Jerusalem: A Friday Visit to My Holy City

This blog follows a Palestinian woman's journey to Jerusalem during Ramadan, navigating the harsh reality of military permits, endless checkpoints, and an occupied city emptied of its people. Through her eyes, we see the fear, resilience, and deep longing to pray at Al Aqsa—a right denied to so many. Yet, despite the barriers, her faith and connection to Jerusalem remain unshaken.

Every year, I apply for a military permit from the Israeli authorities to pray at Al Aqsa. Without their permission, we cannot enter our own city. Under this Occupation, movement is not a right—it is a privilege granted or denied at their whim.

It’s not easy to get a permit. I began applying at the start of Ramadan. I check 50 times a day, hoping, waiting. I know a woman who was granted a permit only to receive a call the night before telling her it had been revoked. This year, the Israelis decided only women between the ages of 50 and 55 could apply. In my village alone, more than 3,000 people submitted applications. A month into Ramadan, only four women have received permits.

This feels like the greatest violence against us. Al Aqsa is not a vacation destination. It is not a beach or a luxury. It is our holy place, our duty to pray there, to care for it. Jerusalem is a city of mosques and churches, yet neither Muslims nor Christians can reach their holiest sites—even though they are just miles away.

I have been going to Al Aqsa for 60 years, but I have never seen it like this. The streets are silent, heavy with fear. We were stopped at five checkpoints just to enter. Soldiers stand in clusters of five, six, at every turn. You look at the people around you—everyone is afraid. They have come to pray, but no one is at peace.

The Palestinian shops are empty. Tourism has been cut off, so there are no visitors—neither foreigners nor locals. And even if there were, the shelves are bare. The special spices of Jerusalem, the qatayef, the fresh tahini from the local factories—everything is gone. One factory owner told me that in past years, he and his children worked tirelessly through Ramadan to meet demand. This year, they produced nothing. No one is buying. The city is suffocating.

Yesterday, as I took photos to show the world what has become of Jerusalem, a man stopped me. "Hajja," he said, "why are you taking pictures of emptiness? Are you happy to see this? There is nothing left to capture."

Damascus Gate, once lit with the glow of Ramadan lanterns, now stands desolate. If I had only heard stories of Jerusalem and never seen it before, I would not believe my own eyes. There are no buses to take worshippers. No crowds pushing forward in anticipation.

Image: An empty Damascus Gates with sealed up vendor stalls under tarpaulin sheets because the Israeli Occupation Force told them they can't sell.

Can you imagine the anger? The despair? We wait all year for Ramadan, for the chance to pray at Al Aqua, only to be told no by those who have no right to deny us. I could go on pilgrimage to Mecca tomorrow, but I cannot enter my own city? A place that belongs to all who wish to worship?

At the checkpoint, I saw a woman with her grandson, a boy no older than nine. The soldiers refused him entry. They sent him back alone, in the rain. He wept, "Grandma, I just want to see Al Aqsa! I just want to visit Al Quds!" What is a child to do? Most of our youth have only seen Jerusalem in photographs.

This is not just a restriction—it is a siege. They make permits impossible, then force us through checkpoints where we may be detained, humiliated, or shot. They try to empty Jerusalem, to strip it of life, to make us afraid. They isolate the families who live there, crush their businesses, erase their community.

But they will not erase us. They will not erase Jerusalem. This too will pass. And we will return.