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Dr Masimba Mavaza

Many Christians have a dream to set their foot where Jesus Christ set His. It was a dream come true when Thomas Magura was awarded a trip to Jerusalem in Israel. It was a trip of a life time.

We arrived in Israel on a Wednesday, our tour guide, an Israeli, came to give us our first prep talk.

“On your first trip to Israel, you should visit Jerusalem, soak up some of Israel’s beautiful nature, explore Tel Aviv, and hop over to Petra.” he said.

I’ve long been interested in Israel. This was mostly fueled by my love for Christ. This was a very true dream which came true.

But I just arrived here to participate in a programme combining high school courses, with educational trips around the country.

After several hours of preparation, we finally went on our first trip to the City of David. I was excited to see “Israel in action.”

Specifically, I was ready to connect to the country. In fact, I was yearning to.

It was when I entered Hezekiah’s Tunnel, the water tunnels beneath the city, that I first felt the impact I was seeking. As we entered the tunnels, modernity slipped away.

We were wading through ankle-deep water, in a narrow cave where I could barely stand, in complete darkness besides our flashlights. The ceiling dripped on to our heads, and the water below was icy cold on my exposed toes.

Soon, however, we were deep in, with no choice but to push through. That’s when the singing began.

Chills crept up my spine as our voices echoed through the tunnel, carrying the melody of “it is well” up and down through the dimly split darkness.

I decided to turn off my flashlight. In the darkness, I thought of my ancestry as a hard Mashona type. I thought of the heroes of the bible who walked through this tunnel thousands of years ago, through the darkness, braving the unknown of the rushing water and narrow winding tunnel simply to survive.

These were people committed to their God and kingdom, people who had sinned and repented, but had ultimately come back to their nation. Jerusalem was conquered, their Temple had been destroyed. I remembered the story of the destruction of the temple.

After drying off and reorienting at the end of the tunnel, we began the long walk back up to the top of Jerusalem. It was fascinating to walk the long, cobbled path, up through the glowing sunset; each corner turned was unique.

Eventually, we reached a terrace with a stunning view. Shaded by palm trees, it seemed to be the optimal place to look over one of the valleys of Jerusalem.

The terrace overlooked a large Muslim neighborhood, sprinkled with murals and graffiti, displaying the vibrant diversity of the city.

As the final sliver of sun set, I absorbed the glow of the gilded light over the whitewashed stone houses.  I wondered seriously how the Jews left this land in ruins only to come back after the Second World War. I do not understand the pain my ancestors felt to leave this golden city.

We continued to hike up the long winding road towards the Kotel. The first thing that struck me was how small the Kotel was. It has such an intense presence within Judaism, and the photos you see and the masses of people make it look as if it’s a mile long.

But I could have walked the length of the men’s section in under a minute.

I stood, staring up at the wall, when my eyes fastened on one specific man. There was nothing inherently special about him, besides the fact he was wearing a watermelon green sweater, but there was something about him standing there, swaying, eyes pressed shut, and edged with tears.

He gripped the edge of his bookstand, knuckles white, feet firmly planted, a tiny dot of green among the sea of black hats and suits.

What struck me was not the singularity of his green sweater, but that in the end, he was no different from any of the other Jews around me, silently in front of the wall built by the ancestors of the Jews.

Suddenly, I realized that I felt sad — because this is all that we, as Christians have left: a tiny portion of the outer wall of the Temple. The larger part of the temple belongs to the Muslim.

And yet I also felt joy, because this pile of old stones meant the world to every person there, including myself, and because it represented the unbreakable bond between Christians and thousands of years of religion and tradition.

Overall, that day far exceeded my expectations. I connected to my faith in a way unlike ever before.

Our tour guide gave us a bonus. He said he will take us to his village for free just to have an icing on the top of our visit. His village was just five kilometres from the border with Gaza Strip. I was overjoyed.

We left Jerusalem Friday morning on our way towards Gaza Strip. We were put in one lodge since it was getting to Sabbath hours we had to sleep early. Many Israelis would have been asleep when it began.

Saturday was the Jewish Sabbath and also our Sabbath a holy festival day, meaning families were planning to spend time at home together or in synagogue, and friends were meeting up. We had to spend the night in the lodge only to travel the following day.

I jumped into my bed early because I was tired. The trip in Jerusalem made me tired.

At first I though I was dreaming. I heard a big bang on the door. When I woke up fully I realised I was not dreaming. I realised there were people speaking in a language I did not understand. I realised that we were being asked to sit by the reception. I did not understand the language.

But out of the dawn sky, and the darkness of the village outskirts a hail of rockets signalled the start of an attack that was unprecedented in its scale and co-ordination.

We have always been taught that Israel has fortified the barrier between itself and the small Palestinian enclave of Gaza.

So we never thought that any danger could have come from the enclave. Within hours, its impenetrability was exposed as flawed. We were now facing the most dangerous angry militia from Gaza.

At that time, the rockets began to fly. The Islamist militant organisation – which controls Gaza were around.

I did not understand what they were saying but they screamed and ululating. They ordered us to sit on the floor. I was in my pyjamas as I had retired to bed. The shouting and screaming of the militias was often interrupted by very loud bangs, we learnt later that they were rockets.

After some few moments, they realised that we were all blacks and not Jews. So they switched into English. They wanted to know what we were doing in Israel. It was the most scaring moment of my life.

One of the militias said in a broken English: “You are coming Africa?” I just found myself saying yes. So the other heavily bearded man who controlled authority like a commander.

He said: “Which Africa are you from?  I said: “I am from Zimbabwe”. I realised that I was becoming a defacto spokesperson of the group we were travelling with.

The conversation was occasionally interrupted by the blasting sound of rockets.

Then after the commander seemed to have received a phone call he told our tour guide to drive us back to Jerusalem. We were asked to leave everything behind and jump onto our bus.

As we jumped on the bus, one militia wrote a note and gave it to the driver. The driver was told to give that letter to anyone who will stop us along the road.

It was still dark outside but the night was lit continuously with flying rockets. Thunderous explosions kept our hearts drumming.

As we entered in the first town from the lodge we were stopped by another group of menacing and angry soldiers. We were told by the driver that they were Israeli soldiers.

We further learnt that the place we were entering was the town of Ofakim, which lies 22,5km east of Gaza.

Our minibus was directed in a camp which we later realised was a police camp. We were questioned for over an hour. Then we were told to drive without stoping to Jerusalem.

As we arived in Jerusalem, I was dead tired, but the soldiers were not done questioning us.

We were ushered into another military compound.

We taken into separate rooms where we were questioned for over three hours. We were escorted to our hotel rooms where our bags were searched.  All this time we were still in our pyjamas. The nightmare was unending.

We were told to move from the hotel to a protected area, it was more for their security than our security.

Later in the day a group of soldiers came in our room. Now we were let in one big room.

He said our story and our reason for being in Israel checks out.  We were however going to be escorted to the airport back to where we came from.

We were given strict instructions not to talk to anyone.  It started sinking in our minds that we were in a near death situation.

Within just a few hours of the rocket barrage beginning, we were told that hundreds of Israelis were dead – and it happened in a way no-one thought was possible.

We were told that help began to arrive in the stricken southern region within a few hours, but Hamas, for a time, was in effective control of pieces of territory outside of Gaza.

The speed and deadliness of the surprise attack has stunned Israel. Questions over how it was able to happen will be asked for years.

By mid-morning, Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu declared: “We are at war.” It was when the nightmare ended that we realised that we were in a near death situation.

As we sat in the plane back home, it started to dawn on us how close we were to death.

I am still in shock and can not believe that the nightmare is over. The trauma of the encounter has left me shaken.

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