The flight passed through the night quite smoothly, particularly as I assumed the duration of the flight to be longer than it actually was. I slept very little but that was to be expected. Most were still sleeping as the scattered lights in the atmosphere paved the way for an absolutely stunning sunrise – the sun gleaming through the bubbly clouds – God had painted the perfect picture. It was the most in awe I had been in a while; fuelled by the fact that everyone else was sleeping so it was as if it was exclusively for me. I had to wake someone up and share it with them and to this day, I’m not sure just how much D appreciated it. As we hovered over Tel Aviv, I noticed the vast amount of vacant land that stretched beneath us and wondered why it wasn’t in use, why Israel was not expanding in this direction. Ben Gurion airport was now in clear view, the site which many Palestinians, who now reside in refugee camps, used to call home. Reflecting back on this still saddens me. I also started to recall some of the horror stories I’d heard regarding Israeli interrogation. What if they send me back or worse?
Like a zombie, I strolled into the airport like a man on a mission. This might not make sense but when you’re asleep and awake at the same time, you’re pretty much in dream mode, which means it was my dream and I’ll be a man on a mission if that’s what I want to be. I reached the immigration counter to face a morbid early thirties chick; I was sporting the biggest fake smile in an attempt to steal away the moment she looks at my name. But my name’s Ismail. There was no way I was passing that troll that easily. She pointed me in the direction of a small waiting room and Pete, the guy with the Syrian stamps soon followed, inevitably.
Two girls in their early twenties were already waiting when I arrived. I think they were speaking French. One of them was wearing a hijab so I figured they were both Muslims. I tapped my foot in anticipation; Pete and I barely said a word to each other. Three men soon walked in, two in uniform and one guy, clearly in charge, wearing a suit. He summoned the girls and the overbearing tone of his voice didn’t sound too good. It wasn’t. He told them right there that they were being refused entry into the country and would be sent back immediately. There was uproar. The girls rebelliously sat back down in protest and asserted their innocence but it was all in vain. I bore witness in horror as they were told that it would be very bad for them if they resisted. What were they going to do? They continued their resistance for a little longer, fighting back the tears but had no choice in the matter. The decision was already made. This made me really nervous. I remember whispering to myself: “Trust my luck to arrive here on Reject the Muslims Day.” But my matter was also already decided.
It was not long before I was taken into another room by a senior immigration officer. She had quite a dark complexion and you would’ve sworn she originated from somewhere in South Asia, my guess would have been Sri Lanka. We went into a room which led to another room, airport staff conversing excitedly in the midst. Our conversation lasted about 15 minutes. She got through the formalities pretty quickly; reason for visit, my parents’ background etc and she soon became what seemed the nicest person in the world, resembling a motherly figure. She told me how much she loved India and how she spent six months there, she asked me if I liked it and also how she hoped Israel treats me in a way that makes me want to return. She gave me a little pink ticket that would enable me to get the hell outta there and she assured me I would have no further problems. In retrospect, flying with an Israeli airline and the Manchester Airport grilling that ensued was a blessing in disguise. I’d like to think that the security in Israel know that if someone is given the go ahead by ELAL security, they’ll have been thoroughly examined. Actually, after what happened next, I’m sure that that is the case.
I took my ticket and merrily strolled on, passed the morbid counter lady and approaching a barrier with a soldier standing at the opening. His eyes met mine from a long way away and after noticing the gun that rested on his shoulder, I also made sure to flash the little ticket from a long way away, eradicating all possible confusion. But as I drew closer, he snatched the passport from my hands and flicked through to the photo page. He then scrunched up the ticket, putting it into his breast pocket, rolling his eyes at me and slowly nodding his head as if to say, “Not today. Not on my watch.” Ouch. That hurt. That was the last time he would make eye contact with me. After standing there listening to my protests, he called upon his senior, a young woman who was walking by. Just for a brief moment, I thought about the possibility that the ‘Sri Lankan’ woman had just played an incredibly nasty practical joke on me and I was about to be deported. But the woman took me to one side, asked me who I’d flown with and no sooner had I said ELAL, she waved me along. I quickly collected my mistreated bags and I couldn’t help but smile as I caught sight of the others, all but one, Pete. I greeted them and got the only thing I secretly yearned for – a hug. Pete quickly followed and we were soon en route to Jerusalem.
I was already regretting bringing a massive suitcase in addition to my massive backpack but in my defence, one was full of classroom resources. Still, carrying them was going to kill me, slowly. Jerusalem is really stunning. You really get a sense of history there and it kinda reminded me of being in Quebec City. It was like being taken back in time as I walked along the rocky terrain, through the narrow streets (which look the same now as they did centuries ago) and the buildings built closely together. We arrived at the hostel we were stopping at for the night – The Citadel – a hostel befitting of the Old City, except with Wifi. We headed straight for the roof, our cue to take cameras out of their pouches. The panoramic view was breathtaking, stirring thoughts about the people who walked these streets and the incidents these walls have witnessed. I just wanted to take it all in. As my eyes glanced across steeples and silver domes, towers and rooftops, there it was, the Dome of the Rock, shimmering in clear view. I could do nothing but stare in wonderment as thoughts of the Miraaj and Sulayman (A.S) flooded my mind. I was in Jerusalem, it was Friday and if it was to be, I would be there soon. The group chatted over breakfast, smiles all round. We were finally here.
Despite exhaustion, we managed to find our second wind to visit the Western Wall, also known as the Wailing Wall, a sacred site for Jewish prayer and pilgrimage. The wall was lined with Jews, chanting and rocking their heads back and forth in prayer, slipping little pieces of paper into cracks in the wall. It was a really surreal experience, fuelled by sleep deprivation and seeing one guy praying whilst holding a baby and another guy holding an AK-47. This was no place for me to be, especially on a Friday.
We returned to the hostel and one by one, the group took to their rooms to recuperate from the draining flight and broken sleep. But I couldn’t rest; it was nearing midday and I had to pray soon. I walked the streets of the Old City, a maze lined with shops selling everything from food, souvenirs, jewellery and funny, propaganda filled T-shirts. My enquiries into the whereabouts of Masjid Al-Aqsa led to the opinions that I would not be allowed entry as they would not let anyone under the age of 40 pass through. Others said that the masjid would already be full and it would be better for me to seek another congregation. But I had to try. I walked the streets, admiring the endearing graffiti on the walls which told a story. I then went through a dark arch, leading to some stairs going down, taking a detour through the Jewish Quarter which I swear was taking me in circles. But finally, I found it; a straight path to the holy grounds. I eagerly approached the barrier, guarded by four soldiers who stopped me in my tracks. I showed them my passport, was made to recite a few verses of the Qur’an Kareem and before I could say SubhanAllah, I was in.
I walked through one of its many gates, looking all around in amazement. There were people sat outside, some under a tree and others along a wall; the place was full of tourists. There were many taking pictures with the Dome of the Rock in the backdrop but I rushed towards the masjid. I found a spot to sit and then once it dawned on me where I was, I marvelled at the beauty of its design, complexity of its architecture and the simplicity of its nature. The red carpet, the grand chandeliers and the sheer size of the place. I sat there with the biggest smile on my face as the Imam conducted the sermon; I looked back to see the sun’s reflection shimmering across the brilliant gold of the Dome of the Rock in the background; I looked up to see two small birds flying constant in a circle above me, chasing one other. And then after enduring a gruelling khutbah which lasted over an hour, the salah began and when the Imam recited the opening verses of Chapter 17, it was pure bliss.
I returned to the hostel, content. I don’t remember much of what happened after this. I don’t know whose bright idea it was but we attended a talk by a UN representative telling us about the situation in Palestine and of the Israeli occupation. In all honesty, I was so tired that I fell asleep many times during the talk and barely remember it; this is no reflection on the poor guy who was talking, I was just exhausted. Maybe someone can tell me the things that were said.
Sleep. Tomorrow's a new day.
