When one passes through the narrow and winding cobbled streets in the Old City of Jerusalem, many questions tend to arise about what takes place in this ancient and magical place. We often color the Holy City as one that is a religious summit that many journey from near and far to ascend and attempt to reach its spiritual heights.
Jerusalem is a city that was desired and fought for by the many empires that once felt its graces. A city that stands not only the test of time but also the test of relevance. Ten thousand years may come and go, but the desire for Jerusalem never ends. Over time, many have pondered “Is the Old City an actual city?”
Living just 15 minutes from Zion Gate, I decided to head into the Jewish Quarter for a closer look. I walked down from the bullet-riddled gate to Misgav Ladach, a street that cuts through the heart of the quarter and opens onto sweeping views of the Western Wall and the Temple Mount beyond it.
It’s not the most conspicuous of streets, but pause for a moment and you’ll notice the subtle signs of community life, from the aroma of evening meals wafting through open windows, to children’s voices echoing in the alleys during the late afternoon hours – family names on doorposts, old mailboxes, house numbers, and balconies filled with plants or laundry appear in every corner as if for the first time. You start to realize this isn’t just a historical site, it’s a real neighborhood. The residents were always there.
The Ilan family
I have the privilege of knowing such a family. The Ilans were among the first families to return to the Jewish Quarter after 1967, and it was their bell that I rang with much anticipation. Aviya, the youngest daughter, greeted me at the stone entrance with the widest of smiles.
Their home, like many in the Old City, is tucked away, flush into the tall residential walls of the city, whose stones are stacked one upon the other. But step inside the home, and you’re immediately struck by its spacious layout and high ceilings. Large windows let in vast amounts of light and offer remarkable views, with the Mount of Olives to one side and the Western Wall and the Temple Mount on the other, all situated on the backdrop of the Judean Hills. The vistas give a real sense of being in the center of something important. The house itself feels lived-in, warm, and welcoming.
Aviya’s parents, Evyatar and Nechama, greeted me with calm hospitality. There’s a quiet sense of rootedness to them, the kind that comes from living not just in a house but in a place that is a refuge from the masses and mayhem that can at times override the streets below. Aviya led me up a narrow staircase that blends into the architecture so naturally, it could be missed entirely. We stepped onto the roof just as the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the stones below.
From that angle, the Dome of the Rock catches the light in a way that draws the eye, while the sounds of the city, subtle and steady, continue below. It’s hard not to feel the layers of history around you, as you are constantly reminded with every glance. “It’s hard to take it all in, and the more striking it is, the easier it gets to forget people actually live here,” Aviya said, “but this is home, home for more than 4,000 people just like you and me.”
After taking a few minutes to regain my footing, I asked Aviya how her family came to live here, not just in Jerusalem but in the Old City itself, a part of Jerusalem few Jews lived in during much of the 20th century.
“My grandfather was born in Vienna, but his heart was always right here. He immigrated to what was then Mandatory Palestine before the outbreak of the Second World War, joining a wave of Jews who understood early on that Europe was no longer safe. But his connection to Jerusalem went back further, as his grandparents had moved to the Old City in the 19th century, part of a generation that aspired to live out their final years in the Holy City. It was a quiet kind of Zionism, rooted less in national ideology and more in a Jewish yearning for Zion,” she explained.
“Although he grew up in the northern town of Kiryat Motzkin with his parents, my grandfather was raised with a deep reverence for Jerusalem, not just as a city but as a concept and way of life. He saw it not as a place to visit but as a destiny to return to. After marrying and starting a family of his own, and studying architecture at the Technion in Haifa, he told his wife and children that if the day ever came when the Old City was open again to Jews, he would make it their home.”
“That wish became a possible reality in June 1967, when Israeli paratroopers pushed through the narrow alleys of the Old City during the Six Day War. When the dust settled, the Jewish Quarter was free; but unfortunately, it lay in ruins. The Jordanians, in retreat, had destroyed synagogues, homes, and communal buildings. The Jordanian Legion promised in a threatening manner that it would one day return.
“For many Israelis at the time, the idea of moving into the Old City seemed unthinkable. It had been a front line, an immensely strategic battleground, too politically sensitive and too exposed. Few wanted to take the initial gamble and make their lives within its walls. The government, hoping to rebuild Jewish life in the quarter, offered subsidized housing in the form of a lottery. However, participation was limited. The physical damage was one thing; the fear of instability was another.
“The intoxicating spiritual presence and epic history of the Old City ultimately attracted men and women of various bohemian inclinations. Individuals of the entire Jewish spectrum sought residence in a place where their habituation within its walls would ferment an artistic and energetic muse for passionate and creative agency. My grandfather was one of those individuals, and he, like many others, brought their family with them on this spiritual and ancestral journey.
“He saw it as a responsibility,” she said. “To rebuild what was broken. To restore the quarter to its former glory, be it in the physical, spiritual, or communal spheres.”
He moved in with his wife and four children, which included Aviya’s father, who was 20 at the time and serving as an Armored Corps officer. The home they settled in was the one I was sitting in.
“He saw it as a responsibility,” Aviya continued. “To rebuild what was broken. To restore the quarter to its former glory, be it in the physical, spiritual, or communal spheres. He moved in with his wife and four children, including my father, who was 20 at the time and serving as an Armored Corps officer. The home they settled in was the same one we are standing on now.”
A vision for the future
But it wasn’t only history that kept the Ilan family there; it was a vision for the future. Aviya’s grandfather, a practical man with a spiritual mission, used his architectural skills to help design additional housing within the quarter. Aviya produced architectural blueprints of the redesign of the Jewish Quarter to accommodate a more modern way of living, with allocation for communal, state, and healthcare infrastructure. His goal was simple: to create a prosperous quarter where his four children could continue living and thrive while doing so. The continuity was an integral part of the calling. Even his will and testament requested that his offspring remain and continue their lives within the Old City. “Zionism played an immense role in my father’s sticking to his father’s will. Living in the Jewish Quarter was living as close as possible to God’s presence in this land and on this Earth. It was Jewish pioneering at its greatest, the ultimate and everlasting driving force. My dad became the gabbai [sexton] for the oldest running synagogue in Israel, as well as the on-call Magen David Adom response person. My father truly lives and breathes the Old City,” Aviya said.
“These two pillars of life – Jewish ancestry and devotion to family legacy – led my father and aunts to move into these homes and keep their father’s will alive, living next door to one another on the same street, close in location and in heart.”
Aviya pointed to the two rooftops adjacent to the one we were on.
“My father met my mother not long after moving here. She had known of him from her youth in Haifa, and she had moved to the Old City for a year of National Service. They got married in the Old City and established their home on Misgav Ladach.
“My four older brothers and I grew up in and out of the house, door to door, roof to roof,” she said, smiling at the memory. “We explored the alleyways, the courtyards, the corners you never see on a tour. It was our playground. Our world.”
Their childhood was not defined by traditional boundaries. The rooftops became shortcuts, the stone walls became markers of territory, and the spaces between synagogues, schools, and ancient ruins were filled with laughter, games, and endless exploration. It was, in her words, “a childhood like no other.”
The cousins, children of her father’s siblings, were never far. Though each family followed different religious customs and lifestyles, there was a natural closeness among them. It was a kind of community life that felt less engineered and more organic, bonded by shared space, shared history, and a shared sense of purpose.
“We didn’t think of it as unusual at the time,” Aviya reflected. “It was just normal to us. But now I realize how rare it was. How many people grow up literally within walking distance of their entire extended family?”
But life in the Old City was not without its complexities. Living at the intersection of the three great monotheistic religions meant being constantly aware of the sensitivities that surrounded every stone, every sound, every ritual. The rhythms of daily life were often shaped by what was happening around them, be it religious holidays, security concerns, political events, or, at times, periods of unrest. There were always constant disruptions to routines, often crucial for a child’s steady and assured development.
“You learn early on that this place doesn’t belong to just one group,” Aviya said. “Everyone who comes here feels that it’s theirs. So, you learn to live with a certain kind of awareness, an understanding that your home is also a symbol for others.”
That awareness wasn’t always easy. There were days when access to parts of the city was limited, or when security tensions added a layer of anxiety. But there was also something special in the shared nature of the space, a kind of unspoken agreement that everyone, no matter how different, was somehow part of the same urban story. Aviya described how, even as a child, she sensed the uniqueness of her surroundings, not just religiously but socially. “You feel like you’re part of something much larger. Not always comfortable, not always understandable, but always meaningful.”
A different upbringing
It wasn’t until she began exploring more of Israel that Aviya fully grasped how different her upbringing had been. The quiet suburbs and the planned cities with their organized layouts and modern themes often felt detached from the organic messiness and layered reality of the Old City. They didn’t quite mirror the layered, dynamic, often chaotic, but deeply rooted life she had known. “The rest of the country has its own rhythms,” she said. “But the Old City has its own unique pulse. And once you’ve grown up with it, it’s hard to shake it.”
Even now, after moving away for studies and work, Aviya returns often to visit her parents. Every return brings with it a renewed appreciation, not just for the beauty of the place but for the commitment her family made to stay. “I understand now what my grandfather must have felt when he first returned,” she said. “That this isn’t just about where you live. It’s about why.”
As our conversation wound down, the sun began to dip behind the hills of Jerusalem, casting long shadows across the rooftops. The city grew quieter; but the weight of its presence never really fades, it only changes color.
For Aviya and families like hers, living in the Old City is not just a matter of geography; it’s a form of continuity. A conscious decision to live in proximity to memory, tradition, and responsibility. It’s not always easy, but for those who stay, it’s deeply meaningful.
“I think people assume that living here is either romantic or extreme,” she said “But it’s neither, really. It’s just life. This is our street, our home, our daily routine. We cook, we work, we send kids to school, just like anyone else. The only difference is that the backdrop is a little louder. A little older.”
She’s aware of the tensions that exist here, and she doesn’t pretend they’re simple. But she also doesn’t believe they have to define everything. For her, the Old City is not just about religion or politics. It’s about the kind of rootedness that comes from knowing where you came from and deciding to stay connected to it.
It’s easy, from the outside, to see the Old City as a symbol. To attach it to headlines, to historic narratives, to conflict. But for those who live here, who raise children here, who know the alleys not just as sacred landmarks but as everyday shortcuts, the Old City of Jerusalem is something more intimate. It is not just the capital of faith or of nations. It is simply home.
As I walked back through the same cobbled streets I came in on, I was reminded that this place, one so often spoken about in the abstract, is lived in, maintained, and inhabited by real people with names, histories, routines, and choices. The families of the Old City are not relics. They’re not props in a historical drama. They are part of a quiet, ongoing presence, the kind that doesn’t make front-page news but gives the city its real texture.
And perhaps that’s the most remarkable thing of all. Not the monuments or the ceremonies, but the ordinary lives that quietly exist inside them. The revived generations who grow up watching the sun rise over the Temple Mount, who live their entire lives just steps away from where history happened and continues to assert itself in small, daily ways – from the foot traffic of tour groups to the constant cycle of prayer and reflection that flows through the streets and continues to unfold.
Aviya’s story is just one thread in this fabric, but it says something simple and important: Jerusalem, in all its weight and wonder, is a place where people grow up, where life continues, where presence, as much as prayer, is an act of devotion.