Stones

by Melissa Jacobowitz

This is what we’ve all been waiting for. Since we can remember, we’ve all been taught that this is the holiest place in the world. I’ve been trying to picture myself standing here since we got off the plane.

A lot of the girls brought long, black skirts crumpled in their backpacks for this. They roll them on over torn jeans, their muddy sneakers peaking out. Most of the boys pull wrinkled yarmulkes out of their pockets, flattening them on their heads.

We walk up to the entrance. There’s a long line to get in. I stand on my toes to try and see what exactly we’re all waiting for, and I recognize the tall, black metal detectors that we all have to pass through. Their long sides stand stiffly, as if at attention. The guards tell us to remove everything metal from our pockets and to throw our backpacks and jackets onto the rough, rotating belt. They wave slim wands over our bodies to make sure that we don’t have anything dangerous on us. I bow my head as I walk through the machine’s rays. It looks like a portal to another world, or a flattened, modern interpretation of the arch of the City Gates.

After we pass through security, we can all see the Wall. We’ve been taking pictures of its desert-hued limestone from every distance and angle throughout our day in Jerusalem, but it’s now only a few hundred feet in front of us, open and waiting. We pose for pictures, not knowing if we should smile or look serious. Our tour guide says that he has lots of paper and pens, for anyone who wants to write something to put in the Wall. I take one. I want to write something more meaningful than I’ve ever written before, to pour everything I’ve ever felt onto this tiny piece of stationary that reads King Solomon Hotel, Jerusalemin blue ink across the top. As I write, it feels dry and forced: I push and push, but the words stay trapped inside. I wish I knew a different language that was created only for this moment. I write what I can and shelter the note inside my fist.

I walk up to two girls in skirts and they ask if I’m ready to go in. I nod and walk over with them to the one-third of the wall allotted to women. They say a prayer while washing their hands in the huge metal basin provided for this ritual. I don’t know the prayer, but I wet my hands and whisper, too.

We walk up to the Wall, and it’s crowded. Dozens of women stand at all distances, but most stand as close as they can, touching. When I see an open space, I make my way up between two Orthodox women, their hair covered, each holding a tiny Siddur.

I touch the cold, smooth stones with my hand, pressing it flat against them. I look up at all the damp notes of every size and color, stuffed into each possible crack and crevice. Some of the pieces of paper look like they’re reaching out of the cracks, just waiting to jump into my hand and be read. Others are crumpled deep within the creases, hiding. I try to imagine all the pain and suffering, yearning and love that must be stuffed into these little soggy notes. They look like they’re growing out of the stones.

Leafless branches reach out of the holes between some of the tan and cracking limestone. Every once in a while, a chirping bird lands on some of the drying plants. It looks like the only sign of life in a desert.

I look up and the clouds are moving faster than I’ve ever seen. They rush past, just over the colossal Wall that seems to stretch forever upwards. The wind blows hard, and a huge tarp snaps against metal in a construction site just next to the Wall. Its crashing sounds like a gunshot.

I put my forehead against the cool stone in front of me and close my eyes. I can hear the movement all around. I can hear the tarp cracking in the background. I think about the story our tour guide told us just before we went through security: that a few years ago, the Israeli police found out about an Arab man who was planning to blow up the Wall. I try to imagine what it would be like if these colossal stones smashed to the floor. They caught him, he said, and that’s why they now have so much security here. I try to think about what it would have been like without the metal detectors, and without the stones, and how the whole world would have changed, but I can’t think much about any of these things.

Mostly, I listen to the aching whispers of the two women on either side of me. Though I can’t understand their language, I listen to their words. I wonder what they’re praying for and what they’re thinking. They sound so sincere; their voices ring with longing.

I don’t want to leave and I stand in my place for a long time. I expected to feel something different. For a little bit, I try to make the tears come, try to feel the ecstasy or yearning that I think I should be feeling. Eventually, I look at the clouds and listen deeply to the women beside me and feel at peace.

Finally, I walk backwards, making sure to always face the Wall as I leave, as I was told to do. As I take small steps back, trying hard not to trip, I think about all that has come from this place. I think about all of the history, all of my history, that has taken place on this very spot. I try hard to imagine what it would’ve been like when this gigantic Wall was only one part of the Temple. Blurry images come into my head, but I can hardly make any of them out.

Once I leave the area, I find my tour group. Some are smiling, and some are crying. A few boys tell me that they’ve put tefillin for the first time. They went back, into the covered area on the men’s side, and eager Hasidim in black suits and hats grabbed them and offered to help them wrap the leather bands around their arms and heads necessary for traditional weekday prayer. They didn’t really know what they were doing, but they tried it, and why not? They said that on the men’s side, there’s a full synagogue inside, with Torah scrolls and an ark. There’s always a service going on, it seems. I look over to the huge men’s side and then back to the women’s, where there’s nothing but the Wall.

Our security guard, Na’ama, is sitting on the ground, alone. I go over and sit with her and ask her if she went up to the Wall or if she’s sick of it after living here and visiting it with so many tours. She tells me that she went up to it today because her boyfriend had given her a note. She says that he’s into that kind of thing, though she doesn’t know why.

She tells me that she has a lot of reasons for her thinking, but that her English isn’t good enough for her to explain them to me. “To me, it’s just a bunch of stones,” she says.

Melissa Jacobowitz is currently a second-year at New College of Florida. She is concentrating in Russian Language and Literature and is also fascinated by Judaic Studies and Political Science. She loves fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. Even more, she loves blending all three genres into one. She works as a Student Writing Assistant in New College's Writing Resource Center and serves on the Executive Cabinet of NCF's student government. Last January, Melissa travelled to Israel on a 10-day Birthright trip, where she became inspired to work out her experiences through writing.