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Monday, 12 March 2007

Church of the Holy Sepulchre (again)

In the absence of shouting Orthodox priests on my second visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre this morning (see yesterday’s posting under the same heading), I have made my peace with the place. Even at an early hour there were still a fair number of people about but the great majority of them were going about their devotions which not only allowed but encouraged me to do likewise. Thus I found myself on my knees in the tomb itself next to an unknown woman of, to judge from her headscarf, Middle Eastern origin. Her quietly restrained and immensely dignified weeping articulated more clearly than any number of words I might conjure up all that might possibly be expressed about such a moment. The veil between time and eternity was gossamer thin.

A similar concentrated stillness characterised the time I was able to spend in front of the three altars upstairs. Positioned side by side these are dedicated respectively to the Nails of the Cross, the Stabat Mater and the Crucifixion. As far as I could work out (from the décor) the first two of these are Catholic altars, while the third, illustated in yesterday's posting, is Orthodox. While such distinctions are, I gather, of continued intense concern to the authorities of these churches, I am happy to be able to report that such distinctions appear not to bother the faithful one little bit. I make this judgement after observing the manner in which those standing or kneeling in front of all three altars made the sign of the cross. As a mere Anglican I have often thought to follow Orthodox practice in such matters but I find I get myself in a muddle about where to go next and, such is my conditioning, it doesn’t ‘feel right’.

The stairs down from the three Golgotha altars are precipitous but I’m glad to say the only concession to issues of health and safety is a single hand rail. Indeed the (British) Health and Safety Executive would not be pleased on a number of counts. Pricket stands (of the Orthodox sand-in-a-bucket design) are surprisingly few in number. But this inhibits the candle-lighting faithful not at all and one sees candles waxed to horizontal surfaces any- and everywhere. To judge from quite substantial areas of blackened fabric – some looking quite recent – fires are by no means uncommon.

Which leads, more or less logically, to consideration of matters graffiti. The guidebook draws the visitor’s attention to the thousand upon thousand crosses painstakingly incised by medieval pilgrims into the walls of the staircase down to the crypt chapels dedicated to St Helena. Not commented on are the numerous, usually rather less beautiful more recent additions, particularly those on the glass or perspex sheets that protect vulnerable ancient stonework in the deeper of the two chapels where St H found the three crosses. Not for the first time I was left wondering how old does a piece of graffito has to be before it becomes interesting.

Sunday, 11 March 2007

Mad dogs

The light relief in my progress around the streets of Jerusalem today has been provided by my attempts to run the gauntlet of souk traders and taxi drivers.

The art of not getting waylaid by traders is almost as fine a one as the art of haggling. By nature I do try and avoid being rude to people. So, if someone wishes me a good morning my reflex is to wish them one back. However in a souk that isn’t always a good idea because the average souk trader is a fly operator and he knows very well that ‘good morning’ leads ever so readily to ‘and how are you?’ And before you know where you are deep in conversation and once he’s showing you pictures of his son or daughter in England it becomes extraordinarily difficult not to buy something. Take my word for it. Actually in my case today such a conversation after buying something I did want distracted me sufficiently to forget about collecting eight shekels (about a pound) change. But the funniest incident of all related to my walking stick.

I have rather a nice brass headed walking stick which unscrews in four places. I imagine the sale of such sticks has gone through the roof since the recent increase in the restrictions on what may be taken on to an aeroplane came into effect. Although I’ve never seen walking sticks per se listed as restricted items, I cannot imagine it is possible any longer just to walk on to a plane with one. Four short pieces of cylindrical wood packed with one’s socks is a different matter. Anyhow, I have such a stick and it has been much admired since I bought it late last year. ‘Where did you get that from’, a voice behind me this morning piped up. ‘How much do you want for it?’ In spite of my repeated protestations that it wasn’t for sale, the price was at four times its value by the time I realised the only way to extricate myself from this one was to remove myself (and the walking stick) as quickly as I could. And a good thing I did because less than five minutes later it saved me from an undignified tumble on an uncommonly slippery paving stone.

Taxi drivers around here are even more of a menace. During the afternoon I walked to the top of the Mount of Olives and on the way up I was accosted more than once by three or four different drivers who were firmly convinced that this particular Englishman, mad dog or otherwise, simply ought not to be out in the midday sun. And indeed it did beat down as my pink brow this evening attests. Needless to say when I did want a cab once I had got back down from the Mount, there wasn’t one to be had. ’Twas ever thus.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre

It took me a while to find what most would agree is the holiest site in Christendom. The maps in two guidebooks made valiant by futile attempts to approximate the labyrinthine meanderings of the streets in Jerusalem's Old City. Things weren't made any easier by the fact that a good many of the street names in the guide books - both recently published - bore no relationship to the signs in three languages in the streets themselves. In the end I followed the bells. Goodness what a din. I love bells. The deeper and noisier the better. But those of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre are in a league of their own. Karlheinz Stockhausen at his most dissonant would be hard pressed to match what I heard this morning. It was quite mesmerising and, once one had got used to it, thrilling.

I had been warned. You'll be appalled at the goings on, people had said. So I steeled myself. I was determined to see what I would see at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the context of what Jerusalem undoubtedly is in many other respects: an unholy hodge podge of poyglot humanity rubbing shoulders in a confined competitive space. Obviously there is friction. There always has been and there probably always will be. So I took a deep breath and tried not be upset. But I'm afraid I was. It wasn't the crowds; the place was heaving. It wasn't the noise. It wasn't the disorder; the lack of signage and of any 'system' was rather refreshing. It wasn't even the evident self importance of many of the clerics from a number of traditions taking part in a range of liturgical actions I witnessed. What really angered me was the Orthodox priest yelling - literally yelling at the top of his voice - at a group of Japanese tourists telling them they couldn't be part of a particular queue to go into the tomb itself. I have seldom witnessed anything so awful.

Having simmered down outside in the sunshine, I decided to come again, probably early one morning. My guide book tells me it's open from 4 am!

They did warn me . . .

. . . that the grilling one gets on arrival at Ben Gurion International, Tel Aviv is second only to the reception laid on at points of entry to the USA. They’ve always been a particularly grim lot a JFK but I gather they’re even worse since 9/11.

So there I was at seven o’clock this morning, my body still tuned in to GMT telling me it was two hours earlier, confronted by a humourless Gorgon asking me all sorts of damn fool questions the burden of which was why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to visit Israel?

As I say, I was forewarned so, having patiently waited my turn, I marched forward to the cubicle wearing my most winning smile and wished her the top o’ the morning. No, I didn’t assume my lamentable Irish accent, but I tried to put a bit of Irish enthusiasm into my greeting. But it cut no ice. She scarcely batted an eyelid let alone responded with anything resembling a smile and said not a word in response. Why was I visiting Israel? Was I with anybody? Did I know anybody in Israel? What did I do? That took a while because I rashly mentioned being bursar of Ely Cathedral until last July. She didn’t seem to have the faintest inkling of what a bursar might do and was clearly not too sure about English cathedrals. ‘Oh, so you’re a priest then’ she offered, finally and hopefully. Clearly she was used to priests. ‘No,’ I told her, ‘I’m not a priest.’ If it could have done, her face would have fallen. ‘But aren’t you afraid of being alone for a week in Jerusalem?’ I resisted the temptation of asking her why on earth she should think that and simply responded in the monosyllabic negative. She sighed and stamped my passport.

I’m sure this lady is the salt of the earth, has a loving husband, has a household full of the most delightful children and is the life and soul of every social occasion in which she participates. But this morning she did a most convincing imitation of the babushkas the Soviet authorities used to seat at the end of every hotel corridor and who seemed to have been programmed to respond to any question put to them with a dispiriting ‘nyet’.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

Friday, 9 March 2007

Why should the devil have all the best tunes?

It's strange how things have a habit of coming together.

This evening on BBC4 there was a fascinating film primarily about the relationship of Winifred Wagner, Richard Wagner's English-born daughter-in-law, and Adolf Hitler.

In my youth I was an ardent Wagnerian worshipping at the Bayreuth shrine for two consecutive summers. I think I managed five complete Ring cycles, two Meistersingers and one each of the five other major works in just two years! And on top of that I even took part in the first modern performance of the then unrecorded early opera, Die Feen. Of course, as one does, I grew out of this excess (along with smoking) and thereafter for many years encountered 'the master's' music only intermittently. Recently however I've started to come round to it again and a few weeks ago was absolutely transfixed by a televised performance of Die Walkure - forgive the missing umlaut, I haven't learned how to do that yet. Of course, the issue of Wagner's German nationalism leavened with an unhealthy dollop of antisemitism is never far from the surface and the relationship between the composer and the subsequent Nazi ideology was clearly at the core of tonight's programme. Two things were striking. First, there was Winifred Wagner's unwillingness ever to say a bad word about Hitler. She clearly loved him and remained faithful to that love until she died as recently as 1980. She was critical of some of the things he did but remained loyal to the man she knew. And second, there is the eternal question of how such undoubtedly great and often beautiful music can coexist with such evil.

This latter point was positively hammered home by a (BBC) Radio 3 programme a little later in the evening during which large chunks of Monteverdi's last opera L'incoronazione di Poppea were played. In the last scene Nero and Poppea, two irredeemably corrupt and utterly rotten specimens of humanity, are united and sing what surely remains some of the most serene and spine tinglingly lovely music ever penned. If you, dear reader, don't know Poppea, do yourself a favour and, having found a copy, play the last 10 minutes. Whatever possessed the composer to confront us like this? But art - the world even -would be immeasurably the poorer if he hadn't.