Sitting at Damascus Gate by Catherine Arveseth

April 13, 1995 Journal Entry 

I am sitting in front of Damascus Gate, simply watching. I can hear the beat of arabic music coming from the old city shops. A round woman with a sack of food balanced perfectly on her head slowly moves up the steps. Beggars sit scattered across the stairs, one with a small child in a cardboard box, hoping for a few extra shekels. 

I walk over to the woman with her child in a box and hand her the rest of my sack lunch that I didn’t finish. She breaks the cucumber apart and hands it to her little boy, then saves the tomato for herself. An old man in a gray suit with soft black shoes and a sky blue ski hat moves past me, carrying a clock. I see so many malformations. One glazed light blue eye, a distorted face, missing teeth. 

A small group of arab women in white scarves and colorful dresses whisk by me, accessorized with gold buckles and leather handbags. I think the women are beautiful. Around the perimeter of the sunken gate entrance, Israeli soldiers observe. They stop some young arab boys, just to inspect their belongings and establish a feeling of dominance. 

A few backpackers from Europe come down the steps, their accents revealing that they are from Germany. Another arab man, with a large potbelly protruding past his gray suit coat, exits the gate. His yellow shirt is unbuttoned and black and white checkered keffiyeh frames his face where a cigarette dangles from his lips. He melds into a group of men talking and gesturing. The arab men have their social network, the women theirs. 

School age boys, with green wooden carts, scream down the cobblestone ramps, the stones worn perfectly smooth over years of constant use. Amused by the scene, I don’t see the donkey coming behind me, led by a man in a red keffiyeh. The animal suddenly brushes up against me without a second thought, then moves through the city gate. One small brown boy clamors up the steps too big for his tiny legs, and makes his way towards me. He is eating a falafel he can barely fit in his mouth. He pauses in front of me and looks into my face. I smile and ask him if he wants to sit down by me. He turns to look for his mother, then scampers off. 

I love this city. I love the people. Watching them, I can’t help but think of Christ. How He found time for each beggar, each blind man, each child. Each individual in this holy city matters to Him. 

Journal Entry by Catherine Arveseth, student Winter 1995