(page 3 of 4)
I stared at him as if he had just offended my most precious religious feelings. He looked at me, not sure what kind of creature I was, and went to discuss the matter in Hebrew with his colleague.
They discussed between themselves who I could be, and decided: Half Muslim, half Christian.
They pointed for me the way. Via Dolorosa.
“But I am a Muslim, on both sides of the family!” I protested.
“Show me your passport,” the cop said, softening up.
I hadn’t brought a passport.
Having no choice, I continued the way of the old Jew until I reach the gate of the infidels, and finally I entered.
It’s beautiful inside my new Holy Shrine, an amazing square surrounded by trees and sands, like a spacious dream forest. I never knew there was so much empty real estate in the Old City.
I mingled with my new co-believers, and after every few steps I spotted a sign in Arabic: Spitting forbidden. I’m not sure why there is a need for so many signs forbidding the act of spitting.
After 11 a.m. passed, I successfully evaded the Israeli police, who by that time had cleared the area of all infidels.
I kept on walking, enjoying my new status, when suddenly an Arab guard caught up with me and yelled: “Out of here!”
This man did not even ask me for the Fatiha. He chased me out as if I were a Christian.