BBC Radio 4 Interview

From the BBC:

This week's Sunday explores the latest on the conflict in the Middle East, and its repercussions in the UK for Jewish and Muslim communities. The archbishops of Canterbury and Jerusalem unite in a call for peace. As the Metropolitan Police reports a spike in anti-semitic hate incidents, a Jewish woman from London tells the programme how her Muslim friends escorted her to synagogue in an act of solidarity. And we examine the significance of the site of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem with Ken Chitwood, a site layered in history and meaning for Muslims and Jews alike.

Why al-Aqsa mosque is so often the site of conflict

The violence that spread from Jerusalem to cities across Israel and the Palestinian territories, leaving at least 60 dead so far, has both historical and contemporary roots.

In recent weeks, tension has flared over the eviction of Palestinian families in Sheikh Jarrah, East Jerusalem, Israeli authorities blocking access to the important Damascus Gate plaza during Ramadan, and a march of thousands of Israeli ultra-nationalists through the city on May 6, 2021, in celebration of “Jerusalem Day,” which marks the capture of East Jerusalem in 1967. 

But the one incident that led to a significant escalation involved Israeli security forces firing rubber-coated bullets, tear gas and stun grenades at worshipers gathered at al-Aqsa mosque on May 7.

When I teach introduction to Islam, I include a discussion about al-Aqsa as part of the syllabus. That’s because Al-Aqsa has deep religious significance for Muslims around the world. But, it is also important to highlight its remarkable political relevance for Palestinians. These two facts often make it a focal point for conflict.

The night journey of Muhammad

The Masjid al-Aqsa, or simply al-Aqsa, means “the farthest mosque” or “the farthest sanctuary,” and refers to the lead-domed mosque within the sacred precinct of Haram al-Sharif – “the Noble Enclosure.” The precinct includes the Dome of the Rock, the four minarets, the compound’s historic gates and the mosque itself.

Mentioned in Sura 17, verse 1 of the Quran, the mosque is linked to the story of Muhammad’s Isra – the “night journey” from Mecca to Jerusalem – that in part confirms him as the last and most authoritative of the prophets for Muslims. The Quran says the prophet was “carried…by night from the Sacred Mosque [in Mecca] to the Farthest Mosque [al-Aqsa], whose precincts we have blessed.” 

From there, it is believed that Muhammad ascended to heaven – called the Mir'aj. The Dome of the Rock – Qubbat as-Sakhra – is said to shelter the rock from where Muhammad physically ascended.

The mosque’s origins stretch back to the seventh century. It was first built in 637 C.E., just five years after the prophet’s death. It has been destroyed, rebuilt and renovated multiple times.

The current building largely dates to the 11th century and hosts daily prayers and Friday gatherings that draw large crowds. It lies adjacent to important Jewish and Christian religious locales, particularly the site of the First and Second Jewish Temples. 

At times, the Dome of the Rock – a shrine – and al-Aqsa – a mosque – have been confused as one and the same. While part of the same “Noble Sanctuary,” they are two distinct buildings with different histories and purposes. 

However, the term al-Aqsa is sometimes used to indicate the entire “Noble Sanctuary” complex. Originally, it is believed that the term “the farthest sanctuary” referred to Jerusalem as a whole. 

The Dome of the Rock, which shelters the rock from which Muhammad is believed to have ascended to heaven (PHOTO: Ken Chitwood)

Place in Islamic history

After Mecca and Medina, the vast majority of Muslims worldwide consider Jerusalem the third holiest place on Earth. 

Referenced frequently in Islamic tradition and hadith – records of something the Prophet Muhammad said, did or tacitly approved of – it is believed that while in Mecca, Muhammad originally oriented his community’s prayers toward al-Aqsa.

In 622 C.E., the community fled Mecca because of persecution, seeking refuge in Medina to the north. After a little over a year there, Muslims believe God instructed Muhammad to face back toward Mecca for prayers. In Surah 2, verses 149-150, the Quran says, “turn thy face toward the Sacred Mosque [the Kaaba in Mecca]…wheresoever you may be, turn your faces toward it.”

Nonetheless, Jerusalem and its sacred locales – specifically al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock – have remained sites of Islamic pilgrimage for 15 centuries.

The ‘most sensitive site’ in conflict

Given its sacred significance, there was great concern about the precinct’s fate after Israel’s victory in the 1967 Arab-Israeli War and its subsequent annexation of East Jerusalem.

Although Israel granted jurisdiction of the mosque and complex to an Islamic waqf – “endowment” – Israel still commands access to the grounds and security forces regularly perform patrols and conduct searches within the precinct. Under the Preservation of the Holy Places Law, the Israeli government has also allowed entry to different religious groups – such as Christian pilgrims. 

Many Israelis respect the sanctity of the place as the holiest site in Judaism. In 2005, the chief rabbinate of Israel said it is forbidden for Jews to walk on the site to avoid accidentally entering the Holy of Holies - the inner sanctum of the Temple, God’s place of promised presence on earth. Nonetheless, certain ultra-Orthodox Jewish groups controversially advocate for greater access and control of the site, seeking to reclaim the historic Temple Mount in order to rebuild the Temple.

Described as “the most sensitive site in the Israel-Palestinian conflict,” it has frequently been host to political acts. 

Riot gear on hand near an entrance to the “Noble Sanctuary,” Jerusalem. (PHOTO: Ken Chitwood)

For example, in August 1969, an Australian Christian named Dennis Michael Rohan attempted to burn down al-Aqsa, destroying the historically significant and intricately carved minbar – or “pulpit” – of Saladin, a treasured piece of Islamic art.

On Sept. 28, 2000, Israeli opposition leader Ariel Sharon and a delegation guarded by hundreds of Israeli riot police entered the precinct. This sparked protests and a violent crackdown by Israeli authorities, with multiple casualties. Many Muslims worldwide considered this a “desecration” of the sacred mosque, and the event helped ignite the Second Intifada, or Palestinian uprising. 

Tensions peaked again after an attack on Yehuda Glick, a controversial right-wing rabbi, in autumn 2014. In response, Israeli authorities closed down access to al-Aqsa for the first time since 1967. In March and April of that year, Israeli police used tear gas and stun grenades on Palestinians inside Al-Aqsa, prompting international outcry. 

Numerous other incidents between Israeli forces and worshipers have occurred at al-Aqsa in recent years. 

Controlled access to the site reminds Palestinians of their relative powerlessness in their ongoing land disputes with Israeli authorities. At the same time, attacks at al-Aqsa resonate with Muslims across the world who react with horror to what they see as the desecration of one of their most sacred sites. 

Defending al-Aqsa and fighting for rights to access it, I argue, have become proxy conflicts for both Palestinian claims and the need to defend Islam as a whole.

Inscribing pilgrimage on my body - a pilgrim's tale of religious body art

Apparently, getting tattoed on your chest is one of the more painful spots one can get a tattoo. When I buzzed the “call up” button with the name “Razzouk” sketched in Sharpie above it in one of the winding alleyways of the suq in the Old City of Jerusalem I didn’t know that little tidbit. What I did know was that I was about to be in contact with a seven-century old tattooing tradition. 

Indeed, for nearly 700 years tattooing has been the profession and the prestige of the Razzouk family. I finally found the parlor by asking a jeweler near the Jaffa Gate, “I’m looking for a tattoo artist, do you know…?” Before I could finish my sentence, the jeweler said, “You mean the Razzouks?” Their name and notoriety preceded my rendezvous with history. 

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The Razzouk home is located on one of the crowded, bustling, streets of the Old City in Jerusalem. PHOTO: Ken Chitwood

After a circuitous and, at times, comical scavenger hunt for the Razzouk family home running up and down the winding streets of Jerusalem’s Old City I finally shook hands with the capable and charismatic Wassim Razzouk in the baby-blue ceilinged and confined space of his family’s home, which doubles as a pilgrimage tattoo parlor. In contrast to the bustling passageways of the Old City, the Razzouk home is tranquil and quiet, with only the whir of the electric needle and my bated breath to interrupt the calm.

Yes, I held my breath throughout the process. Not only did I not want to rattle the rock-solid hand of Razzouk as he etched a sacred design over my heart, but I felt the weight of history upon my chest as well. After all, in this moment I was inscribing a mix of faith, physical journeys and spiritual intimations onto my body with ink, flesh, and blood. I was not alone. Not only because my wife was there or Wassim and I would talk motorcycles and traditions during the process, but because thousands of pilgrims stood before me and the traditions of myriad religious personages wove their way into my tattoo as well. 

A Coptic Christian family, the Razzouks originated in Egypt. However, in the 18th-century an ancestor came on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. As Anton Razzouk, the family’s elder statesman, recalls, “the business can be traced back to a Coptic ancestor who traveled by camel and donkey from Egypt to Jerusalem for a pilgrimage about 300 years ago and decided to remain.”

His name was Jersuis and he was a Coptic priest. He brought the tattooing art he had learned from his forefathers to Palestine and later to Jerusalem around 1750. 

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Wassim Razzouk carries on a tradition that is centuries old. Here, his father's tools and work desk are featured with respect in a corner of the current parlor. PHOTO: Ken Chitwood

In the Coptic tradition (and also among other Eastern Christian communities — Ethiopian, Armenian, Syrian, Maronite, Kildanian, etc.) tattooing serves as a marker of Christian identity. Historically, small crosses tattooed on the inside of the right wrist were given to Coptic Christians (some as early as 40 days old) and granted religious peregrines access to sacred sites across Christendom.

Designs of pilgrimage tattoos have ranged from that of the Annunciation (for virgins, apparently) to the classic Coptic cross and images of Christ in his passion. In the past, the Razzouks and other artists used olive and cedar wood blocks to stencil the designs on before commencing the tattoos. The blocks were important in allowing for rapid work during busy seasons (e.g. Easter). The Razzouk family has had as many as 200 different tattoo designs over the years. Several of these wooden stamps remain in the Razzouk family and are said to have been used to tattoo the likes of Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie, King George V and King Edward VII of England. Their designs are various and many contain dates to mark the year of pilgrimage. The oldest design block bears the date “1749;” the tattoo I received can be dated back to the 17th-century.

Pilgrimage tattoos also include designs that signify where the pilgrim had journeyed to, which sacred sites she had visited. This was not only inscribing one’s spiritual journey in ink and blood, but one’s physical pathway through the Holy Land. Simultaneously, tattoos among Christians in the Middle East could be maps, keys, and testimonies.

As time wore on European devotees who made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land would get Christian symbols or scenes inked onto their bodies to remember and commemorate the experience. In 1680, Lutheran theologian Johannes Lundius spoke of Christians who made pilgrimages to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and made marks on their bodies “because of the special sacred awe associated with the place and because of the desire to prove that they had been there.” 

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The author's tattoo design representing his journey to Jerusalem (the Jerusalem Cross in the center), Bethlehem (the star), and Nazareth (where the "Three Kings" visited Jesus and his family). 

Many tattooed pilgrims over the last 300 years undoubtedly came to the Razzouk family in the Old City of Jerusalem, but there were other tattoo artists who would perform the service on the cobblestoned streets or in passageways between churches and shrines. 

Now, the Razzouks stand alone as the sole tattoo artists in the Old City; but they are not alone in the tradition of religious tattooing, which is still prevalent the world over. Across the globe, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, New Agers, Pagans, Druids, Jews and other religious adherents get tattoos to represent their religion.

From Judeo-Christian symbols to Pentagrams to Buddhist mandalas, many religious adherents choose to proclaim some aspect of their faith or practice through body art. Though the symbols may fade with time, or cause a commotion today, they are ultimately simple and yet strong expressions of personal devotion. In a recent article by Miliann Kang and Katherine Jones in the e-zine New Tattoo Sub-Culture they share:

“The tattoo speaks to the ongoing, complex need for humans to express themselves through the appearance of their bodies. The tattooed body serves as a canvas to record the struggles between conformity and resistance, power and victimization, individualism and group membership. These struggles motivate both radical and mundane forms of tattooing. The popularity of tattoos attests to their power as vehicles for self-expression, commemoration, community building, and social commentary. At the same time, the tattoo’s messages are limited by misinterpretation and the stigma that still attaches to tattooed people.”

Without entering into a full-fledged discussion of religious aesthetics and meaningful religious iconography, religious tattoos serve as powerful vehicles for self-expression and whether they are beautiful or boring, contentious or cool, they act as an interpretive tool for people to understand religion, their own or others'. All religious art serves a dual purpose as a hermeneutic of a theological truth (for the artist, or the inked) and as a window through which outside observers interpret a religion and its adherents. In the end, religious tattoos, just like a Christian fresco or an artistically scribed Qu’ran, serve as interpretive vehicles through which humans give voice to their religious devotion and allow others to apprehend religious truth through art.

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Just a few years ago it seemed that the family line of Razzouk tattoo artists would finally come to an end. The tradition had been passed from father to son for ages, but when Anton Razzouk came to retirement his son Wassim was not initially interested. 

“I was young and more into motorcycles than family,” Wassim told me, “then I realized what I was giving up and that I did not want the centuries old story to end with me.” He then expressed interest to his father that he wanted to apprentice under him. From the moment he took over a tattoo midway through because his father's eyes were tired, Wassim has never looked back. 

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Wassim Razzouk in his tattoo parlor and family home. PHOTO: Ken Chitwood

Now, using a few rooms of the original family house where his ancestors tattooed the faithful of the world, Wassim feels compelled to pass on the tradition. While he is a man of many ventures (even a possible motorcycle shop lies in his future) he knows his son will take up the sacred work of pilgrimage body art. When I ask if his son will learn, Wassim said, “of course.” While the lines of pilgrims wanting tattoos has died down and the path of the future is as uncertain as the unassuming location of this tiny parlor in Old Jerusalem the tradition will live on, carved into the unwritten laws of the Razzouk family and its forebears. 

As he wraps up his work on my chest, Wassim comments to me, “you have the skin for tattoos.” This is good news, I plan on getting more in addition to the two I have already, both of places (Israel and Palestine, California, respectively) and symbols of the land, its meaning in my life, and my journey in, and through, them. 

I look at the finished project and for a moment the room is still and silent. It is a solemn second in time.  As I sit looking in the mirror I soundlessly reflect on the fact that I have now imbedded this journey — both of faith and of pilgrimage — onto my body and joined thousands of pilgrims past, present, and future. 

This is not just a tattoo, I think, but a history, a community, a place, and a people. This is more than ink, it is part of how I make my way through this world in thought and deed, with ritual, and embodied movement. The good news is that I am meant for this journey and I am not alone. 

*Special thanks to Wassim Razzouk for the tattoo, to my in-laws Paul and Linda, and to my wife who accompanied me on the journey to find the Razzouk home in the Old City.