Ever since I took part in a retreat in an Abbey prior to my confirmation, where we - a gaggle of 14 year old girls - spent time giggling in the cloisters and spending our pocket money on Virgin Mary key rings, I've noticed that holy places can take on an almost cartoon-like cariacature making it hard to take them seriously.
Jerusalem is not short of these places. You have to tear away the centuries of pilgrimage, man-made constructions and tatt shops surrounding a particular shrine, to imagine what it might have been like in its true simplistic glory.
Throw in a couple of dwarves, and you find yourself even further from the spiritual. The first instance was last Sunday when we ventured to a service within the walls of the old city and spent nearly two hours in a church with heating to rival an old folk's care home, and evangelical singing accompanied with guitar and piano. The 'sunday school' room stood starkly empty and the harmonies of 'give us peace in our hearts' were interlaced with Rashimi's decibels as rivals in the rafters. 'I WANT POMAPARROT JOOOS MUMMMYY!' The tastes of the orient are not lost on our boys and pomegranate juice has become a favourite subsitute for Ribena.
You'd like to imagine that a god loving congregation would welcome a 2 and a 4 year old in their ranks - but by the looks of the faces (all occidental and in Jerusalem for a Reason) which turned from beatific to begrudging on our entrance, it makes you wonder whether a lot of holiness isn't simply stuck on top of a wholelotofcracks. We left about 40 minutes into the sermon and gasped mouthfuls of cool air as we scuttled down the cobbles back to Jaffa gate.
Later in the week, I took the dwarves to the Mount of Olives, not far from our house which looks West over the city with one of the best views of the 'Haram as Sharif' and the golden Dome of the Rock. It is almost entirely covered with churches and graveyards dating back 3,000 years. It's a sought after burial site for all of the monotheistic faiths, and contains the remains of many well known figures including Robert Maxwell and Menachem Begin, who when head of the Irgun (the militant right-wing Zionist underground organisation), was responsible for the bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946, killing 96 people and injuring many more.
I'm not sure I'll put my name on the list to be buried up there.
We had a good run about Pater Noster with the Lozenge shouting: 'But Mummy, where are the oliveth?' having perhaps imagined we were about to slither up a black and glistening mount of his favourite food. The original church was built on the orders of St Helena during the 4th Century, but the building which stands there now is from 19th century and boasts tiled panels of the Lord's prayer in nearly 200 languages.
As we tumbled out of our car we became snarled up with a group of Japanese tourists disembarking from a coach who we found later reciting the Lord's prayer in Japanese in an underground recess when Rashimi kicked the football into the midst of them. And we interrupted an American TV crew broadcasting a holy programme from the neighbouring olive grove.
Leaving the more devout to their worship we tripped downhill, following a runaway scooter and football to the viewpoint, where the Lozenge decided he wanted to sit on a camel,
and Rashimi watched bemused as a group of teenage Israeli soldiers posed for a photograph with the Dome of the Rock in the background. As I saw his beady blue eyes gazing at the black metal of their guns, I realised there were fewer years dividing Rashimi and the soldiers, than between the soldiers and myself. In 15.5 years, Rashimi could be legally in the uniform himself, guarding a holy site - with an automatic weapon and point and shoot camera.
Jerusalem is not short of these places. You have to tear away the centuries of pilgrimage, man-made constructions and tatt shops surrounding a particular shrine, to imagine what it might have been like in its true simplistic glory.
Throw in a couple of dwarves, and you find yourself even further from the spiritual. The first instance was last Sunday when we ventured to a service within the walls of the old city and spent nearly two hours in a church with heating to rival an old folk's care home, and evangelical singing accompanied with guitar and piano. The 'sunday school' room stood starkly empty and the harmonies of 'give us peace in our hearts' were interlaced with Rashimi's decibels as rivals in the rafters. 'I WANT POMAPARROT JOOOS MUMMMYY!' The tastes of the orient are not lost on our boys and pomegranate juice has become a favourite subsitute for Ribena.
You'd like to imagine that a god loving congregation would welcome a 2 and a 4 year old in their ranks - but by the looks of the faces (all occidental and in Jerusalem for a Reason) which turned from beatific to begrudging on our entrance, it makes you wonder whether a lot of holiness isn't simply stuck on top of a wholelotofcracks. We left about 40 minutes into the sermon and gasped mouthfuls of cool air as we scuttled down the cobbles back to Jaffa gate.
Later in the week, I took the dwarves to the Mount of Olives, not far from our house which looks West over the city with one of the best views of the 'Haram as Sharif' and the golden Dome of the Rock. It is almost entirely covered with churches and graveyards dating back 3,000 years. It's a sought after burial site for all of the monotheistic faiths, and contains the remains of many well known figures including Robert Maxwell and Menachem Begin, who when head of the Irgun (the militant right-wing Zionist underground organisation), was responsible for the bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946, killing 96 people and injuring many more.
I'm not sure I'll put my name on the list to be buried up there.
We had a good run about Pater Noster with the Lozenge shouting: 'But Mummy, where are the oliveth?' having perhaps imagined we were about to slither up a black and glistening mount of his favourite food. The original church was built on the orders of St Helena during the 4th Century, but the building which stands there now is from 19th century and boasts tiled panels of the Lord's prayer in nearly 200 languages.
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| The dwarves bolting down a cloister in Pater Noster towards a panel of the Lord's prayer written in Czech |
Leaving the more devout to their worship we tripped downhill, following a runaway scooter and football to the viewpoint, where the Lozenge decided he wanted to sit on a camel,
and Rashimi watched bemused as a group of teenage Israeli soldiers posed for a photograph with the Dome of the Rock in the background. As I saw his beady blue eyes gazing at the black metal of their guns, I realised there were fewer years dividing Rashimi and the soldiers, than between the soldiers and myself. In 15.5 years, Rashimi could be legally in the uniform himself, guarding a holy site - with an automatic weapon and point and shoot camera.
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