It is just past dawn in East Jerusalem, on a mid-Spring day which promises fresh sunshine. Car horns blaring, doors opening. Ka’ek Al-Quds ( Jerusalem sesame bread) sellers stocking their stalls up by the Damascus gate. Rows upon rows of tall palm trees sway in the breeze. The city awakens.
I, on the other hand, am not quite awake yet. I have stumbled into a peaceful garden, a multitude of flowers, succulents, shrubs and towering Cypress pines, perched on the Mount of Olives' steep slopes. It is our last day in the city, and I woke early to explore. My legs, still sore from yesterday's hike, have carried me here from West Jerusalem. I was looking for a place to sit and pray but all the churches and their gardens are closed, so I have wandered here in search of some solitude and of a spot to park my pious butt. A flat rock in this enchanting garden, overlooking the old city, does the job. I can see why Jesus often retreated to this area, to pray amongst the trees.
Wandering back, a voice calls to me from above. Alas, not an angel this time, but not far off- an Arab man donning spectacles, who must be in his 50s, shouts down to me, beaming: "Hey! I have made you coffee!"
His name is Mahmood, and he welcomes me to his shack and open fire, and serves me freshly brewed Arabic coffee: dark, fire-boiled elixir with hints of cardamom. He also hands me a small narghile ( waterpipe). And so my final day in this extraordinary city begins with caffeinated gulps and puffs of artificial apple- flavoured water vapour. And of course, a sublime view.
My new acquaintance Mahmood explains he has been the gardener of this sanctuary for thirty-two years. He guesses that I had come to pray: apparently he's used to protestants coming up here to do so. He explains to me that he is Muslim, but that this garden is owned by the Mormons. "Jew, Christian, Muslim, you are welcome here", he smiles. We share our stories, and chat through some morning thoughts, notably family, football and Ramadan. His lifetime friend Ahmed soon joins us to warm up by the fire.
I thank dear Mahmood with the most enthusiastic 'shukran!' I can muster, and go on my way, fueled not only by caffeine and smoke, but more so by the kindness and generosity of a stranger. I amble on into the day, into the next chapter, profoundly moved by Mahmood's simple hospitality and inspired by this encounter...I don't think it's the narghile, Mahmood assured me it doesn't make one high...
