My organization, ACDI/VOCA, had a long-term project in West Bank & Gaza for eight years – aiding Palestinian cooperatives. My job was to make two or three supervisory visits each year.
I enjoyed my pre-intifada runs in Jerusalem especially the one that took me 45 minutes to make a five-mile round of the ancient walled city.
Now American Colony Hotel staff advise tourists of Intifada risks. I always like to push to the edge – but if anyone has reason to warn me about a potential danger, I respect their advice. So in recent visits to Jerusalem, I ran suggested safe routes up Mount Scopus through Hebrew University and over the hill to the Mount of Olives.
That hill route offered an impressive view of the Old City. Also the short straight stretch between the two mounts is an interesting study in contrasts. Looking over one side of the road, only pure desert is visible. Over the other side, the impressive view of the old walled city of Jerusalem is seen, with tall modern buildings of the Israeli section of West Jerusalem looming up behind it.
The hotel receptionist said “No danger to run around the Old City wall.”
The next morning, I jogged five blocks along Nablus Road to the Damascus Gate entrance, turned right up the hill and around the ancient wall. Soon I came to the Moslem cemetery but found a fence I didn’t remember from my runs in previous months.
I couldn’t enter so I jogged parallel to the fence. Something felt wrong about the path. The wide road petered out and became a narrow path, then it disappeared.
I proceeded precariously along what turned into a steep goat trail. Looking down the steep slope to the highway below, I thought I’d either fall and seriously injure myself – or be shot by an Israeli soldier. No one should be where I was unless he was a goat herder or up to no good. Certainly anyone in running shorts was out of place on this hillside.
I crawled back along the goat trail, tried not to fall off the steep slope and returned to the hotel.
On my next morning run, I turned left at the Damascus Gate and ran downhill. Not only was it easier than my previous run but I soon came to the Palestinian cemetery. Exactly as I remembered it but completely deserted. I was disappointed. No livestock market.
I ran well, feeling good on familiar and historical ground. Many exposed archaeological excavations were along this route. I had a “runner’s high” on the grass path. The tall stone block walls to my side were impressive.
Old City’s Walls Built by Sultan Suleiman of Ottoman Empire in the 1500s
Running on the path through the cemetery, I stumbled and fell.
“G_d damn it, not again!” I thought as I flew through the air putting my hands out in front of me. I landed hard, slid to a stop – bloodied and lacerated – hand, elbow, knee.
“My ribs and shoulder will hurt tomorrow,” I thought. My bloody elbow and hand were covered in dirt. I looked at the filth in which I was stretched out, certain that it was mostly dried sheep dung accumulated over the past 2,000 years.
I lifted myself slowly. My bones felt intact, I proceeded to walk and then jog slowly. Perhaps Mohammed smote me for running on the cemetery’s sacred soil.
Now in East Jerusalem, I jogged cautiously. No adrenalin flowing this time. At the end of the cemetery, I saw a major obstacle. A high metal fence and gate. The gate was lower than the wall but had spikes on it. Three rough stone down steps were in front of the gate.
The Palestinian Cemetery Outside the Walled City
gingerly placed my hands on the spikes and slowly lifted one leg over. Then I lifted my body high and extended my leg to get it over. Breathing deeply, stretching as far as I could to reach the pile of stones below on the other side, I was certain my private parts would be impaled on the spikes.
I just cleared the fence.
I continued to jog slowly. Just ahead, dark smoke was billowing high over the hill. I heard approaching sirens. Bloodied but inquisitive, I jogged towards the smoke.
In front of the Walled City’s Dung Gate, between parked trucks, a small car with Israeli license plates was in flames. Burning Israeli cars was intifada’s latest escalation.
Thick black smoke was spewing from burning tires. A crowd of Palestinians came through the gate and cautiously approached the area of the burning car which they had to pass to reach the main road and buses to take them to work.
An angry woman in a traditional black floor-length Bedouin dress with red embroidery on the front, said to me in perfect English, “How are we to pass here?”
“Keep your distance. The petrol in the car might explode,” I cautioned.
I watched the scene around the burning car until the Israeli firemen put out the fire. I took stock of my situation.
I was standing beside a burning car in Moslem East Jerusalem, a long way from my hotel, surrounded by Palestinians. I wore running shorts and a red tank top and was bleeding from several cuts and scrapes on my body. The sun was just over the horizon. I reminded myself that I am Jewish.
“What am I doing here?” I wondered.
I jogged back and passed the Lion’s Gate, nearest the Western Wall (Wailing Wall). At this holiest place for Jews, reverent crowds are usually praying all times of the day. On most visits to Jerusalem, I visited this site to observe the praying. This might be my only chance this trip to visit the Western Wall.
Jews Praying at the Wailing Wall
Even though I was bloodied from my fall, I decided to enter and visit the site for a few minutes. To reach it, I had to jog past two armed Israeli security guards manning a tall metal security fence and down to the enclosed area to observe the tallised (shawled) Hasidim early morning crowd bobbing and praying their morning prayer.
Men were separated from women by a low wall. I find it fascinating to watch the men, an anachronism, dressed in 19th century European clothing, diligently and intensely praying.
After a few minutes, I left the praying area and jogged to my hotel. The receptionist gave me the only first aid materials he had – cotton wool and alcohol.
I took it to my room and cleaned the wounds. Pouring alcohol on the wounds was painful. I cringed with each rub. I scraped and rubbed the dirt off the wounds with the cotton wool to clean up as best as I could. It burned like hell.
The Wailing Wall
Afterward a shower with soap caused still more stinging. I hoped I cleaned the wounds well. I didn’t want an infection.
I had no bandages and the pharmacies were closed. I put on short pants and a tee-shirt so the cuts and road rash scrapes would not be covered.
After breakfast, I walked to a pharmacist to have my wounds cleaned with hydrogen peroxide. After a few wipes, he stopped, said the wounds were too nasty for him to deal with. “Go to a hospital, get your wounds properly cleaned – and a tetanus injection.
He recommended the French Hospital, a Catholic French mission hospital located on French Hill up the road from the hotel. I expected to wait a long time. Two monks in long brown trappings waited on a bench across from me. A Palestinian woman came out of the emergency room within a few minutes and I was ushered in.
An elderly nun nurse, probably French, swabbed my wounds with an iodine liquid, bandaged them and then gave me a tetanus injection. I had expected my wounds to first be rubbed clean of grit and dirt before dressing my wound – as they did in the U.S. I feared an infection, not trusting that my own earlier wound cleanup was effective.
Instead of cleaning the wound, the Palestinian doctor told the nurse to give me the “usual injection.” I had visions of her using the usual dirty, unsterilized, HIV-infected, hypodermic needle they “usually” give to Jewish-American tourists. But she used a disposable syringe.
The Palestinian doctor gave me prescriptions for medicines to prevent infection and reduce pain. The entire emergency room process took less than 30 minutes and cost $35.
The wounds healed quickly. And without infection.
Running Stories by Jerry Lewis 