What the Holy Land means to me
Since I was a toddler, I had always been fascinated by the icons of saints and angels. The lives of the saints had always held a fascination for me and for some reason I felt their impalpable presence wafting throughout the house especially when I stood in front of the iconostasis to make sure that the kandili (the vigil lamp) was kept alight at all times in front of our icons as a reminder that Jesus Christ is the light of the world and He illumines all. The oil used symbolises the infinite mercy of God and is derived from the Greek word for oil "kandili"meaning mercy. Sunday school had always been a treat and I have always felt serene and at the right place. Without ever realizing it, my life had been a preordained journey that would lead me to the other side of the world where worldly matters bow out gracefully to give way to the glorious transcendental world of the Lord. Guided by God, in 2010 I travelled to the Holy Land, more by God's providence than by personal drive. I didn't know at the time that I would be going to what my heart had longed for, the most holy places of the birth, passion, and resurrection of the Lord. . . .
As I literally followed the footsteps of Jesus, I found the journey a way to get closer to Jesus or to discover the roots of my Christian faith. I felt I was going not only from this world to other worldliness, but as if I were traveling from the world of sin and death to the world of resurrection and transfiguration; as if I were swimming a spiritual and psychological sea in order to arrive, finally, at the safe and all-bright harbor of our Lord and God’s Resurrection, Pascha. I visited a number of Orthodox churches including Panagia’s Tomb, St Stephen’s church (the first martyr) as well as Gethsemane and the Church of the Ascension on the Mount of Olives. From this latter vantage point one can take in the city’s breathtaking beauty. In the Old City itself, I walked the dark, stone, alley-like streets which were barely wide enough for carts to pass. The smell of spices and perspiration intertwined. Walking through the Old City of Jerusalem, over cobblestones slick with rain, I drank in the sensory rush. In its tumults, I heaved and rolled like a ship; the echoes of the wind reverberating more like a Swiss milkmaid than a strangled cat. I savored the drumming of the winter rain, that deep chord of familiarity stirring a welter of emotions indefinable. On the Via Dolorosa, I stood and closed my eyes for a second only to be before a revelation. Images of excruciating pain and relentless mocking started flashing through my mind. On the way to Golgotha, I saw Simon of Cyrene, returning from his fields to the city. The soldiers having removed the cloak from Jesus Christ and dressed Him in His habitual raiment wanted the thing of crucifixion over and done with. Simon was forced to carry Christ's cross! I was that Simon...Oh, God, I surely felt the inhuman torture...
Poetry by Sofia Kioroglou
O, beautiful Ir ha-Kodesh
The land of my fathers
The burning sun,the Calvary, the ululation
no master wordsmith
could capture in verbal form,
no painter could accurately paint
on canvas with oil colors so vivid
and glorious as its past.
