Children ride bicycles along a breakwater by the Sea of Galilee in January 2024. Getty Images
JERUSALEM – The sun was already starting to set over the Sea of Galilee as my wife and I arrived at the gates of Capernaum, the lakeside village where Jesus started his ministry and recruited his first disciples. But the holy site was closed. “Visiting hours: 9:30 am – 4:30 pm”, read the sign. It was undeniably already 4:30pm, but we’d travelled many miles to be here, so we buzzed the intercom. “Where have you come from?” asked the disembodied voice. “England?!” they replied with surprise. “Come in!”
We discovered the voice belonged to Father Miguel, a Franciscan monk from Peru who had been at the
monastery for three years. He kindly let us in to look around. We viewed the spaceship-like 1960s church, whose legs make it appear to hover over the ruins of an octagonal Byzantine church, itself marking the spot where St Peter’s home is believed to have stood. We wandered around the fourth-century synagogue, built atop an earlier building in which Jesus himself could have prayed.
We took in the sight of a rainbow shimmering over the Sea of Galilee just behind, as the sun started to dip below the horizon. And we did all this completely on our own. “Normally we have 6,000 people visiting every day,” said Fr Miguel. “Today, just you.” It would have seemed almost unbelievable had we not already experienced the emptiness of some of Christendom’s most venerated sites for ourselves, the result of the terrible war in Gaza.
The last time I visited the region was in 2005, when I was still at Oxford, on a field trip organised by the indomitable Fr Henry Wansbrough OSB. I remembered the chaos that mass tourism can often bring to holy sites. Perhaps, despite the circumstances, Fr Miguel felt a certain relief at a pause in the deluge? Alas not.
“It isn’t peaceful here, it’s very dangerous. Sometimes we can hear the rockets flying overhead, and we have heard the sirens going off twice.” Do the monks have a bomb shelter? “Only prayer,” he said, gesturing with hands clasped. He also sees a more insidious development which threatens to last long after the worst of the violence has abated. “Hatred is increasing between Arabs and Jews.”
Nonetheless, some are seeing small advantages to the lull in visitor numbers. At the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre, there are long periods without the queues which usually snake around the ancient building. “I wouldn’t have wished for the war of course, but at least it has meant we can work more quickly,” says Nagib, the foreman of restoration work which is currently underway. Paving stones laid centuries ago are being repaired for the first time, and the University of Rome is taking the opportunity to do an archaeological survey of the area.
The dearth of pilgrims has allowed the team to close part of the main entrance, which usually wouldn’t be possible for extended periods of time. Interestingly, Nagib said he and most of the workforce are Palestinian (or “Arab”) Israelis, making this an inter-faith project unhindered by the war. It’s also something of a minor miracle that the work started in the first place – “I think this is about the only thing all of them agree on,” he joked, referring to the famously fractious Christian denominations who control the church. Every inch is delineated according to an 1852 Ottoman ruling now known as “The Status Quo”, with even priests sometimes coming to blows if they feel their group’s rights have been infringed.
The economic cost of the war is plain to see, with the streets of Jerusalem’s Old City empty, and those few shopowners still opening making sometimes desperate pleas to the rare tourist who walks by. Marwan, whose shop is right next to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, was thrilled to sell me an olive wood cross, but said I was one of less than a dozen customers that day – a far cry from the hundreds usually thronging the area.
The effect is also notable in Nazareth, where the guardian of the Greek Orthodox Church of the Annunciation told us that it’s very difficult for local businesses. Again, long-planned restoration work is being made easier, with water-damaged frescoes being brought back to vivid life without a constant flow of visitors getting in the way. And while the church is quieter on weekdays than it once was, we were told that on Saturdays and Sundays the local population are making a particular effort to attend services.
Worship also continues at the Anglican Cathedral of St George in Jerusalem. Perhaps quality may be making up for quantity when it comes to congregants, with the Dean of Salisbury – currently on sabbatical – among just three people attending a recent Evening Prayer.
For those who do make the journey, not everything is as it once was. At The Church of the Multiplication,
where the loaves and fishes miraculously increased to feed the five thousand, a sign explains that its opening hours are curtailed due to what it euphemistically terms “the situation”; while at The Israel Museum, the Dead Sea Scrolls have been removed “for safekeeping.”
It’s perhaps inevitable that some changes are for the better; sitting on the shore at the Church of Peter’s Primacy, it was much easier to imagine that this was where Jesus once sat, grilling fish on the fire with his disciples and asking Peter to “feed my sheep.” But one can hardly forget the continuing horrors which have brought about this luxury of being able to hear more clearly the still, small voice of calm.
Back at the Holy Sepulchre, returning to the Edicule after 40 minutes of looking around in splendid isolation, it was a surprise to find a traditional tour group, 25 strong, complete with guide and selfie sticks. They’d come all the way from Indonesia. Didn’t they know there was a war on? “They decided it wasn’t dangerous,” said their guide, adding, with hope in his voice, “I think by March things should start to get back to normal.”
Will Edwards is a journalist for Agence France-Presse
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