The Reluctant Pilgrim
by Tarannum Kamlami

Jerusalem's Dome of the Rock, Islam's third holiest site, first slipped into my consciousness about two years ago. I was sitting in my friend Rania's room, in Sharjah, United Arab Emirates where we both grew up. On her wall was a rather ornate picture of the Dome. In her chic, sparely furnished room, it stood out like a venerated icon in a Russian Orthodox Church. For Rania, who had never set foot in Jerusalem or in Gaza, where her family was from, it was a symbol of a homeland lost to them for 50 years. For me, it was a part of my own cultural identity that I had not yet explored.

Earlier this year, I found myself in Jerusalem. I saw the Dome for the first time on a Friday at dusk, as the Muslim day of prayer ended and the Jewish Sabbath began. The light shining off the gold dome was almost enough to light up the plaza of the Western Wall, with its Jewish worshippers below it. Muslim ruler, Abd al- Malik Marwan built the Dome of the Rock in the seventh century, 50 years after Islam's Prophet Muhammad died, following the Muslim conquest of Palestine. Noting the size and grandeur of the nearby Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Marwan wanted to build a shrine that would crystallize Islam's position as the fulfillment of the monotheistic tradition begun by Abraham, continued with Moses and Jesus and concluded by Muhammad.

He chose the spot revered by Jews on Mount Moriah, where King Solomon's and later King Herod's Temples stood, around the rock that Abraham was supposed to have bound Isaac as he prepared him to be sacrificed to God. The rock is also the spot where Muhammad is meant to have made his Night Journey - the Miraaj - from Mecca to Jerusalem and then to heaven. The Dome of the Rock, with its gold dome and blue tiling [added later by the Ottomans] was built to outshine all the monuments that had come before it, and is still the most recognizable building in Jerusalem.

As the lone Muslim in the group of sixteen religion writers- in-training I was travelling with, I would be the only one to go up to the Haram-al-Sharif to see the the third holiest site in the Islamic world, after Mecca and Medina. The Dome of the Rock, and all the Muslim shrines on the Temple Mount have been closed to all non- Muslims since Ariel Sharon made his controversial visit there in September.

On that first Friday night, when I arrived with my fellow students, I did not attempt to go to the Dome. I needed to go at a time when I could visit it alone. Early Sunday morning was the time I chose to make my pilgrimage. The group was leaving from our Jerusalem hotel for Massada at precisely 8 a.m. and I had to go to the Haram al- Sharif and be back by then. I tried to dress like a Muslim pilgrim - long black skirt and long sleeved sweater, with a headscarf in my bag for when I approached the gates to the mosques.

Getting there was more complicated than I imagined. The streets of the old city are winding - it was all too easy to get lost. I wandered into the Jewish quarter by mistake and couldn't quite bring myself to ask for directions from any of the bearded men in tall hats I saw hurrying towards the Wall.

Walking back and forth between the Arab and Jewish quarters I finally came across someone who I could be sure was qualified to help me find the mosques. A very old Arab man was walking towards his shop when I asked him to help me my way to the mosques. He looked at me suspiciously. Once I had convinced him that I was a Muslim, he pointed me in the right direction, and off I went, aware that I only had half an hour to make it back to my hotel before my group left without me.

I approached the green gates that led towards the sacred sites with mounting apprehension. There were security cameras everywhere. A group of young Israeli soldiers was sitting at a table, smoking cigarettes and playing cards, as two Israeli policemen watched from their post next to the gate. I walked over to them and asked to go in. One of them knocked on the gate, as the other searched my bag and went through my passport and visa documents. The gates opened and a large, swarthy Arab walked out.

"You Muslim?" he asked pointing at me, staring skeptically at the strands of hair that had escaped from my hastily arranged headscarf.

I replied that I was. He remained unconvinced.

"You can read Qur'an?" he demanded. I nodded my head. "Read Qur'an. Read Surat al- Fatiha," he said.

The Israeli policeman handed my bag back to me as I recited the short chapter that is the first in Islam's holy book, and the first one that all Muslim children learn to commit to memory. Satisfied that I was a genuine Muslim and not a tourist in disguise, he let me through.

Walking onto the Temple Mount or the Haram Al Sharif or whatever name it is given, is an experience I will never forget. Maybe it was coming down off the nervous apprehension that grew as I had made my journey towards the holy sites. Or it was the shock of early morning sunlight bouncing off the gold dome that hit me as I stepped onto the King Herod's platform; but something about that area of on top of this holy mountain felt unearthly. I understood for the first time what this place meant to the people who have fought to the death over it and will continue to fight for it. The Dome of the Rock is like Jerusalem's own sun, a gleaming, powerful presence that tells the world that Islam is here to stay - which was its builder's purpose.

The men guarding the door unlocked it for me. I had the shrine to myself. The rock itself is surrounded by an intricately carved wooden fence and surrounded by marble pillars that support the dome. Three huge floodlights on the rock shine their light all the way up to reveal stained glass windows and mosaics in red, green and gold on the inside of the dome. The splendor is overpowering. I glanced at a very old grandfather clock that told me I had about 15 minutes to pray. The Dome's custodian showed me the direction of prayer - eastwards, towards Mecca, and I prayed, trying my utmost not to feel that someone more pious and devout should be where I was at that moment.

I finished praying and made my exit, aware that my bus was leaving in 15 minutes. Once I had left the green gates and the Israeli soldiers, I ran back though the streets of the Old City, and back to our hotel, which was thankfully just opposite one of the main Old City gates. I could see my classmates boarding the bus and my professor looking at his watch anxiously. I was five minutes late. I loaded my belongings on the bus and as I caught my breath I tried to absorb what I had just experienced.

As the bus drove to Massada, I realized that I was the only one in my family and acquaintance of the Muslim faith that had made the pilgrimage to all three holiest places in all Islam. I had visited Mecca and Medina with my family a few years ago, on a non-Hajj pilgrimage. But my solo visit to the Dome of the Rock somehow turned into a pilgrimage without my intending it too. The vague feelings of belonging to a religion and culture that I remembered from looking at that somewhat gaudy picture of the Dome in Rania's room felt more real having seen the real thing and prayed there. Being there alone forced me more than ever to try and understand the way Islam fit into my world, and confront the role it will play in my life.