Dust kicked and twisted outside the bus window. The wind chased the rust-colored specks, creating swirls of dust on the ground. Enormous mounds of dirt covered the flat land mirroring the camel’s hump I would later ride. Sporadic palm trees littered the brown atmosphere, providing hints of green to an otherwise-barren land. It looked like nothing I had ever seen before. That was my first image of Israel.
I had traveled through the country with my family for two weeks celebrating my brother’s bar mitzvah. We had boarded buses, seen museums, photographed monuments and reveled in the vibrancy of Jewish culture. Among the many spectacular and jaw-dropping moments on my trip, there were a few that have seared their memory into my mind for the rest of my life.
My first experience with falafel was in Israel. While staying in Tel Aviv, we had taken a day trip to a dusty, crowded Druze village an hour outside the big city. After scrambling into several souvenir shops, our tour group (a tour is the easiest and most cost effective way to see Israel) had found their way to an unassuming city street. On the corner, a metal doorway surrounded by scribbled Arabic letters beckoned patrons into the stark dining rooms of Halabi Brothers. Paper table cloths littered with plastic silverware barely cover the aging wooden tables. Three men stood by the cash register and I later learned them to be the Halabi brothers, the owners of the restaurant. I sat down with my parents and their friends at a table in the back, wanting to savor the food in peace.
Waiters scurried through the narrow aisles, slamming plates on the hard surface. Tan colored globs rested on a round dish that sat closely to a smooth, whitish dip. Pickles, sliced and stacked, lay in the center of the table, sharing space with a lumpy red sauce. A second waiter scuttled by, dropping a dish of “meatball imitators.” Falafel; fried chickpeas molded into perfectly rounded spheres.
My mom handed me a small, blue plate piled high with a pyramid of oily brown morsels. Traditionally, falafel is paired with tahini (a white sesame seed dip). Dipped and ready, the falafel’s greasy texture settled on my fork. Warm oil slipped past my tongue, tracing the path from my throat to my stomach. Crunchy bits of chickpeas hit my gums, releasing burnt, flaky fragments of crust. The smooth, dry chickpea filling was tangy and fresh. Most of the flavor flowed from the fried outer shell. I gobbled up the first one and reached for another, dipping it into a mixture of hummus and the spicy red sauce. Over the course of my trip, I devoured monumental amounts of falafel.
Though the taste of falafel will always remain on my tongue, it is the city of Jerusalem that holds a place in my heart.
Jerusalem had become a place I had read about in history books or studied at synagogue as a child. It was dimensions, materials, and facts; something tangible and relatable. Until you have the opportunity to see a site as holy as Jerusalem, it’s impossible to imagine the impact one place can have on your soul. Whether you’re a history buff, religious follower, or a tourist, Jerusalem evokes a sense of spirituality and emotion for any traveler.
I had first seen Jerusalem at a distance. We had stopped at the edge of a cliff, adorned with an overlook and an opportunity for the perfect panoramic shot. I stared at the wide expanse below, catching the gold flickers on my face from the Dome of the Rock. Below, the city stood silent, reflecting the old and new of an ever changing metropolis. Sections of the city had succumbed to modernity but the richness of the fortified Old City remained untouched.
Once we entered the city, I noticed that the walls were littered with Stars of David and Hebrew text. Bearded men robed in black donned tall stovepipe hats. Strings of fringe hung below their coats, exposing their tallit; a sign of their faith and devotion to Judaism. Many held tattered prayer books close to their chests, bowing their heads as they passed. Amongst the ultra religious, students and secular Jews scattered the walkways, breathing new life to the old streets. Behind the arched entrances of the Old City, Jews bartered and traded with their Arabic counterparts, sifting spices and weaving brightly colored tapestries.
In all of my years of Jewish studies, nothing had prepared me for the intensity of the Western Wall. Undoubtedly the most famous site in Jerusalem (and a must see for anyone traveling to Israel), the Wall draws thousands of people every day to share in the traditional ritual of prayer. The only way to truly experience the majestic allure of the wall is during sunset.
The faint tint of the sun crept down the oversized beige brick wall. A tall barrier divided the wall; men to the left and women to the right. Basins of water stood awkwardly in front of the wall, waiting for patrons to cleanse their hands of their daily sins. As shadows lined the wall, Shabbat approached, beckoning prayer and forgiveness. I shrugged my shawl back onto my shoulders, covering my skin in respect. Earlier that day, I had written a long letter to God, folding the paper neatly into a tiny, white square. Tradition encouraged visitors of the wall to write prayers and letters, asking God for answers or for guidance.
Slowly, I made my way to the wall. Women, some standing, others sitting, heads wrapped in scarves, clutched prayer books, scanning the lines as they stared at the wall. Their bodies rocked violently to their internal prayers, fighting the urge to destroy the silence. Whimpers from elderly women interrupted the air, competing with the boisterous singing from the men’s side. I found a sliver of untouched wall between two young girls. Placing both palms on the wall, I bowed my head, closing my eyes, allowing the whispered prayers to slip through my ears.
Muttering my final words, I turned from the wall, noticing women walking backwards, not wanting to turn their backs to the monument. Imitating their movements, I retreated from the wall, allowing the backdrop of the ancient city to reappear in the distance. With each step, I stretched my eyes beyond the wall’s height, desperately trying to keep each image fresh in my mind. The golden sparks of the Dome illuminated the fortress, spouting rays across the holy city, igniting the ferocity of a city blessed by God. I watched more people, tiny specks in my eyes, flock to the wall, joining hands, wanting to share their love for Judaism. I was moving backwards, but my heart faced towards Jerusalem, towards home.
