These are my memories and ruminations, an Israeli Jew born in Jerusalem of 1961. They are memories of a child from a distinct generation that grew up in a city without a wall, in the post-1967 and pre-2003 Jerusalem. I was privileged: I lived 35 years in Jerusalem – rare years in which the gates of the internal walls, the walls of the Old City and the barricades between the eastern and western sides of the city were thrown open, and the Separation Barrier was not yet built. (So we felt, at least, and afterward we started asking whether the gates were actually wide open, and by whom and for whom.)

These were the years in which one’s gaze within the city—at the end of Jaffa Road, for example—did not yet encounter a concrete wall blocking the ancient stone wall, and one’s gaze outward did not yet meet a terrifying wall eight meters tall. These were the years in which one’s foot could explore what one’s eyes saw and walk – walk through another ravine and another hill and another village and another tent encampment. Looking back, I understand—this was a unique period; our parents were not privileged to have this space, nor are our children. And thank God we knew how to make use of those years. We walked the city of Jerusalem and beyond it. We breathed more deeply. We ventured into wide open spaces: westward and north, eastward and south. We could walk from Bayit Vegan to Malha, to Ein Yalu (today Ein Yael) and from there climb up to Cremisan and Beit Jala; or, taking a different route, onward to Battir and Husan. We would ride bus No. 25 to Neve Yaakov and from there swing east to Qubur Bani Isra’il (the “real” Rachel’s Tomb, according to several traditions) and to Wadi Qelt or Wadi Tzvinit; we would ride the bus from Damascus Gate to Beit Hanina and from there continue on foot to Nebi Samuel or Aljib (the site of the pool in Givon); or we would slide ourselves down, eastward, from the Mount of Olives, through Wadi Rawabi El-Assasswa, south and east toward Wadi al-Muklak, Nahal Og, until Nebi Musa. Or we would go out from the southeastern edge of the city through the lands of the Ubeidiya and the Ta’amara to the Dead Sea, or… or… or. The country lay open before us, and people’s hearts (seemingly?) were open to us, in the villages and in the tent encampments.

We got to know wadis and crevices; we leapt among the terraces and strolled among the groves and herds; we accompanied the shepherds; we gazed lovingly and thankfully at the plants and birds and mammals, and at the people. Especially the people. We taught ourselves to broaden our language from Israeli Hebrew to a deeper, more encompassing language – a language of greetings and generosity that overcame the suspicion and foreignness. Sabah al-kheir. Ya'atik al-'afiya. Kifkom ya shabab. Allah yazid fadlak, Tisbah ala- kheir. Tfadal, hay khubez tabun, kul, fish ahsan min khubez tabun. Embarrassed laughter of the rustic, falahit grandmother.
We were very political and apolitical. (Were we? Perhaps I should speak in first person.) I knew that we were walking the land of our fathers. I knew that the people we met belong to this land no less than we do – perhaps even more. Deep within, I began to understand that there is a real struggle here – a struggle between truths. I was aware of its violent and bloody manifestations, but the land was still open. To everyone. How was it possible, I do not know. Perhaps the walls in the hearts of the people were still permeable. Is this still possible? I don’t know, but I wish it was. It is feasible and admirable to start thinking about the conditions that would make it attainable to take down the walls. At first thought come the words equality, freedom, and security. But I would need to think about it more; it’s not for now.

Looking back, it is clear: if a wall or fence had been built then, our childhood would have been different. Our adolescence would have been different. Our lives would have been different. And today? I gaze at the wall and my breath becomes labored; I look at the photographs and am filled with sorrow: sorrow for those who grew up in a walled-off city; for those for whom the city is shut; for those for whom the wall closes in and surrounds and coils around them; and for those whose hearts are closed and in whose hearts there is a wall.

I look now at the map of the wall and see that the desired destinations of my childhood are on the other side. Perhaps it’s a little egoistic, but I look at the photographs of the wall and allow myself to think about myself. Yes, I know that those who suffer the most from the wall are the Palestinians. I know that it passes through their land and between their houses; that their land has been expropriated for it and that their paths have been blocked by it; that not only the landscape of their lives has changed but also their daily routines; I remember that they, unlike us Jews, are forbidden through use of force and a weapons-enforced law to cross the wall and enter the gateways of Jerusalem. Then, in my youth, this was their city for matters both sacred and trivial. The village residents whom we would reach on foot, and those farther away, and the residents of the cities of the West Bank, would all come to Jerusalem to sell sage and apricots and grapes, or to pray in al-Aqsa, or to bask in the beauty of the city. This was Jerusalem – al-Quds – of that time. I remember it, and them, as the grace of my youth.

I hurt for them and am filled with regret for us. A tiny critical voice reminds me: this is the sorrow of the colonizer, the conqueror, who is prevented from enjoying the pleasures of the land due to the resistance of those born here. There is some truth in that, but we must remember: This is a colonizer who also has nowhere to go, who similarly holds affinity to this place by right of his birth, as well as by virtue of historical and religious connection; who does not want to be a colonizer but prefers to live in an equitable and equal society. A colonizer against his will, who aspires to free the other and himself from the burden of colonialism and from the walls.
Is it possible?