At eight o’clock at night we reach the Kotel. The illuminated wall is smaller than I expected, with two-thirds of it designated for men and one third for women. I write a note to stuff between the sand-colored stones, but an attendant stops me, “Please, no writing on Shabbat.” So I move on and weave my way through a thicket of Heredi women. Some are dancing in serpentine circles, others shake forward and back with eyes tightly closed. As their singing gets louder and I get closer, I stare up at the drooping ferns that have pushed their way up and out of this ancient relic. Suddenly, I begin to cry. I am standing in the oldest land I have ever known, in one great suction cup of time. These are indigenous roots that have been ripped and transplanted back in. It is my people who worshipped this mysterious and awesome God who broods behind the wall as a still small voice, as a funnel of warm wind. And we have survived, I have survived through these thousands of generations.
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