The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2010

Damascus Gate

Elise Frances Miller

Jeffrey Goldstein stood at the threshold of Damascus Gate. His narrow face was tilted upward, brown eyes wide with wonder, riveted by the details. Silently he paid homage to the arched portal and pinnacled battlements, the two towers and rows of floral and geometric bosses high overhead. This was the massive access to Jerusalem’s Old City built by Suleiman the Magnificent, through which emperor Franz Joseph of Austria and the German Kaiser had entered in the nineteenth century, the British General Allenby in the twentieth. Jeffrey’s struggle to arrive at this exact spot had been arduous. It had been three years since the Six-Day War had lit the fire of aliya in his heart. The true meaning of aliya—go up into the hills of Jerusalem—had brought him to his Jewish homeland after three years of arguing for his decision, saving his money, and learning the rituals of a real Jew. His parents had whined and begged him not to leave home, but Jeffrey knew he had done the right thing.

He had decided long ago that his mother, and especially his father, were afraid of his potential. They did not want their son to be in Israel, the most teeming, colorful, exciting place in the entire world. They did not understand how his newfound religious fervor could lead him to significant achievements. But the God of Abraham was on his side. Let them sit at home in their upscale Chicago suburb of Highland Park, believing only in money and cowardly self-preservation. Jeffrey Goldstein had his plan.

Boosting his backpack higher on his shoulder and straightening his new, knitted kipa, Jeffrey set off with a jaunty step toward the hostel touted in his guidebook. It was only two blocks from the Gate, twenty minutes from the Wall. And he had phoned ahead to reserve a room. After all, there was no use fighting the hordes of tourists eager for a place to stay.

A salt-and-pepper-haired Arab, with a nose bigger than that of any Jew, bowed slightly, introduced himself as Mahmoud, and welcomed him out of the hot sun. The vestibule was square with whitewashed walls. Compared with the streets, the space was silent, cool, and austere. Jeffrey signed a book and agreed to a price, which was only pennies more than the figure given in the guidebook. Mahmoud led him upstairs to another square room. It was similar to the entryway and furnished with a few pieces of modern furniture. When Jeffrey smelled new wood and fresh paint, the notion that he had entered the sanctity of a real Arab home faded instantly. This was a Jerusalem Old City version of Motel 6, whose fortunes had been enhanced by the American youth invasion following the 1967 war.

Jeffrey dropped his pack, pleased to see another Arab, a boy about his own age, enter carrying a tray of tea and cookies. Mahmoud introduced his son, Samih, as the young man set the tray on the table and poured steaming hot tea into two pristine china cups. Jeffrey thought fleetingly that a tall glass of iced tea would be better.

When Mahmoud sat, Jeffrey squirmed into one of the chairs, understanding implicitly that a few minutes of courtesy were part of the package. His host scooped four heaping teaspoons of sugar into the cups and stirred. His palm went out as if to say, “Now you may take,” and Jeffrey raised his cup to blow off some of the steam. He decided to sample a little of the dry cake.

As pleasantries were exchanged, Jeffrey’s eyes kept moving toward the young server. He decided to invite friendship, or at least collusion, so he smiled and offered a quick bow of the head. It was then that he noticed the beads of sweat covering Samih’s upper lip, which was unfurled in a practiced show of derision. The boy turned away from him and stood near the wall. With his brown arms crossed in front of his clean white shirt, he stared nonchalantly out the window. Jeffrey read his expression. You mean nothing to me.

Across the low table sat Mahmoud, asking his guest a series of friendly questions. Where are you from? Why do you come? How long will you stay? What sights will you see? Jeffrey was appreciative of the elder’s proficiency in English and tried to reply politely. And all the while, he stole glances at Samih. Despite the boy’s aloofness and the boredom with which he had served the tea, Jeffrey sensed a dilemma. I can see that he’s a smart guy, Jeffrey thought, and probably frustrated with being stuck at his father’s inn. Maybe he will be able to go to college this fall, now that the Jews have united Jerusalem, and everyone is free to come and go, enabling his father to make some money. Jeffrey tried to convey sympathy through his expression, but Samih remained unresponsive.

In less than ten minutes, the dutiful Arab son was back on tray duty, and the father left his guest to unpack and rest. “We advise you get off your feet in the heat of the day,” Mahmoud said. “All the shops and restaurants are open into the night.”

When Jeffrey rose from his nap, the street outside was shaded and the air smelled of cooking spice. His stomach was churning, but his first thought was for his obligation: I’m in Eretz Yisroel. This is not the time for backsliding! With clumsy fingers, he strapped his tefillin around his head. Fingering the tzitzit in front of his empty belly, he uttered the evening prayers, giving extra thanks to Ha Shem for bringing him safely to this place. Then, stuffing his wallet and passport into his money belt, he bounced downstairs, ready for adventure. Samih was lounging on the front step.

“Hi,” Jeffrey said, smiling. No response. “I mean…” He fished for a word, “Shalom.”

Samih rolled his eyes slowly upward. “That’s Hebrew,” he said in perfect English. “In Arabic it is Salaam.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks. So salaam, Samih. Say, how would you like to take a walk? Or come to dinner with me? My treat. I pay.”

“I understand ‘my treat,’” Samih said, his voice full of resentment.

“Sorry. I can hear you speak English and I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“You have no friends here in Jerusalem? Are you alone?”

“Yes, alone today, but not for long…”

“Other religious Jews will take you in when you find them.”

“I suppose they will. Say, I’m starved. You want to come out or not.”

“No. I don’t go out with you.”

Suddenly, Jeffrey’s empty belly filled with bile, as if the Arab’s umbrage had been painfully transfused there. His friendly gestures had gotten him nowhere. I don’t get this guy, he thought. What’s his problem?

“Why not? What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re stupid.”

“Well, I’m new here.”

“You steal our country. And you are too stupid to know you steal our country. A thief should not be so naïve.”

Jeffrey laughed out loud. “You preferred Jordanian rule? From what I can see, you’re doing a lot better now. The Jews have a democratic government. We should make friends and get along. We’ll all prosper in the new Israel. I think your father…”

“My father is an old Arab fool,” Samih spat. “Cares only about money and his own skin.” The boy sighed, pulled a little medallion out of his pocket, and began to finger it.

“That sounds like my parents,” Jeffrey blurted. “But our generation knows the value of peace. I want to know you, Samih. In our generation, we must learn about each other.”

“If you want to know me, take a look at this.” Samih’s palm opened, revealing a worn silver medal filled with Arabic letters. “Do you know what this is?”

Jeffrey shook his head.

“It was my grandfather’s. He fought to free Palestine from the Turks in 1917. He got the medal when General Allenby came right through that gate.” He waved the medallion in the direction of the Damascus Gate. “My people had been right here in Jerusalem for two hundred years before that.”

“Jews have been here for thousands.”

“But not you. You are a European, like Allenby, who promised us our country.”

“But I’m not European,” Jeffrey shouted, “I’m a Jew, and we Jews deserve our own country, same as every other people. Where we won’t be persecuted. I want to help build a new Jewish country where everyone who wants to can live in peace and prosperity. Including your family. You’re welcome to stay. But if you want an Arab country, there are dozens of them to choose from. We have only one possibility.”

Samih sprang to his feet and Jeffrey flinched. He was suddenly glad that the boy was shorter and skinnier than himself. “But we are not Arabs,” Samih shouted. “We are Palestinians!”

Jeffrey had no answer. Palestinians! When said in this way, it sounded like a new word. Jeffrey held up his hand as if to defend himself from the word this intelligent boy had shot at him: Palestinians. He averted his eyes, turning his head toward Damascus Gate. “Okay, okay, I get it. No use starting World War III right here and now.”

“But now you see why I can’t have supper with you, don’t you—young American boy?” Samih drawled these last words as if he were talking to a moron.

Jeffrey shook his head, wondering why Samih had voiced no hatred of the Germans, the Turks, the British, the Jordanians—only of the Jews? “We’ll never get anywhere if we don’t talk in a friendly way and try to understand each other’s points of view.”

“Is that what you learned growing up in America. A country that makes wars even where no one wants wars and no one is making war on it. Wars like Vietnam.”

“You notice I’m not in America.”

“That’s too bad. But go tomorrow through Damascus Gate. You will see wonderful things. Beautiful fabrics and fragrant spices and mosaic tea sets and all the things Americans like to buy. And ancient buildings with carved stone walls and exotic, polite, smiling people. All this is my country. My culture.”

“Yes, I was in there a bit today. It’s absolutely wonderful. I don’t want you to change anything.”

Samih lowered his voice, speaking with a new, quiet reverence. “We have poetry and science and all the things you would respect if you ever knew about them. We deserve our own country. Palestine. And this, what you call Israel, is our Palestine.”

Jeffrey raised his hands and slapped them helplessly to his sides. “I am not a diplomat. Shit, I’m just a kid who wants dinner.”

“Oh, so you don’t want to talk so much, after all?”

“Come with me. I want to hear all about it.”

“You don’t and you know it.”

“Yes I do.”

“Well, I don’t. And I don’t believe you.”

Jeffrey turned his back and looked at the address that Mahmoud had scrawled on a piece of paper. They had great chicken, he had said, and their hummos and pita were the best. “Salaam, Samih,” he said, hearing the humiliation in his own voice. Then, suddenly furious, he added, “No, not salaam. I say shalom. We say shalom.” As he turned toward the Gate, his stomach roiled and his heart felt emptied of the evening prayer. Night had fallen over Jerusalem.