As I walk through Jaffa Gate a man selling pita bread calls out to me. I attempt to ignore him, but as he persists I turn my head. He rushes up very close and says, “Hello, don’t be scared. Why are all of you always scared, always white people.” I try to look directly into his eyes that are hidden behind sunglasses and say in an even voice, “I’m not scared. I have some place to go.”
I hurriedly make my way to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the supposed burial place of Jesus. Entering the church, I’m hit by the scent of beeswax and frankincense. I wait in a line full of Russians with molded high cheek bones, painted eyes, and wet whispers that remind me of when I was a little girl. Only a few people are ushered in by the priest at a time. Inside, the stone tomb is dark and smoky. Dozens of golden lamps with long chains hang from the cave-ceiling. There’s a hobbit-sized arched doorway that leads to a second room. Bending down, I pass through into an amber glow of icons and candles. Tilting my head back, I look up into a cluster of lamps suspended in a dark void that extends into nothing. Suddenly, I feel deep down in the center of the Earth.
Walking back to Jaffa Gate, an Arab shopkeeper asks me where I got my dress. This time I stop.
“You’re beautiful and you’re wearing a beautiful dress, let me make you earrings to match.”
I hesitate as he ducks inside his shop. “I’m not here to spend money.”
“It is alright,” he waves me in. Small rectangles of woven rugs line the ceiling. All of the walls display strands of turquoise, carnelian, and tiger’s eye. A Muslim alarm clock that plays the call to prayer sits above the doorway. As he fiddles with two lapis beads and a pair of thin metal pliers I ask the man questions about his work. When he’s finished, I try on one of the earrings.
“Here, let me,” he picks up the other and before I know it he pushes my hair behind my ear to get the hook through the opening. I don’t know what to do and I know he won’t be able to do it without force. After a second, he gives up. I thank him for the gift. He says it’s good for business, that maybe I’ll come back to buy something and bring a friend. “I’ll make you a necklace next time.” Suddenly, he brushes open my button-down sweater and touches the skin below my neck. “You like them short or long?” I quickly close it and jerk my head back.
“Yes, cover up if you’re more comfortable.” His brown eyes are wide and I cannot read his expression. I shake his hand and leave. Alone with eyes forward, I walk down the empty cobbled stone street past the leering men.
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