A man prays inside the dome of the rock (Sanaz Meshkinpour/Journey to Jerusalem)

Written and produced by Sanaz Meshkinpour

As heard on Uptown Radio on April 23, 2010

Guilt is a common thread that’s found in most parent-child relationships. Sanaz Meshkinpour traveled half way across the world to deal with the guilt she’s been living with for years.

Malchei Yisrael Street in Jerusalem (Mariana Cristancho-Ahn/Journey to Jerusalem)

Before going to Israel for the first time last spring I knew that the Sabbath was the day of rest for observant Jews and that it started at Friday sunset. As a Christian, I read descriptions of it in the Bible. I saw the Sabbath celebration portrayed in movies like “Fiddler on the Roof.” But I didn’t really have a deep personal understanding of what the Shabbat, as it is known in modern Hebrew, was all about.

That was until I had my first Shabbat experience … in Jerusalem and with an Orthodox Jewish roommate.

I spent Friday afternoon watching the rush involved in the Shabbat preparation on the vibrant Malchei Yisrael Street in the heart of a Hasidic neighborhood in Jerusalem.

It was about 2:00 p.m. on a Friday afternoon in the middle of March. The day was sunny, though a bit chilly. Men and women dressed in their distinctive outfits –black suits and hats for men; long sleeved-shirts and modest black skirts for women– seemed to be in a hurry around the shops in the area.

I had decided to dress in a way that would allow me to blend in as much as possible.

Attracted by the upbeat sound of Hebrew music and the smell of fresh bread, I entered a bakery to observe the lively interactions. I noticed that even though customers seemed to be in a rush to have their shopping done, they were very deliberate about looking for the right loaves of bread or selecting the nicest cookies and pastries. The music in the background –Hebrew lyrics I couldn’t understand– created a festive atmosphere.

Aby Bentata, a 32- year-old Orthodox Sephardic Jew from Venezuela, started to talk with me after identifying my Spanish accent in my interaction with the cashier. He asked me if I were Jewish and if I had moved to Israel. I told him that I wasn’t and that I was there as a student of journalism reporting about religion.

I was surprised that he started the conversation. I have heard that in religious Jewish neighborhoods, like the one I was visiting, informal chatting among unrelated men and women was rare. But he was very kind and I took advantage of the opportunity to continue the conversation and ask him about his life in Israel and the Shabbat preparations.

“Every Sabbath it happens like this,” he said. “Every Friday right before Sabbath people try to get the freshest food possible.”

Bentata made what Jews call “aliyah,” meaning he moved permanently to Israel, eight months ago from the U.S. He works as a portfolio manager in Tel Aviv, but he lives in Jerusalem, which he refers to as “a very special city.” He told me he had bought desert cookies for a Shabbat dinner he was going to have with Jewish friends from the U.S. who also made aliyah.

I understood the excitement and preparation on the outside streets but there was another type of preparation that I fund even more interesting. My roommate Yaffi Spodek explained that she was turning off her cell phone and computer for the Sabbath. She explained that she would not be turning lights on and off and that she would not be spending money.

Later in the afternoon our class was getting ready to share in our own Shabbat celebration. Like Yaffi, we left behind our reporting tools –notebooks, cameras, audio recorders– and turned off any electrical devices in observance of the Shabbat rules. At the beginning it felt strange not to be able to physically record in some fashion my memories. Yet, as it turned out, this was one of the evenings that I remember the most from our journey.

As we arrived to the Ades synagogue right before sunset I remember how beautiful it was to experience the quiet surroundings and see the pastel colors of the dusk reflected in the stonewall façades of the constructions around. I was also moved to see people warmly greeting each other in the streets. This scene reminded me of the cozy little towns in Colombia where I grew up.

After prayer time in the synagogue we went for a Kurdish Shabbat dinner at Barashi Synagogue. More than a dinner, this gathering was a feast! We enjoyed delicious Middle Eastern and Kurdish dishes accompanied with wine and even homemade liquors. I kept thinking about
all the preparation that went into having everything ready for our group.

Our Shabbat evening ended with a tisch, a celebration gathering in the home of a Hasidic family. I was deeply touched with the songs they sang that evening. Sometimes at my local church in New York people sing songs in Hebrew that sound very similar to the ones I heard that evening. Once again, despite the language barrier, I felt a strong connection to the melodies.

At the end of the gathering we walked back to the hotel.

Yaffi told me she was going to spend the day with friends in observance of the Sabbath.

What I found the most striking about the Shabbat celebration was that it is not only about the food and making sure the cooking and preparation is done before Friday’s sunset. It is about stepping aside from the demands of the regular workweek and setting aside time for rest and renewal. It is a time to share with family and dear friends, and a time to be closer to God. “We work the whole week to be able to enjoy the Shabbat which is the spiritual day,” Bentata told me.

I believe that in the busy world that we live in, we all –Jews and Gentiles–need this kind of time. I know that there was a time that we Christians were more rigorous in our Sabbath observance. Sunday was a day for church and family meals and not for work or shopping. Sunday is still my spiritual day, but sometimes, in fact most of the time, I find it hard not to sneak in work-related activities. Now that I have experienced the Jewish Sabbath, I think that it has something to teach Christians like me. Maybe I too will begin to give my cellphone and laptop a rest.

A stern monk guarding the Greek Orthodox monastery atop the mountain wagged his finger as we approached the heavy metal door of the monastery and said, “Only Orthodox.”

This was how we were greeted after we had just finished riding a rickety old cable car which I was certain would plunge us hundreds of feet to our death when it became windy on our way up the mountain. After the cable car deposited us near the top of the mountain, we staggered another 20 minutes after up the bare, rocky and steep slopes to the monastery. We were tired; panting for air; and sweaty from the sun beating down on us. Only now to be rejected at the door?

There was no way in hell we were going to let the skinny aging monk stand in the way. For many of us, there was no other time to ever return. Not in the foreseeable future.

The sacred mount is the place Christians believe, as told in Matthew 4:1-4, that the Devil tried to tempt Jesus as he fasted for 40 days and 40 nights before beginning his ministry.

The monastery, with its commanding view of Jericho, sits atop of the actual cave where the temptation happened, according to Christian belief. It was in this spot that the Devil said to Jesus:

“If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” But Jesus answered, “It is written, one shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

This incident is symbolic for me as a Christian because like other places we visited on this trip—the Sea of Galilee, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Mount of Beatitudes—the Mount of Temptation symbolized a direct and tangible connection to my Christian faith. It is faith manifested. So, to forbid me, as a Christian, to see this holy site is to forbid me from seeing a significant memory of Jesus. It would be ludicrous.

We had to get in.

After the monk ushered in a group of Russian Orthodox Christians staying at the monastery, the rest of us plopped down in front of the metal door and thought:

“Let’s wait it out, the monk will come back.”

At least 30 minutes went by and some of the other Christians grew weary so they thought of another plan: banging on the doors repeatedly. It worked. The cranky monk came to the door—even more irate than before!

Then we begged. One Dutch woman pleaded with the monk—almost kneeling to the ground—“We just want to pray.” I suppose the one thing Orthodox Christians had in common with, “other” Christians, was the deep and inexplicable yearning to pray to the same savior we believed, especially at holy sites. In some way it made us feel closer to our faith.

For a split second—and I mean only a split second—the monk’s heart melted. Finally, he obliged.

With one catch: “Yes Christians, No Arabs.”

As a student of religion, I knew that it was an absurd distinction. While most Arabs are Muslim, many Arabs are Christians and, in fact, many are Greek Orthodox, like the monk. That he wouldn’t let Arabs in was clearly unjust.

Several Arab teenagers had come up the mountain with us and I saw that they were crestfallen. My heart sank. We all stood there confused. Why? We’re all here for the same reason: to see the sacred cave. As Christians, we are supposed to welcome everyone to the house of the Lord, let alone any sacred place Jesus went. I wanted everyone who wanted to physically experience the place of the temptation —whether Christian, Arab or Jew—to see it too. I am Christian yet I had the opportunity to visit Mosques, Synagogues, shrines and holy sites for various religions. Its part of the religious understanding and appreciation I was aching for when I came into the religion class. So for this monk to reject these teens was utterly mortifying.

I was livid. As I stood in the entryway, part of me—the rebellious side of me— wanted to protest that if the Arabs could not go in, I would not either. I looked at Josh, begging him to be rebellious with me, but we both knew better. Was this really the time to barter with a power-hungry cranky monk after everything we had done just to get to the top of the mount?

I thought of the rickety old cable car.

The choice was difficult but clear.

A fleeting moment of guilt overcame me as the monk slammed the thick door with a bang in the faces of the Arab teenagers.

But I was able to put my guilty feelings on hold as I stepped into the cave. It was dimly lit with the flickering glow of candles. Gold, blue and red icons of Jesus decorated the compact, eerie space.

The cave in its natural and pure form brought to life another journey and a sacrifice Jesus made. The temptation of Jesus by the Devil became a part of his legend in Christianity. It was a far cry from mine. It being Lent, I was fasting from chocolate and sweets for 40 days and 40 nights—and was quite unsuccessful when it came to resisting Baklava. Yet Jesus ate no food, prayed in this tiny dark, damp cave for 40 days and 40 nights; defying Satan.

A sense of overwhelming gratitude fell over me. Not even my family, my friends or my relatives dead and alive were lucky enough to see this. Not even my mother who always taught us the Biblical versus surrounding the temptation of Jesus. None of them had been here.

Then I thought of my new friend Josh whom I was sharing the moment with —a Jew who was just as over-zealous as I to see Jericho and this cave. Then my mind turned to the Arab teenagers who had sacrificed their day and their aching legs. They trekked up the mountain with the same hopes that we had. The world is so divided, so bigoted, so broken, I thought. And I cried.

JMI and Columbia students at King Hussein Mosque in Jordan (Mariana Cristancho-Ahn/Journey to Jerusalem)

AMMAN – We heard a great deal about the Jordan Media Institute before we left New York for Amman. We knew that it was the newest journalism school in Jordan, that it had the support of the Royal Family and that it was popularly known as JMI. What I didn’t know was the most appropriate way to greet the students. I figured that it was best just to nod politely to the men, but what about the women?

Our first encounter came on a bright sunny day in Amman, the morning after our arrival in the city. We were outside the majestic King Hussein Mosque, and the other women of the class and I had just put on the white outfits –long skirts and veils– that we were given as a gift from JMI so we could dress modestly during our visit to the mosque.

We were waiting for our Muslim classmates, the only ones from our group allowed to stay inside the mosque during the prayer time. One of them, Sommer, came back and introduced us to a group of six women from JMI. I didn’t know whether to give each of them a handshake, a kiss on the cheek, a hug, or just acknowledge them by bowing my head with a smile. Not knowing what to do, I opted for the last option.

As we informally introduced ourselves and started talking about our experiences as journalism students, I felt an immediate connection. One of the students named Saba Abufarha kindly fixed my veil making sure my hair didn’t show on my forehead. She and the other JMI women were wearing hijabs, the traditional Muslim headscarves.

After a few minutes, we were summoned into the mosque for a presentation. Since there were no prayers at this time, men and women were allowed to be in the same room. We were taking notes and pictures of the event. Saba and I sat together on the carpeted floor. During the lecture, when someone asked a question in Arabic and no one translated, Saba helped me with the translation. At the end of the presentation when water and dates were passed around – a traditional Muslim gesture to guests– Saba made sure that I took some. Her small but thoughtful gestures made me feel welcome.

Later in the day, as our class departed for a reporting walk in the streets of Amman, the JMI students escorted us and became our personal tour guides. We had less than two hours before having to catch the bus back to the hotel. It was a privilege being with people who knew the city so well.

I met with Saba again and, as I start walking with her, I felt I was in the company of a good old friend. As we passed through shops she showed me the traditional Jordanian outfits for women consisting of one-piece black dresses with intricate embroidery. She took me to a music store and introduced me to the songs of Egyptian singer Mohamed Abdel Wahab, a musician she and the store clerk said was the most popular in the Arab world. Saba bought a couple of CDs for me. I was touched by her kindness.

In the rush of trying to make the most of the time we had, Saba took me to visit the oldest town house in Jordan which is now a museum and cultural center. A mosaic painting of former King Hussein of Jordan adorned the main room. We had tea in the balcony of the museum overlooking a bookshop with a big poster showing Queen Rania visiting the bookstore and a similar one of King Abdullah.

Since it was getting late for me to meet with the rest of my class Saba suggested I make arrangements for her friends to take me back to the hotel. I agreed as long as my class was informed. She made a couple of phone calls and said I was fine.

As we left the museum and rushed to meet with her friends, Saba indicated to me to grab her upper arm as we crossed the busy streets. Earlier I had been alerted about the lack of pedestrian crossings in the streets of Amman. Crossing them with Saba and seeing how she sometimes urged the cars to stop by raising her hand was both impressive and scary.

Jordan Media Institute students. Saba Abufarha on the far left (Courtesy JMI/Journey to Jerusalem)

The Columbia and JMI students dined together that night at our hotel. As we ate from a tasty Jordanian style buffet, we talked about many different things. Among those at my table were Saba, Basima Tantour and Abeer Al-Kalouti. Abeer was interested in knowing about how it would be for a Muslim woman to study in the U.S. I told her about the Muslim students I have met at the school including a female Jordanian journalism student.

Saba and our teaching assistant, Cynthia Bernstein, found a subject of common interest: human rights. As they were talking about the humanitarian crisis in Gaza, Saba expressed her deep disappointment with Israeli policies, and said that she’d never visit Israel or talk to a Jewish person about it. Nonetheless, such a conversation was just taking place.

As an observant Jew, Cynthia shared with Saba her views about Israel and its importance for her, her family and the Jewish people. She also agreed with Saba regarding the humanitarian crisis in Gaza, and how she thinks not all Israeli policies have been perfect. The discussion was educational for those at the table. Without realizing it we were conducting some type of interfaith dialogue.

At the end of the evening we took some pictures and exchanged our contact information.
I said good-bye to the JMI women at my table, but this time in a very Jordanian fashion: with a hug and kiss on the cheek for each of them.

JMI Program Manager Rania Barakat (Mariana Cristancho-Ahn/Journey to Jerusalem)

Pilgrims lit candles to memorialize loved ones.  (Carolyn Phenicie/Journey to Jerusalem)

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher is a chaotic place.

Catholic and Orthodox Christians mark it as the site of Calvary Hill, where Jesus was crucified. As a site so central to the founding premise of Christianity – that Jesus was the son of God who was crucified and resurrected to pay for humanity’s sins – I had thought it would be a place of reverence and order, one where Christians worked together to welcome pilgrims from all corners of the globe to come and pray and celebrate in the holiness of the place. I was wrong.

On the roof of the church, Coptic (Egyptian) and Ethiopian Orthodox groups have staked out tiny enclaves. The fight for control of the church is so intense, in fact, that in the 19th century a status quo was declared and nothing has moved since, including a ladder that is still propped above a door on the exterior of the building.

The Roman Catholic, Armenian and Greek Orthodox churches control the interior of the building. The site of Jesus’ crucifixion, preparation for burial and resurrection are three distinct stations in three different decorative styles controlled by different combinations of the religious groups.

I was raised in a mainline protestant church and never felt my faith particularly deeply, but visiting this crazy, chaotic place held special sway for me.

My paternal grandfather had, for his entire life, wanted to come to Israel, or as he always called it, the Holy Lands. Since I was a little girl, I always remember my grandfather ending prayers with “In Jesus’ name we pray,” so a site that marks Jesus’ importance in Christianity seemed a fitting place to remember my grandfather.

“He always said that was his life’s ambition, to go to the Holy Lands,” my dad said. “That, and fix up an old car and retire in Florida.” The trip in particular held special meaning. “He believed that’s what good Christians should do,” he said.

Whenever he would watch Christian television shows that would take trips to the area, he would comment about wanting to visit, my grandmother said. “He never expressed a desire to go anywhere else, ever.”

My grandfather, Fred, is now 87 and for the past decade or so has slowly but surely started fading as Alzheimer’s takes away his memory. For the last year, he has lived full-time in a nursing home near his home in central Pennsylvania. It is rare that he remembers anyone besides my grandmother and his sons, but he still knows all the words to “Jesus Loves Me” and the Lord’s Prayer. Once one of the happiest and most vibrant people I knew, always cracking a joke and flirting with waitresses, he now sits quietly at family gatherings, hanging his head and remaining largely silent.

He was the youngest of eight children, born in Lewistown, Pennsylvania, where his family had moved after my great-grandfather’s lumber company went bust in the Great Depression. Though his family didn’t have much money, my great-grandmother always made sure they attended church. My grandfather – the veritable Cal Ripken of church goers –held a record for consecutive Sundays of attendance that spanned five or six years. Once, my dad said, my grandfather was heading to a Phillies baseball game and made the group he was with leave early and stop at church so that he wouldn’t break his record.

After high school, he joined the Navy and served at the tail end of World War II, mostly in New York as a radio operator. He went to college on the GI Bill where he met my grandmother. They will have been married 60 years in September.

So when I entered the first stop in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, an elaborate shrine marking the site of Jesus’ crucifixion, I knew I was there for more than just me. By coming to this holy Christian site – never mind that Protestants believe that the crucifixion took place at a different site in another part of Jerusalem – I was coming for my grandfather, who never had the opportunity to fulfill his life’s dream to visit. And I was there for my grandmother, my father and all the other Phenicies. If my visit earned any kind of cosmic benefit, I wanted to share it with all of them.

Kneeling beneath the elaborate altar, I touched the rock that marks the site of the crucifixion and said a quick prayer – there was a line of a few dozen other pilgrims waiting their turn – for my grandfather, asking God’s blessings on him in these final difficult years. After exiting the shrine area, I gave a donation and lit a candle, saying a second prayer for others in my family who have passed away.

I’ve seen my grandfather since returning to the U.S. and told him that I went. Even though I’m certain he doesn’t remember or even really understand, it gave the trip extra meaning for me and is the portion of the journey that I will always remember.