Inside Jerusalem's Old City there is a haunting absence, writes IRAM RAMZAN. While a bitter war rages less than 50 miles away, Christianity's holiest place has few visitors and just a handful of Easter pilgrims

In the Old City of Jerusalem there is a haunting absence in Christianity’s holiest place.

Shopkeepers and stallholders in the winding maze of narrow streets that make up the Via Dolorosa – the ‘Sorrowful Way’, along which Jesus is believed to have walked, bowed down by the weight of his cross – shake their heads and shrug their shoulders despairingly.

No heaving mass of tourists and just a handful of pilgrims are here this Eastertide. Business is bad.

At the most sacred of all sites, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a vast complex which houses both the site of the Crucifixion and the Tomb of the Resurrection, where the faithful have come to weep and worship over 16 centuries, there are few visitors.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem is a vast complex which houses both the site of the Crucifixion and the Tomb of the Resurrection

The Edicule in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is believed to be the Tomb of Jesus Christ

‘Last year there would have been 4,000-5,000 people here at the Church every day, it would have been so full,’ Brother Samir, a Coptic monk, tells me.

‘We feel so sad about it. We just want peace for everyone and between all countries. We will be happy again when there are more people here.’

For me, a secular Muslim visiting Jerusalem for the first time – in the solemnity of what is Holy Week for millions of Christians worldwide – is an emotional and thought-provoking experience.

Growing up, I was taught to revere Jesus or ‘Eesa’ as we know him. Koranic verses tell similar stories about him to those in the Bible – the Virgin Birth and his miracles. But Muslims believe Jesus was a prophet rather than the son of God, and that there was no crucifixion. Instead, Jesus was raised to heaven by God.

And of course Jerusalem is as important to Muslims as it is to Christians and Jews. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is but a few hundred metres from the al-Aqsa complex which contains the vast golden Dome of the Rock, the site where, in the seventh century, the Prophet Muhammad is believed to have flown to heaven on a winged horse to speak with God.

It shares that location with Temple Mount, which is sacred to Jews as the place that Abraham demonstrated his devotion to God by taking his son Isaac to be sacrificed. It is also the site of two ancient Jewish temples, with the Western (or Wailing) Wall the only remaining one.

Christian worshippers hold palm fronds during the Palm Sunday procession at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem

Roman Catholic clergymen carry palm fronds during the traditional Palm Sunday procession 

Women attend the Palm Sunday celebration at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre last Sunday 

Earlier that day, I watched as thousands of Christians walked on the Mount of Olives, waving the branches and fronds of greenery, to mark Palm Sunday, when Jesus made a triumphant entrance to Jerusalem.

It coincided with the Jewish festival of Purim which commemorates the survival of Jews in Ancient Persia and families dressed in colourful costumes made for a joyful sight. It is also Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting.

And of course simultaneously, in parallel with these celebrations and venerations by followers of the world’s great religions whose founders spoke words of peace, a bitter war is raging less than 50 miles away in the wake of the October 7 atrocity by Hamas.

It is for me personalIy a bleak confrontation with the myriad complexities of culture, custom and faith that make this tiny region one of the most fiercely contested places on the planet.

And yet in sharp contradiction here in the Old City, today at least, all outward appearances suggest that co-existence is the norm.

Thousands of Jews, Muslims and Christians live here, sharing neighbourhoods and spaces with people whose beliefs are at odds with what their scriptures tell them.

Walking the streets I observe Orthodox Jewish men, wearing kippahs and the Tzitzit fringes dangling from their shirts, Muslim women in hijabs and long robes, and nuns and monks in their own distinctive habits.

But it’s a tenuous peace: the heavily armed Israeli soldiers and numerous checkpoints are testament to that. Beneath the surface lurks a simmering hostility.

At the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I find some respite. Built in the fourth century on the instructions of St Helena, mother of Roman emperor Constantine, this complex is made up of six Christian churches – Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox, Syrian Orthodox, Ethiopian Orthodox and Coptic.

And yet the keys to the door are in the hands of Muslims, a tradition dating to the days of the 12th-century conqueror Salahuddin/Saladin, who spearheaded the Islamic army against the Crusaders.

People holding palm leaves march from Mount of Olive to Damascus Gate as part of the Palm Sunday celebrations in Jerusalem last week

Pilgrims wait outside the Edicule to visit the Tomb of Jesus Christ in September 2023

Orthodox Christians gather with lit candles around the Edicule during the Holy Fire ceremony in April 2022

He wanted to ensure the Church was not harmed. Since then, the Al Husseini and Nuseibeh families have been entrusted with the keys of the church.

Inside, I pause at the Stone of Unction where Jesus’s body was prepared for burial in line with Jewish laws. According to the Gospel of St John, he was wrapped in linen strips and anointed with myrrh and aloes.

A woman in her 40s is daubing the red-hued stone with oil, before removing it with a cloth. She kneels beside it in quiet contemplation.

Behind the slab is a striking mosaic. In vivid colours, the triptych depicts the taking down of Jesus’ body from the Cross, the anointing and burial.

A steep, curving stairway leads up what is held to be to the location of Cavalry or Golgotha – ‘the place of the skull’ – and the hill where Jesus was crucified alongside two thieves.

Pilgrims take turns to crouch underneath the altar at the site of the rock where the Cross was erected and put their hand inside a hole to touch it.

With no crowd this Easter, worshippers have ample time to pray and meditate. Some are prostrate on the floor; a few are weeping silently.

I feel a strange envy – prayer has never really given me much comfort.

Jitty Thomas, originally from Kerala in India, now lives in Jerusalem and is here to pray on behalf of her family.

‘I just don’t know how to express what I’m feeling being here,’ the 33-year-old care-giver tells me with a smile. ‘I’ve prayed for all my family. I called them earlier and showed them where I was. They were so happy even though they can’t come here themselves.’

The Stone of Unction where Jesus’s body was prepared for burial in line with Jewish laws (Stock Image)

Religious worshippers rubbing oil on the Stone of Unction where it is believed Jesus was prepared for burial (Stock Image)

Valentina Tomayo has come from Colombia with her parents Javier Urrego and mother Claudia Perdomo – they are among the very few to have travelled from abroad to Jerusalem this Easter.

‘It’s amazing, just an indescribable feeling, being in the place where God was crucified,’ she says.

Back on the ground floor, in the centre of the rotunda is a chapel called the Edicule where Jesus’s tomb was said to be located. It has two rooms, the first holding the Angel’s Stone, which is believed to be a fragment of the large stone that sealed the tomb. The second is the tomb itself. In normal times, visitors can expect to queue for up to two hours to get in. There is no queue today.

Kobi, a secular Jew, has come from Haifa. Like me, he appreciates the history, archaeology and architecture.

‘My girlfriend is Christian. She’s spent a lot of time where they say Jesus’s body was washed [after the Crucifixion],’ he says. ‘For her, that’s very special. I’m not religious so this doesn’t mean anything to me.’

While hoteliers and shop keepers lament the lack of tourists this year, some local residents say there is a bonus.

‘In a sense it’s nice to have fewer people,’ says Pierre, 41, originally from France. ‘I came last year to see the celebrations. You could barely walk around because it was so packed.’

But for others, the absence is a heavy burden.

‘We feel so alone here without the usual visitors,’ says Brother James Yakobus, a Franciscan monk from Germany. ‘I can understand why people are scared, but here in Israel it is safe. I hope next Easter will be better.’

To which I can only say: Insha’Allah. God willing.