Israel

By Sebastian LaTorre

the Holy Land

I leave Jordan before the sun comes up. The taxi moves fast out of Amman, headlights cutting through empty streets, and before I fully wake up we are already pulling into the King Hussein Bridge Crossing. There are no signs that explain what to do. No clear lines. Just people everywhere. Hundreds of Palestinians gather tightly together, waiting, watching, moving all at once when something opens. Renee and I stand off to the side, trying to understand where we belong.

A Palestinian man notices us hesitating and waves us over. He walks us toward what he says is the tourist crossing, then the VIP crossing, then somewhere in between. Another man starts talking to us about Brazil, about travel, about how chaotic this crossing always is. He tells us not to worry. He says trust the process. He says by the end of the day, we will be in Jerusalem.

When the border opens, everything moves at once. Bags go onto scanners. We are shuffled into small rooms, then back out again. Passports are checked, then checked again. Fees appear without explanation. A stamp here, a slip there. No one tells you where to go, but somehow everyone keeps moving. We follow the crowd. We follow the bus. Eventually, after hours of waiting and walking, we are sitting on a bus heading toward Jerusalem, holding blue slips instead of passport stamps.

Almost immediately, the military presence becomes impossible to miss.

Soldiers stand at checkpoints with large automatic rifles slung across their chests. They lean against walls. They talk casually with one another. The guns are everywhere — more guns than I have ever seen anywhere else in the world. Rifles feel as common as backpacks or cameras. At bus stops. Outside the Old City gates. At intersections. On quiet streets. Some soldiers look barely older than college students.

Checkpoints appear constantly. Some are formal, with barriers and guards checking IDs. Others feel temporary, unfolding and disappearing as needed. Movement slows, then continues. No one seems surprised. It feels built into the rhythm of the city.

Jerusalem rises slowly as we approach. Stone buildings climb the hills, catching the light in a way that feels ancient and alive at the same time. We check into Stay Inn Hotel and immediately head out. Every instinct pulls us toward the Old City.

Inside the walls, everything compresses. Streets narrow. Sound echoes. Cultures shift block by block. One turn feels European, quiet, orderly. The next smells like spices and coffee, birds chirping from cages hanging above shop entrances. We pass through Damascus Gate, Herod’s Gate, Zion Gate, letting ourselves get lost. The city feels like a maze designed to be wandered, not understood.

We visit the Western Wall and watch people pray with an intensity that feels deeply personal. Hands press into stone. Foreheads rest against history. Nearby, soldiers stand just outside the plaza, rifles resting against their legs. The contrast is constant — devotion and defense existing side by side.

The Dome of the Rock rises above the city, visible from rooftops and alleyways, present even when inaccessible. We move through Christian quarters, Muslim quarters, Jewish quarters, noticing how quickly the atmosphere changes without warning. On one street, families walk calmly with strollers. On the next, soldiers check bags at a checkpoint before waving people through.

One evening, as I walk with my camera near the Western Wall, a girl runs up to me. She asks if I can help. Her friend is about to get engaged. She needs someone to take photos. I say yes before she finishes the sentence.

Renee and I end up hiding on a rooftop as the sun dips behind the city. Below us, two strangers step into their moment. The proposal happens quietly. We photograph without being seen. The Western Wall glows behind them. A soldier passes below, barely glancing up. When it’s over, we meet, laugh, share the images. For a brief moment, I am part of something deeply personal, in a city where personal moments unfold under constant watch.

Another night, we climb to the top of the Austrian Hotel after sunset. From the roof, the entire Old City spreads out beneath us. Domes and minarets cut into the sky. The Western Wall shines in the distance. Somewhere below, radios crackle. Boots echo against stone. The city feels suspended between centuries, layered with history, belief, and control.

We wander markets, including Mahane Yehuda, where stalls overflow with fruit, spices, bread, voices. Even here, soldiers move through crowds with rifles slung low, blending into the flow of everyday life.

By the time we reach Tel Aviv, the shift is immediate. Fewer checkpoints. Fewer uniforms. The city feels modern and coastal. Tall buildings. Mediterranean air. We stay at a hostel, do laundry, reset. It feels like a pause before leaving.

Israel feels dense. Layered. Heavily guarded. Full of moments where beauty, history, faith, and force exist side by side without explanation. And still, Jerusalem keeps pulling us back, over and over again.