Dipping bread, fresh from the oven

Olives, from our garden, pressed to oil

Biting goat cheese

And chilled watermelon

Red, White, Green, and Black

Palestinian evening

I thought I knew this city. Countless times in past years I have walked through its narrow alleyways on tired feet, on anxious feet, on feet crowded by the presence of many others. I have walked here, past these thick limestone blocks on my way to buy a book from the silver-haired clerk, on my way to pray at a wall currently a hopeful remnant of something greater, on my way to read in a quiet corner, unifying text with its origin.

There are many terrible answers to the question “where do you stand,” and the worst I can ever remember giving was “in Jerusalem.” Jerusalem? I’ve heard of that place before. An imaginary place. It lies directly between the edge of reality and the end of time. It lies at the centre of the universe. How strange to end up so far away. I’d just gotten off the bus from somewhere that seemed a lot closer.

By Josh Scheinert

It’s on the bus driving in from the West Bank where you really appreciate Jerusalem’s grandeur. The Old City creeps up on you from out the window. The sun, reflecting off the Dome of the Rock is almost blinding. Yet, you can’t look away; you don’t want to. This is it, what it all comes down to – so you want to make sure you take in every last glimpse of this city of gold that ignites so many passions.

Dusk approached cautiously as I steered myself

Carefully, down the steep, age-worn steps. As I walked,

I let my hand run lazily along the stones.

Their softness, testament

To the thousands who had made this journey before, many of them running