My journey to Jerusalem in 1995 was a dream come true.
When I was around ten, I had recurring dreams until the age I was in Paris {the ones you have when you close your eyes} of being in an utmost beautiful surrounding, a part of heaven – the lowest of which is on Earth, and saw the Basins of Solomon, Masjidil Aqsa, and the Dome of the Rock. Masjidil Aqsa’s underground Mihrab, was opened to me after I had offered a prayer at the Masjid above ground, and was leaving the mosque when a very familiar face passed by. The Key Keeper of the underground Masjidil Aqsa approached me. He beckoned me and a couple of others to the kept Secret of Jerusalem – The Heart of Jerusalem.
I was humbled.
My knees jellied, and my soul departed for the umpteenth time, leaving me afresh, with a new sight, a renewed “life”. I offered my prayers, at the spot where Muhammad, Khidir, and Auliya {Peace and Blessings of Hu over them} were once priviledge. I had visited the Dome many times in my dreams, and had been taken there willingly. When I first saw the Dome, the familiar scent, that similar to being in a mother’s womb came gushing, almost choking my nostrils. At the time, I had no knowledge of Jerusalem, nor had the inclination to visit the country.
I was a child.
Before coming to Earth so to speak, whilst in the womb of Life, and Compassion, everything from the hidden to the apparent is unveiled to you. As a un-foetus, you know when the correct “time” is to depart into your new surroundings – new challenges, and when to embrace this evolution – resurrection. Your scientists have discovered that it is not the mother that induces the birth, but rather the child in the womb. Only when the instructions are being absorbed {an infusion within the corporeal – spirit & body coalesce} so to speak, do we depart into the new world.
The same can be said about death.
Arriving in Jordan, and checking into our little hotel, the sands of time around me whispered something very familiar, yet I couldn’t understand the moods, colors and perfume at the time.
I was living on the thread of re-discovery.
It was perplexing to see the sands of yesterday, made of bones of men, grinded as if in a huge mill over time. It wasn’t eerie, but comforting. There were check points every fifteen minutes or so. The coach we were in, had to stop many times, that I thought the journey was becoming a bit too tedious, even for me. It reminded me of being in a minibus stopping at every single stop, when a hand is being waved at the side street. Finally, arriving at one particular check point, we were told to disembark and had to go through a thorough check with the Military Immigration.
They were all in camouflage uniforms – the ones you see in pictures of war. The young men hurried to me, and literally hugged me. They were delighted to see me. I was astonished. I didn’t speak Hebrew, nor understood anything Greek. But they were indeed dashing with their M-16 in their hands, and the smiles in their eyes.
The group that was travelling with me wondered if I was one of them. They uttered their surprise, as much as I thought of this encounter.
“Ingat diatu orang kita” {lit. – “Thought, she is one of us” one old lady whispered.}
“La.. rupanya diatu orang depa” {lit. – “No, looks like she’s one of “them” another uttered.}
I was apparently the only one they could approach in the group that seemed ‘different’ or someone they presumed could speak English and perhaps understand them. So they asked if I could help them with getting the entourage into queues and to make the checking much easier. Imagine advising about two hundred people in your group, most of them not speaking English, nor approve the fact seen that you’re one of “them” – the so-called “enemy”. Seriously, why would anyone want to embrace a city or a country if they deem it as the “enemy”?
The men in the group were more cooperative than the women, who took me as their adversary. The people in my group looked at me differently from then on. They had question marks stamped on their foreheads instead of submission marks from all the praying they have been doing.
Hotel Commodore was a welcome site. The staff were courteous, and if you showed enough interest in the country you’re visiting, they’d help you with any sieved information you might need. They asked me if I was American. I smiled. Americans are given privilege over others then. I dislike contemplating the now, after 9/11. If you should ever go to Jerusalem to visit it, you must stay there. The consommé is simply luscious! And the bedrooms with the miniscule attached bathroom are very comfortable. Of course, you’d be able to hear the chirping of birds in the morning, but I was quite surprised, they even thought of coming to our window sills, to greet us. It was one of my most memorable trips beyond Asia.
Do you live your dreams, or do you create your lives?
27th June 2008 {republished from AainaA Insight! Magazine}
