Life in the Besieged City
267
with one's God. This was Terra Sancta—holy ground. God
was here in all His glory. In this sanctuary I found beauty and
calm such as I had not felt since Palm Sunday in the Armenian Church in Cairo. Whether I prayed formally or not, or
what 1 said if I did pray, I do not recall. It is likely that I said
nothing, for I was too deeply awed with His unmistakable
presence to desecrate it with my words. Nor do I recall how
long I remained thus, wondrously moved. It must have been
a long time, because the chapel grew light as the sun climbed
to its zenith, bathing the pews, altar, and the niche with the
young Jesus in dazzling radiance and splendor.
I walked out and found myself in a large garden. A Jewish
woman was drawing her bucket from the well. I was jolted out
of my peaceful trance by the thunderous sound of gunfire. I
was in the "Holy City," being torn asunder on the holy day.
In the garden I met another Terra Sancta priest. Two more
came: handsome, youthful, vigorous men. They told me that
the college had once had more than five hundred pupils, fifty
of them Jewish; that it had been one of the leading institutions in the Middle East. Father Terrence Quehn was principal. On a later visit I photographed a shattered windowframe against which an Arab bomb had crashed obliquely,
miraculously missing the interior.
BEHIND THE BARRICADES
WALKING down King George avenue I noticed that one
of the deserted buildings had been occupied during the night.
It was barricaded with sandbags. A youth in a woolen stockingcap was leaning from the roof. I shouted up at him.
"Hello! I'm a neighbor from the Pantiles. May I visit you?"
"Who are you?"
"American correspondent."
"Wait. We come down for you."