent an imminent attack from Islamic Jihad in Gaza.”

“Hamas, the dominant militia in Gaza …”

“Renewed tensions …”

The media tells you about a militant leader, a threat successfully extinguished, the raid thus necessary and effective. It neglects mentioning the twenty lives taken by this raid that claims to preemptively end violence. A supposed imminent attack. But twenty lives taken. Is this some kind of exchange?

The church bells chime in brimming melody across the Old City, but the soldiers spit at nuns walking by.

“Of the 34 children killed in West Bank violence in 2022, 32 have been confirmed to have been killed by Israeli forces, 1 by an Israeli settler, and 1 was shot by both an Israeli settler and soldier.”

They call it a conflict. A flare-up.

“The killing of 17-year-old Mahmoud al-Sadi while he was on his way to school on Monday…”

“Caught in the crossfire…”

These families, they still have the keys to their homes, nurturing hope, nurturing faith.

Despite the fear, I was happy in Jerusalem. Despite the guns monitoring us, there were hundreds of Muslims gathered for Friday prayers. I listened attentively to the voice ringing out, the most beautiful recitation. A woman beside me spoke of her home, Singapore, and encouraged me to visit. We had come from all over the world. Afterwards, I sat for lunch with my family at a restaurant in the Muslim quarter, right near Al Aqsa, and I tried not to notice the group of soldiers standing across the street as I ate. Their weapons are not as big as my love.

This is our home and Jerusalem belongs to us
And in our hands we will celebrate the splendour of Jerusalem
by our hands the peace will return to Jerusalem

Interlacing blue and gold, like the finest criss-cross shading in a drawing, like curls of sunlight in a radiant sky – these geometric patterns and delicate letters adorn the Dome of the Rock. It is not something you can look away from easily; it encapsulated my spirit entirely, in awe.

“I dream to pray at Al Aqsa.” An old friend said this to me. He too, is barred from Palestine; he cannot return to his roots, to the home of his father. But my passport gives me the key. Its embroidered coat of arms which labels me as Western; that unlocks the door, allows me to step through. While he cannot join me. A cruel allotment to give me a key while others cannot use theirs.

They weep for those who have been displaced
For children without homes

“14-year-old Sadil Ghasan Ibrahim Naghnaghieh died from her injuries on Wednesday after she was shot by an Israeli soldier during a raid in Jenin…”

The winding alleyways of the Old City are cladded with ancient stone, and vibrant with life. Marketplaces; stalls selling the softest cashmere scarves, hot tea in ceramic cups; maps and t-shirts; and crucifixes, Qur’ans, yarmulkes, side by side.

Why do they try to divide us?

Embrace the old churches
And take the sadness away from the mosques

A kind man spoke to us when we were at the border. He told us that last time he was here, they kept him for six hours. Maybe it was his beard, or his Indian heritage, that sparked their mistrust. The dress of a Muslim.

It felt paralysing, to be kept waiting. We were stuck in between countries; there was no one else to protect us if things went wrong. My father began to worry that my hijab would lock us out, that we would not be granted entry. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let me wear it today, he said.

But it is not my hijab that paralysed us. It was that man, when he stared at me, it was his hate and all that his hate stood for.

This is the true story.

“Israeli forces attack worshippers in Al-Aqsa Mosque raid…”

“The raids continued into the morning when Israeli forces were once again seen assaulting and pushing Palestinians out of the compound and preventing them from praying…”

At our holy site, in our holy month.

“‘…They made us lay on the ground and they hand cuffed us one by one and took us all out.’”

And peace has died a martyr in the land of peace
And justice fell at the entrances
…
O Jerusalem O Jerusalem O Jerusalem O city of the prayer

We saw the kind man again, inside the Al-Aqsa compound. We had both made it through – his family and mine. He taught us the secrets of the mosque; that much of it is underground; he showed us how to go there. I wanted to cry, oh, these moments of peace we were blessed with.

And the people that gathered here, my brothers and sisters; they are angels from across the world. Fear was a part of this journey, but it could not define it, nor tarnish my faith. Each fleeting interaction, each act of generosity that occurred, it kept me strong; a solidarity that fortifies the land against the tyranny it faces. The soul of this city remains untouched. We have an unwavering love – all of us. For each other, and for Al Quds.

I tell this story in fragments. The news headlines; Jerusalem’s cobblestone streets echoing Qur’an recitations; a persistent wariness… it does not flow in order nor synchrony in my mind. When Fairuz sings deeply – Zahrat El Mada’en – I am taken back to the moment I heard her, with our driver at Jordan’s edge; but also to each of these fragments. Every piece glows with significance, but none is complete. Not yet. Until the beauty of this land is no longer merged with pain, the story is not finished.

Flower of cities, it is for you that we pray.

“As long as my soul stays in my body,
I am a slave of the Qur’an and the dust on the path of Muhammad, the Chosen One.
If someone interprets my words in any other way,
That person I deplore, and I deplore his words.”

- Jalal ud-Din Rumi