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Chapter One
Losing Our Past
Jerusalem, Israel
The light blinds me after I switch it on. It's 4:00 a.m. and still dark outside. I am awake to ready for my trip to Jerusalem.
Jerusalem may seem like an odd place to begin the journey on which I am embarking. We don't associate it with environmental crisis as we do the melting ice caps, or the dwindling forests. But Jerusalem is indeed tied to the environment in two essential ways.
First, there is a religious connection. Jerusalem is the epicenter of faith for nearly half the world's population. For Christians, Jews, and Muslims, Jerusalem is the holiest place on Earth. It physically and spiritually represents the roots of their belief system. And these beliefs are all based on loving thy neighbor, on community, and on being responsible stewards of the Earth—in other words, caring. Caring for the environment is the first step.
Second, historic monuments are omnipresent in Jerusalem, and those monuments are decaying at a faster rate than at any time in history because of climate change. Indeed, you could say that we are losing not only our future to global warming but our past as well.
In the basement of the Ecce Homo Convent of the Sisters of Sion, I jump off some scaffolding and make my way around a dark archway. A few lightbulbs hang from the ceiling fifty or so feet above my head. The mucky silt on the ground exposes my footprints.
Omar, a local tour guide I've convinced with 100 shekels to take me down to this place, stops on a raft of rocks a few feet away from me where big boulders have fallen or been set aside, probably when this maze of pools was built in the second century. We're in the belly of the ancient water system that was used to supply the Temple Mount and the Old City.
Underground arches like the one I am next to rise to where they meet the road above: the Via Dolorosa, where Christ is believed to have walked strapped to a cross. The farthest arch from me is walled off. Just beyond that arch is the end of the Western Wall, a place significant in Jewish religious history as a physical reminder of the destruction of the Second Holy Temple. This point is also the westernmost side of the fortress that holds the Dome of the Rock, Islam's oldest religious monument in existence. We are within a few feet of where the three religions geographically meet.
Drips make their way to puddles and echo throughout the cavern. Omar points: "That's it, there."
Directly in front of me now is the walled archway. Omar is pointing to the top stone in its cap. The silt floor looks like quicksand, or wet cement. "Is it safe to walk across?" I want to get a closer look.
"No," Omar says, ". . . maybe."
One delicate footstep at a time, I make my way over . . .
Standing now far above that basement, I am at the uppermost corner of the Western Wall. From here I can see all the way across the grounds to the gold Dome of the Rock. This massive mosque sits mightily atop the Temple Mount. I am standing in the middle of an elementary schoolyard. Children play and taunt and scream. It must be recess.
"Hey mister," they yell. "What you do?"
What I am doing is piecing together the stones that comprise the connection to a common God. Specifically, I am looking for just one, the one where all three religions physically meet. I want to see if it too is corroding.
As the Earth's temperature rises it accelerates the effects of pollution. Warmer air concentrates harmful gases and makes them more powerful. It's similar to bleach that has not been diluted with water. The result is that historical sites and ruins begin to decay faster.
This is important because we need to preserve the past. We need to know where we've been to understand where we are going. While archaeology, relics, and ruins may not be your thing, these remnants of our past are the only remaining physical reminders of what once was—our history, our culture, and our story as a people. Here in Jerusalem, this connection to the past is more powerful than anywhere else on the planet.
From an environmental perspective, the past is the best measure of things to come. It always has been. Certain weather cycles exist as they have for centuries. Certain wind patterns occur at the same time each year. On a very basic level, the change of seasons informs us of temperature changes because we've experienced those seasons before. Think about the first time someone lived through winter. I bet the next year they buttoned up.
So a little thing like a stone crumbling in the Middle East may not seem to be much of a big deal, but the implications for the planet are widespread.
"Come look, I'll show you," says Haroot Hammad, age thirty. He grew up in this small patch of Jerusalem's Old City. Haroot runs an antique shop across from the convent of Sion and next to an Israeli guard station. In the rear of his shop he pulls back a carpet hanging on the wall. A massive stone, rough and jagged, is revealed. "This is the original wall to the Via Dolorosa," he says.
Over time, walls, facades, and even street stones erode and are rebuilt. There are lots of cover-ups in the Old City. The Old City looks like one of those ancient villages you see on television or in the movies. It is walled, and there are turrets. Little alleys are called streets, and markets and bazaars are held on many of the narrow passageways. The rest of Jerusalem has sprung up around its walls. To get into the Old City, you have to enter through one of its eight gates.
Excerpted from You Are Here: Exposing the Vital Link Between What We Do and What That Does to Our Planet by Thomas M. Kostigen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.