I first visited the divided city of Jerusalem when I was 16 years old in January 1966. I traveled from South Africa with my maternal uncle and aunt and their two children. It was unheard of for a boy my age to travel overseas in those days. I nagged the daylights out of my parents to let me accompany Uncle Jack and Aunt Cynthia. I was obsessed with the idea of visiting Israel. For years I had been listening to Kol Zion’s nightly shortwave broadcasts in English from Jerusalem

After spending the first week of our stay in Tel Aviv, we were booked into the President Hotel in Ahad Ha’am Street in Talbiyeh. The ruins of this hotel are still standing and whenever I drive by, I can see the windows of the single room that I occupied on one of the upper floors. Jerusalem then was quite a frightening place to be. There were regular sniper attacks from the Jordanian side. From my window I could see the Jordanian soldiers with their red keffiyehs standing guard behind the sandbags on top of Dormition Abbey overlooking no-man’s land.     The week we were there, an American woman tourist was shot dead in such an attack. It was winter and the days were short. The city was a far cry from what it is today. I remember it as being somewhat shabby and derelict in parts. We were on a guided bus tour and the emphasis was on visiting western Jerusalem. I remember being impressed with the Knesset, Israel Museum and the Chagall windows at Hadassah Hospital. The older neighborhoods were close to the border and decidedly unsafe and depressing. The tour took us to Kibbutz Ramat Rachel where we climbed up a water tower to catch a glimpse of Rachel’s Tomb. Today the water tower lookout is still there, a location which my wife and I frequently visit because of the sports club and gym that we belong to. Back then, I have to admit that we were quite relieved to get back to Tel Aviv and the “safety” of the Samuel Hotel and the beachfront.

Three years later, I returned to Jerusalem as a fully fledged Zionist and youth leader with the Bnei Akiva youth movement. I was one of two Bnei Akiva madrichim (youth leaders) sent on a six week leadership course. Jeff Broide and I were housed in the dormitory building of the Machon LeMadrichei Chutz LaAretz in Katamon. We arrived at night in December 1968, scarcely 18 months after the victory of the Six Day War. Jerusalem had undergone a total transformation. It was no longer divided, and the holy sites of the Old City were open and quite safe to visit. One of our close friends and fellow Bnei Akivnik, Ilanah Himelstein welcomed us. She was completing her year of studies at the Machon. After depositing our luggage in the Machon office, she and some friends offered to take us to the Kotel (Western Wall). It was close to midnight and despite the fact that we’d just flown on an eight hour flight from Johannesburg we were totally charged with energy and enthusiasm. We walked along a deserted and scarcely built up Emek Refaim Street. Crossing from the old no-man’s land, we walked up the rudimentary pathways that led to Jaffa Gate. The only way I can describe the feelings of those moments is by quoting a rather altered version of Psalm 126:

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