Georgia

View from Narikala Fortress of Georgian Church Architecture

Welcome to Tbilisi! It is a stunningly gorgeous place, with some of the most beautiful buildings, architecture, public art and scenery that I have ever seen. The river runs through the middle of town like a heartbeat, but it doesn’t divide it. While I am by no means an expert yet, it seems to me as though the city simply continues on over the river, expecting it, anticipating it, enjoying it. This is a city that has been conquered at least 15 times in its history. It has different expectations that the rest of us. The newest onslaught, in the form of tourists with guidebooks and buses, pales in comparison to the brutality of the past. The architecture is a wonderful blur of Persian, Ottoman, Imperial Russian, Soviet bloc, modern weirdness and traditional Georgian architecture, which is most evident in its churches. But the time should not just to be spent looking up, because come down to eye level and you will have the chance to meet some Georgians, who are some of the kindest, friendliest and most helpful people I have ever had the good fortune to meet. While smiling to people on the street in seen as socially unacceptable, staring completely is. I have gotten some stares. On the bus the social barriers break down and people begin to chat. Once we started our Georgian classes and could have extensive conversations like “Hello, thank you, excuse me, pleasure to meet you” whichever Georgian you are conversing with, or alternatively the entire bus, since they are all watching you, will turn and smile broadly at you and your attempt at their language. Since no one ever tries, your three or four word vocabulary places you far in front of the pack.

Central Tbilisi

All of the new volunteers are training together right now. There are approximately 40 of us, about 60% female and all but one under 25 years old. We have two Brits, a South African and two or three Canadians, with Americans making up the majority. We had a few days free as people arrived from their various places, all of us with ridiculously long layovers in various cities (mine was Warsaw, 10 hours). I went into the old city, saw the Mtsaminda Cathedral, walked up to various churches in the hills above the city, walked along the river and took the funicular down from the amusement park. We started training on Monday morning, with three to four 50-minute Georgian classes and 2 or 3 classes covering cultural differences, teaching methodology or program information. The Georgian classes are going well, but I have become so accustomed to the intensity of classes with 2 students that being with 18 other people, many of whom have little to no other language experience can be slow. I expect the attitude to be ‘keep up or drop out’. Many people are overwhelmed by the amount of information but I know that they’ll be fine. We can figure we’ll be working from 9am to 5pm with coffee breaks or lunch in between every program. We get fed at the hotel three times a day, consisting of bread, tomatoes and cucumbers, meat stew of some kind, potato salad, and some form of carb (bulgar, potato, pasta rice) and a stew of some variety featuring pork most frequently. At dinner we always get fed either khacapuri or lobiani, which is bread with cheese or beans baked in respectively. After training we often go out and explore the city more. We saw more of the Old City, ate delicious Georgian food and drank delicious Georgian wine and went up to the Narikala Fortress which sits above the city. We took the cable car down just after the sun set, sending us over the river just as the lights of the city started to twinkle on. Tbilisi has a very laid back feel, with people in no rush to get any particular place in any particular time, and the buses leave whenever they are in the mood. The flexibility (read: chillness) about the linear and concrete nature of time could be frustrating if I weren’t so used to it. My time in both Turkey and Azerbaijan has prepared me for stuff to start when it does. So too did Baku prepare me for Tbilisi traffic, which can be frenetic at the best of times and overwhelming at the worst.

Monastery in Mtskheta, with Georgian National
Flag (left) and the Georgian Ecclesiastic Flag

Probably my favorite things that we have done so far happened in the past 24 hours. Last night, knowing that we had a field trip today, we went out into town to a restaurant which was supposed to have traditional Georgian folk dancing, but in the end did not. Even better, they had polyphonic singing which is a Georgian practice recognized by UNESCO and featured on one of the space flights. It is practiced only by men and is achingly beautiful to listen to. I can only look forward to listening to much much more if it. Today we went into Mtskheta, which was the former capital of the Georgian kingdom and still has some of the most important churches and monasteries in the country. Jvari monastery is the site where Saint Nino planted the first cross in Georgia and monks still live and work the church. We got to go into the town of Mtskheta and visit the church and walls surrounding it, and walk through the cobblestoned streets full of poorly translated tourist signs. A priest inside the church read the liturgy and the side alcoves smelled deliciously of incense. Orthodox churches always have a certain mystery to me, in part probably because I don’t fully understand everything that is going on around me. I like the coldness of stone walls, and the contrast of the bright frescoes and jewel adorned icons. The flicker of candlelight contrasts to the streams of light coming in through open doors. I find even tourists fall silent in the sanctuary of the stone walls. In Jvari Monastery we were awed not just by the octagonal walls but by the stunning views from the mountaintop, of rivers, of towns and of some wonderful cows eating on the hillside. We then drove down the road and had a spectacularly enormous and delicious picnic of Georgian food, sitting on the ground next to a corn/sunflower field. The people on this program have proved themselves to be intelligent, passionate, fascinating, insightful, dedicated, and motivated. The staff of TLG have put in longer hours than any US bureaucrat has ever even heard of. They are always available, they know us all by sight and they want us so badly to be happy and to love their nation and its people. I cannot imagine people more willing to bend over backwards to make us happy despite the fact that they have hired us to work for them. They picked me up at the airport at 4 o’clock in the morning, they made sure that we always have more water food and coffee than we know what to do with, they help us figure out how to get into the city, to get back afterwards and to keep us comfortable and happy in our placements.

Cathedral in Central Tbilisi

Speaking of  placements, we found out yesterday where we were going and pandemonium erupted. It was almost like we found out that we got into med school or something similar. We got our regional maps since many of us are so far off the beaten path you can’t find it on a larger one. I myself will be heading to Latali, Upper Svaneti region. https://www.google.ge/maps/place/Mestia/@43.0443635,42.7089859,14z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x405bd976dbdf6305:0xd4e140f4c76dc486?hl=en (This is the nearest I can find in google)  It is a small town not far from either the Russian or Abkhazian borders, but the region is famous for being utterly unconquerable. It is very high, with little below 1500 meters. The information on my town is pretty much nonexistent. No Wikipedia page, nothing in my guidebook. Essentially to get to where I am, you take a bus to the boonies, transfer and get off at the stix, transfer and get off in Latali. I’m thrilled to be in a small community high up in the mountains in the part of Georgia that many Georgians regard as the most ‘true’ form of their culture and national character. My village is also famous for its singers and I am near some of the most beautiful hiking trails in the nation. The road ends fewer than 3 miles from my community. Time to dust off my coat, get ready to learn some Svan (fairly unintelligible to most Georgians) and get cracking. I cannot wait to leave on Tuesday and meet my host family, see my school and get going on teaching, planning and integrating into my community. Most details to come!

Background re:Georgia

Greetings again Friends! As I think most of you know by now, I am moving yet again to places unknown in the pursuit of…life I suppose. This time I will be headed for the Republic of Georgia (think Tbilisi, not Atlanta) or in Georgian საქართველო. I will be working as an English teacher in a public school through the Teach and Learn with Georgia program. See this nifty neat-o link http://www.tlg.gov.ge/. Now, I know that teaching abroad is the de rigueur thing to do for a year or two after graduation for my generation, but I have landed on this particular program and destination after a great deal of thought, contemplation and difficult  decision making. I knew that I wanted to take some time off after graduating from MSU and to spend it doing something that would be meaningful for both my personal growth and for my future career. The TLG program appealed to me because it is entirely run by the Georgian Government. They decide who they want from the applicants, which gives them a greater degree of choice over their staff, and I will teach in a public school, giving me a chance to see more than a select upper elite (who can afford to send their children for private English lessons) from the nation. I also know that some more on-the-ground experience in the region will be invaluable to me in my future career, wherever that may be. I am going to learn in Georgia, not just to teach. I'm not an expert about the country, the Georgians are. I view myself as not a guide but as a visitor. Their government has invited me in, and I simply hope that I can be an ambassador from my nation to theirs. And now, Georgia.

To help situate ourselves, here it is. Facts gleaned from the CIA show that it has a population just shy of 5 million people, the majority of which are ethnically Georgian and Christian. It has two separatist enclaves, Abkhazia and South Ossetia which are recognized as Georgian territory but which have declared independence and are currently administered (the Georgians say occupied, as does most of the international community) by Russia. I am barred from entering these regions as a part of my contract. I say, okey dokey, no need to anger the Russians or the Georgians.

Something I’ve found is that many people are confused by the Georgia-Russia difference. Georgians are ethnically completely distinct from Russians, being Caucasians (meaning from the Caucasus Mountains, not ‘white’ per se). The oldest hominid fossils outside of Africa were found in Dmanisi Georgia. The first unified Georgian kingdom existed in the 4^th century BC. The Georgian Kingdom has its Golden Era during the Middle Ages under the rule of King Tamar (a woman, I might point out, who has had the title of King bestowed on her as a sign of respect). The Georgian language, complete with its own alphabet, was first recorded in the 4^th century AD and has changed remarkably little in the hundreds of years since. It is unrelated to Russian, the only living languages related to it are Mingrelian, Svan and Laz (yeah, it’s that obscure).

Georgia was part of the Russian Empire starting in the late 1700s and then the Soviet Union, gaining independence in 1991. It had several internal wars over the separatist regions and most recently a war with Russia in 2008 since then, but Georgia has made great strides towards democracy and economic independence. It has strategic agreements with NATO, is a member of the Council of Europe and participates in Eurovision. It’s largely mountainous, is rated as less corrupt than Italy, Greece or even the Czech Republic and has universal education. It has invested heavily in tourism and infrastructure recently. I’m looking forward to moving there and sharing more about it will all of you!

Sorry this is such a bore of facts but I was just too excited!

Wrapping things up

I’m down to my final week here in Istanbul, and I find the prospect of departing for parts unknown (or known, whatever) exceptionally bittersweet. I’ve missed you all a great deal while I have been gone, but this is city and country whose people are so vibrant and festive and welcoming, it will be hard to leave them. I’ll give you one last travel story to explain what I mean. 

 I spent last weekend in Izmir with my first ever Turkish teacher, Ferdane Denkçi, her husband Süleyman and her mother. I arrived early in the morning on a Saturday, but Süleyman was still there at the bus station to pick me up. Ferdane was at home preparing a massive and delicious Turkish breakfast for me to eat upon arrival. They then packed up everything and prepared, assuring me that all I needed to do was “Sit comfortably”. Ok. If you insist. They took me to the beach for the day and out for dinner. Probably one of the most difficult things, if not the most difficult, about being gone from home for an extended period of time is feeling like you are no longer a member of a family. I feel the most homesick when I’m traveling, getting into the airport and everyone is there with a sign and a name and I walk past, catching the next bus, to catch the next ferry etc etc until I arrive alone at my dorm room. I love the independence that being here has given me, but I do miss having someone waiting for me. Izmir was a wonderful reminder that I am part of many families, and that even though I may not see all of my far flung relatives very often, we still care for each other. Ferdane’s mother embraced me as a full member of the family within about 20 minutes of meeting me. She invited me to visit her in Istanbul, wanted to take pictures with me as well as Ferdane in Kuşadası after our lovely day of relaxation, and the next day at Kemeraltı, the shopping district in Izmir, introduced me to shopkeepers as her daughter. One poor shopgirl kept looking from Ferdane to me, and finally said, “Are you really sisters?” at which point we laughed and explained the relationship. The shopping trip was very successful and I was pretty popular overall. Izmir does not get nearly as many tourists as Istanbul and very few of them speak Turkish. Even fewer go to Kemeraltı, which isn’t a tourist market. It’s where you go to get some new towels, a tea pot and some fake Converse. Every time I opened my mouth and Turkish came out, everyone was ridiculously pleased. I felt vaguely like a performing animal, but perhaps they enjoy the praise too. I felt fully immersed and engaged in the Turkish culture, integrated into the fabric of life here. 

Süleyman asked me Sunday evening after our mangal, or barbeque, what the biggest difference was between Turkish and American culture is. I had to stop and think for a moment, but then I knew. Americans can be incredibly time oriented and often are in our everyday interactions with strangers. Turkish people aren’t. The focus is always on the person. This probably contributes to everything being late all the time, but all attention is focused on whoever is being worked with, rather than the 20 appointments afterwards, which I do appreciate (except when I’m waiting). 

Case in point, on the bus to Izmir, or more specifically at Alibeyköy bus stop in Istanbul, I got to witness a rather interesting cultural event and how Turks are focused on the person, rather than the clock. I was sitting waiting for my bus to arrive and I notice a couple of young men arrive doubled or tripled up on motorbikes, making quite a racket, trying to pull tricks etc. Then a tiny van pulls up, unloads like it’s a clown car, and they start blasting music. In this particular case it’s Thrift Shop by Macklemore, which makes me laugh, because American pop music is everywhere.  I’m trying to figure out what the heck is going on, because really, I wouldn’t pick the bus stop for my Friday night rave with my friends. All of them are pretty loud, singing and chatting. They’ve gotten out some fireworks too. For a couple moments, I’m a little nervous, wondering if rather than a rave, this is going to collapse into a riot. They seem pretty happy for a riot though, and it’s a mixed crowd at the bus station at 11pm so I don’t know what they would be protesting about. Then they start tossing one of their group up into the air and catching him. I’m worried for his safety, because some of his compatriots seem more than a little bit drunk, but nothing happens. Then the crowd around me starts talking, they finally know what’s up. The young man in question is leaving for askerlik, or his 2 year required military service. Every man in Turkey does it at some point and now is this young guy’s turn. He’s on my bus as it turns out. His friends crowd around the door and sing a song to him as he gets on, joking and laughing with him until the last possible moment. He’s about my age, I’d say, but the new recruit looks younger than that and a little deer in the headlights, as though he’s not sure what he’s going to do away from home for two years. There is something sweetly naïve about him. We pull out from the berth and I think that’s that, but his friends have arranged themselves at the exit, sitting on each other’s shoulders. The bus driver calls the young man up to the front, and he stands at attention while his friends sing to him one last time, lighting fireworks and unfurling a Turkish flag with Ataturk superimposed on it, the founder and protector of the republic. The bus and the entire bus station stop and wait while this young man’s friends, who number a good 2 dozen, give him a real send-off. Everyone was willing to wait, because this was both an important and terrifying part of this young man’s life. Everyone understood it and accepted it and our patience was our contribution to his send-off, to let him know that his sacrifice is appreciated.  A few days before a bomb had gone off in Reyhanlı Turkey, killing 50 people at a market and the dialogue with Syria is spiraling out of control, so this young man may indeed have sacrifices to make. But for the night his friends just want to wish him well. 

Süleyman told me after I mentioned this dichotomy between the States and Turkey (and I’m not saying that people aren’t important to other people in America, but we value punctuality often above building relationships, it’s a difference in what is construed as rude and acceptable), that I was doing important work. He caught me a little off-guard, but I was glad that he said it to me. I try to explain sometimes the incredible importance of being a cultural ambassador in other parts of the world, and representing not just women or MSU students but also Americans when I travel. Most Turks have never had a real conversation with an American, and so my job is to win hearts and minds with my broken Turkish, my quiet demeanor and my attitudes towards laughter love and life. I do my best, but it’s good to hear that what I do, and what I want to do with a great deal more of my life does make an impact. To hear it from Süleyman’s lips confirmed for me what I’ve always felt in my gut: it is valuable work and there aren’t enough people doing it. 

Another interesting point about the weekend, it was Turkish only. Every interaction I had for more than 48 hours was in Turkish. I spoke Turkish with Ferdane and her family, on the bus, with waiters and vendors and all the rest. And I did pretty well for myself. I hadn’t seen Ferdane for almost 2 years, so she and Süleyman were blown out of the water by my improvement in Turkish, which was incredibly affirming for me. Earlier in the week I had my first experience where I listened to Turkish and understood it, but it didn’t register as a foreign language. This is a strange and wonderful feeling once you realize that it’s happened, because you know that your mind has completed all the circuits and your brain has accepted this new tongue into the fold. I’ve had it happen in Spanish, but never since then. I am still not fluent in Turkish, but I know that I can be. My mind is ready for it; I just need to get some more vocabulary and colloquial expressions under my belt. I feel so much more confident than when I arrived 4 months ago that this is possible though. In turn this has confirmed one last point that I want to leave you with. I know that I’ll be back to Turkey. Perhaps not this year or even the next, but this nation has captured my heart and I know that no matter what, my life trajectory with circle back to it, and to this city that I love. The life of this city fills me with awe, lifts me up when I am down and gives me the confidence to keep working. Görüşme üzere Istanbul, until we meet again.

The compelling nature of ruins

Sarajevo at Sunset

Hello everyone! So this is a bit out of order, but that's how I roll. My mind occasionally brings good material to the surface so you have to run with it. I wrote this piece up for my Material Culture class about a week ago and presented it in class today. I decided I quite liked how I had stated things in it and how it described the city of Sarajevo, Bosnia and the nature of the Balkans as a whole, so I'm sharing it with you. I hope that you enjoy.


There is something eloquent about ruins. Their mute testimonies compel us to listen to words emanating not from them, but from deep within our own consciousness’s, words trying to make sense of disaster borne of natural or human desires, destruction beyond our imagination. Ruins can come about organically, through disuse and time, or they can be the work of an instant, an earthquake, flood or explosive device that erupts at just the right moment leaving only remnants in its wake. It is the latter that most intrigue our minds, for nature’s destruction is always senseless to our humanity, yet when we find it is our fellow men who have carried out these acts, we balk. We are logical, thinking things, and we turn our backs to logic. These structures can be repaired or demolished, or they can bear witness. In Sarajevo, they have a history museum devoted to the story of Bosnia-Hercegovina through the ages, and the more recent tale of the siege of Sarajevo. An outsider would not know of the purpose of this building but for the lettering pasted onto the side. Some of the building has had to be repaired, so that people may walk free of the tangle of twisted metal, or the jagged skylights whose creation was not borne of elegance. Yet much of the exterior has been left untouched. Bullet pocks fleck the exterior, naming a survivor of the horror just as surely as the scars of smallpox would have done 200 years ago. The stairs are marred by missing chunks of concrete, making the walk up hazardous, giving the visitor the tiniest sensation of danger, and the necessity for care. The garden grows wild with tall weeds pushing through cracks in the courtyard, none beautiful enough to bloom. Military vehicles are strewn about, slowly collecting rust, but still giving the impression of an event temporarily interrupted, to be resumed at a later date, for if it were finished our minds tell us, there would be order. The entire museum gives a feeling of time suspended simply for your benefit, and that once you leave again, it will resume its natural course. The interior is spartan, the walls and

One of Sarajevo's many ruins

floors repaired but this is not a luxurious space. It is a place of action with no time to mess about with frou-frou. The inner workings of the building remain exposed, with pipes and wires creating a Gordian knot above your head. The space is clean but not sanitized. The building reminds you that this is not over, that the wounds and animosities have not yet healed, for when you walk outside you see similar buildings, yet these do not hold museums. These are ruins that will not be reclaimed, instead bearing their testimony ignobly as stray dogs wander through and the last rays of the sun shoot through perfect circles in their masonry, the jagged cracked edges the only sign that they were not intentional. A conventional history museum would speak of the conflict as history, yet the ruinous nature of the building invites the visitor to see it as reality, to view it not with the detachment of wandering through an exhibition and then popping out to hit the next tourist attraction. It forces the viewer to consider the implications and walk away unsettled, because our minds detest the scars on buildings as much as on human skin and yet in our perversity we cannot look away from either.

Jerusalem's Allure

Me on the Mount of Olives

I didn’t expect to cry at the Western Wall. I hope people who have been reading this aren’t getting the impression that I’m the stereotypical blubbering female. I can assure you that I’m not. I’m not some hard ass punk rocker chick either but I consider myself to have a fairly tough exterior and I rarely cry in public. Funerals are just about it. Religious experiences also rarely have this effect on me but like I said, it’s pretty rare. I had expected the Wailing Wall to be a more cultural experience like visiting a mosque. These too are beautiful spiritual places—but it isn’t my form of spirituality. I appreciate them but it’s a very different than being in a church for me. I actually went to the Western Wall twice. The first time I just sat and watched and listened. I was there on a Friday around noon, I know that I shouldn’t try to go much later since the Sabbath would be starting in a few hours. The area was already buzzing and I observed with interest the comings and goings of both worshippers and tourists like myself. I made a loop and getting lost, ended up back at the wall. I noticed then that they were letting visitors approach the wall. I had assumed that the natural worship areas would be off limits but apparently no. They had modesty police at each entrance and I watched one women who was told to cover her shoulders say “well, in that case never mind”.  I don’t understand people who get annoyed by modesty policies at religious sites. They’re already letting you in, what else do you want? I was deemed suitable in my long pants and t-shirt but out of habit, and respect, I placed my scarf over my head and arranged it to cover my chest and neck. I walked slowly towards the wall and waited until a small place where I would be able to touch it opened up. I placed my full palm on the stones, uneven, but perfectly smoother from years of wear. I stayed only a few moments knowing that the true faithful were waiting on me. I left a prayer walked backwards towards the exit and left. But in that moment at the wall the full emotional burden of the place hit me. My chest tightened in that way which makes you know years are coming. And so they did, small and silent though as I left I think a few people noticed them. I don’t often cry in public but when I do I refuse to be ashamed of it. I don’t use tears to het what I want to influence or persuade. They are a reflection of me and I refuse to be ashamed of myself.  

The Western Wall

Leaving the wall I was accosted by an Orthodox man. He wanted a donation for something. I was going to keep walking but being from the Midwest it makes me feel like a jerk to not be friendly and he wasn’t threatening at all either. Before I knew it he had ascertained my name and hometown (I go by Hannah from Chicago when I travel) and given this combination plus location I’m fairly certain he decided that I was Jewish. He proceeded to tie a piece of red yarn on my right wrist, and even more surprising to me, placed his hand on my head and gave me a blessing for Shabbat asking for the best for me and my family and that I would find a nice boy and get married soon. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I probably won’t be having any Jewish babies. 

Street sign in Jerusalem

I didn’t end up making it to the Dome of the Rock. The current policy is that non-Muslims are only let into a single gate of the compound and are only allowed access to certain parts of it and only during certain times during the day. What these times are, I could not tell you. I tried to go 4 times at least and was turned back each and every time. Short faith pop-quizzes are also administered by the guards to make sure that anyone who says that they are a Muslim actually is. One girl in my hostel was brushing up on her basic prayers so that she could get in the next day. It all seems rather complex to me. But I got to see the complex from a distance so I cannot complain. The golden dome stands out so much from the city, which from a distance up in the hills seems a sort of light brown beige color, like sand. It looks fragile like sand too, small and tight and yet this city has survived attacks, retreats, being razed to the ground, burnings, massacres, revolts, rebellions, repression and all the rest. I read somewhere that Jerusalem is like a jewel, hard and bright and resilient. It’s an apt description of this city which has been Holy for so many over the years and yet through all the adoration and turmoil, has managed to survive.

Inside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was a remarkable place. It took me a while to get in since it was Orthodox Good Friday. They are only a few things in this world that I am afraid of, but one that I readily admit to is Russian grandmothers. Old Russian women terrify me. Tough as nails and then some, and not afraid to prove it. I have learned not to mess with older women while traveling, because they will always win. I learned something in Jerusalem though. If I find old Russian women terrifying, when they are on pilgrimage this fear is multiplied 10-fold. The crowds to get into the church were tightly packed and roadblocks had been set up to prevent too many people from getting to the church at a single time. The policemen or guards or whatever they were manning them did not radiate charm into the crowd. They were brusque and tempers were running high. I got stopped twice, once on the road to the church and then again before entering the front courtyard. This second time I was waiting for an eternity in the crowd in the hot sun and considered turning back, but being stubborn, I did not. Eventually we were let in through the tiny arched stone doorway and I was swept along with the sea of pilgrims to the church, whose façade I expected to be far more ostentatious. Since no single denomination has full control over the church the architecture does not really has a distinct style. It looks old and stone with strange additions jutting out at various angles. The exterior just isn’t pretty. The interior is a maze, with chapels, monasteries, crypts, and hidden rooms everywhere. Some are up a floor, though where the stairs are I could not tell you. Others are only up a few steps, some down long flights into the cellar, others you have to go through several rooms to get to the inner one. At the center (I think, I was pretty turned around) is a large central room and a smaller structure sits at its center. Pilgrims were ducking in and then leaving, though only a few were selected for this special honor. The walls of the church that go unclaimed by any particular group are unadorned, with the claimed spaces making up for it, being festooned with murals, icons, chalices, censers, candlesticks, embroidery, altars and all the lavish paraphernalia of the Eastern church that I can’t help but like. People were everywhere, taking pictures, lighting candles every which where (how the whole place hasn’t been accidentally burned down is beyond me) kissing, touching and even throwing things onto icons so that they might be blessed. A few men from Holy Orders wandered around with pilgrims speaking to them every few steps that they took. The bustle of the place was both deeply

The Church at the Tomb of Mary

overwhelming and perfectly satisfying. Everyone was excited for Easter, for the resurrection. Some people were settling down in the church for the ceremony of the Holy Fire, where a fire magically starts in the inner chamber and is then carried out distributed to everyone waiting in the church, around the church and to all the places of worship in Jerusalem and then further afield. The footage from this year shows an elderly orthodox priest sitting on the shoulders of several men who sprint out of the chamber and the crowd surges forward as everyone tries to light their torches and candles with the sacred flame. I did not make it to the ceremony, but I’m not disappointed. I saw the church. I walked the Via Dolorosa, where Christ made His final journey. I climbed the Mount of Olives, where His Ascension took place. I saw the Pool of Bethesda where He healed a sick man, and several churches that claimed to the site of the Garden of Gethsemane, where He prayed His last night. I do not need a mysterious ceremony to tell me that this city is Holy and beautiful and full of life after thousands of years of bloodshed. The city tells me that for itself.