They say Jesus walked it with a cross on his back. Today, others walk it with less ceremony and far less compassion.
Palestinians carry papers instead of planks. Questions instead of crowns. Every checkpoint a station. Every ID card a nail.
I wasn’t being crucified. But I was being evaluated. Allowed.
This was my road of suffering.
I wandered Khan Al-Zayt. I passed the school of Baybars. I saw women selling grape leaves and thyme — just like my grandfather once did.
There was one last thing to do: to see the morning through the stained glass of the mosques and churches.
I climbed the steps on the western side of the city. A soldier stood at the top in green fatigues. Not olive. Olives are ours, not theirs.
Then a young man in jeans asked if I was Muslim.
“Yes.”
“Where are you from?”
I wanted to say Ras Abu Ammar — my grandfather’s village, 15 kilometres from here. I wanted to say Jerusalem. I wanted to say Palestinian.
But I said: “Amman, Jordan.”
He smiled. “Welcome.”
I let that go. Was it not mine as much as his?
I climbed the last few steps. And there it was: the Dome of the Rock.
A picture I had seen in a thousand homes. On a thousand calendars. But now — not a picture. The real thing.
I entered the mosque. I prayed for the first time. And I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
I knew it was stone, wood, glass, and mortar. And yet — it lives.
The quiet was heavy. The prayers low. I stood under the stained glass, the colours arguing with the light.
Jerusalem is often spoken of as a city of history. But it isn’t just its past that’s contested — it’s the present. The conflict isn’t carved only into old stones. It’s written in permits, in police orders, in who gets to open a shop or walk through a gate.
And today, it’s even more blatant.
A government that once spoke in coded terms now shouts with clarity. Ministers call openly for transfer. Police raid Al-Aqsa in the night and shut down Christian parades in the morning. Surveillance towers multiply. Settlers march under army protection. The world watches Gaza burn and still calls this democracy.
Netanyahu says: “We are here.” That’s not a policy. That’s a doctrine of permanence — power without apology.
But we’re here too. Not just in exile or memory — but in the cracks of the city. In the scent of mint by Damascus Gate. In the echo of prayer inside Al-Aqsa. In the children who learn to say “Palestine” before they say their own names.
We may not be stamped in the city’s permits — but we’re written in its stones.
Thanks for reading
Read more about my visit to the Old City