They should leave. This is our country.
Each year, Jerusalem becomes a stage on which competing claims to land, faith, and memory are performed with increasing intensity. On Thursday, thousands of Israeli marchers moved through the Old City chanting calls for Arab death and village burnings, while a sitting government minister raised a flag at Islam's third holiest site — a deliberate rupture of a decades-old agreement meant to hold fragile coexistence in place. The march, state-sanctioned and state-funded, was framed by its participants as restoration; to those who shuttered their shops and fled, it arrived as dispossession made loud. What unfolds next in Jerusalem will depend on whether provocation of this kind is absorbed, answered, or allowed to harden into a new and more dangerous norm.
- Thousands of marchers chanted 'death to Arabs' and 'may your villages burn' through Jerusalem's Old City in a government-backed procession that transformed commemoration into open menace.
- National security minister Ben-Gvir danced at al-Aqsa and unfurled an Israeli flag before the mosque, deliberately cracking a 59-year agreement that has kept the sacred site from becoming a flashpoint for non-Muslim prayer.
- Palestinian residents locked their shops and emptied the Muslim quarter before the march arrived; those who remained faced physical confrontations, thrown chairs, and a heavy police presence that contained but could not dissolve the tension.
- A record 400 volunteers from the Jewish-Arab solidarity group Standing Together deployed in purple vests across the Old City, placing themselves between marchers and Palestinian residents in a quiet counter-assertion of shared humanity.
- Ben-Gvir's Telegram post afterward — declaring 'we have returned governance to the Temple Mount' — signals that Thursday was not an endpoint but a marker, a deliberate escalation with more to follow.
On Thursday afternoon, thousands of Israeli marchers moved through Jerusalem's Old City, bused in from settlements and towns across the country, chanting slogans that left no room for ambiguity — calls for Arab death, for Palestinian villages to burn, for Gaza to remain a graveyard. The march was officially sanctioned and funded by the Jerusalem municipality and government ministries, framed as a commemoration of the 1967 capture of East Jerusalem. By the time it reached al-Aqsa mosque, it had become something more deliberate: a declaration of dominion, delivered with state backing.
Most Palestinians in the Muslim quarter had already locked their shops and left before the marchers arrived. Those who remained encountered physical confrontations with far-right groups; chairs were thrown, police moved in to separate the sides. Among the marchers was a nineteen-year-old from Modi'in who explained his presence plainly — Jerusalem belonged to Jews, God had given them the land, and Palestinians who remained should leave. He believed, incorrectly, that Jerusalem Day was the only day Jews could enter the Muslim quarter at all.
Finance minister Smotrich participated in the march. National security minister Ben-Gvir went further — dancing at the al-Aqsa compound, singing that the Temple Mount was in Jewish hands, then unfurling an Israeli flag in front of the mosque itself. The gesture was not incidental. Ben-Gvir has campaigned for months to dismantle the 59-year agreement barring non-Muslim prayer at the site, and his flag-raising was a signal that the rules were already changing.
Not all Jewish voices joined the march's spirit. The solidarity organization Standing Together deployed a record 400 volunteers in purple hi-vis vests throughout the Old City to shield Palestinian residents from violence. One ultra-orthodox counter-protester, who had traveled from northern Israel, described the chants as a desecration of God's name and said the only answer was its opposite — a sanctification through presence and protection.
That evening, Ben-Gvir posted on Telegram that he had 'returned governance to the Temple Mount.' The language — liberation, restoration, return — revealed how he understood the day: not as provocation but as reclamation. Whether the escalation holds or triggers a response neither side can easily contain remains the question Jerusalem now carries forward.
On Thursday afternoon, thousands of Israeli marchers moved through the streets of Jerusalem's Old City, many of them bused in from settlements and towns across the country. They chanted slogans that left no room for ambiguity: "death to the Arabs," "may your villages burn," "Gaza is a graveyard." The march, officially sanctioned and funded by the Jerusalem municipality and government ministries, was meant to commemorate the 1967 capture and annexation of East Jerusalem. By the time it reached its climax at the al-Aqsa mosque—Islam's third holiest site—it had become something more pointed: a statement of dominion, delivered with state backing.
By then, most Palestinians in the Muslim quarter had already locked their shops and left. Those who remained found themselves in physical confrontation with marchers from far-right Jewish groups. Chairs were thrown. Police arrived in force to separate the two sides. The scene was one of controlled chaos, the kind that happens when a city is divided and one side has decided to assert its claim loudly enough that the other side cannot ignore it.
Among the marchers was a nineteen-year-old named Ariel Amichai, who had traveled from Modi'in, forty-three kilometers away. When asked why he had come, he was direct: to show the world that Jerusalem belonged to Jews, that God had given them the country and the city. When pressed on what message the march sent to Palestinians living there, his answer was equally plain. They should leave, he said. This was Jewish land. Palestinians could not stay and "try to stab us or kill us." Amichai believed, incorrectly, that Jerusalem Day was the only occasion when Jews could enter the Muslim quarter through the Damascus Gate—a gate that Israeli Jews and Palestinians use every single day.
The march had been organized with considerable logistical effort. Buses brought participants from around Israel and from the occupied West Bank settlements. The finance minister, Bezalel Smotrich, participated. The national security minister, Itamar Ben-Gvir, did more than attend—he danced with supporters at the al-Aqsa compound, singing "the Temple Mount is in our hands," before unfurling an Israeli flag in front of the mosque itself. This was not incidental. Ben-Gvir has spent months campaigning to dismantle a fifty-nine-year-old agreement that has governed the site since 1967: non-Muslims are not permitted to pray there. His flag-raising was a deliberate breach of that understanding, a signal that the rules were changing.
Not everyone in the Jewish community supported what was happening. A group called Standing Together had mobilized to protect Palestinian residents from violence. On Thursday, a record four hundred of their volunteers showed up in purple hi-vis vests, stationed throughout the Old City. Suf Patishi, one of the organization's coordinators, acknowledged the danger they faced. But he framed it clearly: the risk to his volunteers was nothing compared to the risk Palestinians living in Jerusalem faced every day. Among the counter-protesters was an ultra-orthodox man named David, who had traveled from northern Israel. He spoke of being appalled by the violence carried out in the name of his faith. What was happening, he said, was a desecration of God's name. The only remedy was to do the opposite—to perform what he called a Kiddush Hashem, a sanctification of God's name.
That evening, Ben-Gvir posted on Telegram: "Fifty-nine years after the liberation of Jerusalem, I raised the Israeli flag on the Temple Mount and we can proudly say: We have returned governance to the Temple Mount." The language was telling. Liberation. Returned governance. These were the words of someone who saw the march not as a provocation but as a restoration, a reclamation of what he believed had always belonged to his people. What remained to be seen was whether this escalation—the chants, the flag, the deliberate breach of the status quo—would hold or whether it would trigger a response that neither side could easily contain.
Citas Notables
I've come to show all the world that this is our city. This is the Holy Land. God gave us this country and this city.— Ariel Amichai, 19-year-old marcher from Modi'in
I've become appalled by the violent behaviour of people in my community. This is a desecration of God's name, so the only way to remedy that is to do the opposite, a Kiddush Hashem, a sanctification of God's name.— David, ultra-orthodox counter-protester from northern Israel
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a march on one day in May matter so much? It seems like a symbolic gesture.
Because symbols are how power announces itself. When a government buses in thousands of people to chant for the removal of another group, and a national security minister raises a flag at a sacred site that's been off-limits for nearly sixty years, that's not just theater. That's a signal that the rules have changed.
But the march happens every year, doesn't it? What's different about this one?
The extremism has been escalating for years, but this year the government didn't just allow it—they funded it. They sent buses. They sent ministers. They're no longer pretending to be neutral arbiters. They're participants.
The people who showed up—do they actually believe what they're chanting, or is it mob mentality?
Probably both. A nineteen-year-old from Modi'in traveled forty-three kilometers to tell Palestinians they don't belong in their own city. He believed it. But he also believed it because thousands of others were saying it at the same time, and the government was paying for it.
What about the counter-protesters? Can they actually stop anything?
No. Four hundred volunteers in purple vests can't stop a state-sponsored march. What they can do is document it, be present for Palestinians who are terrified, and show that not everyone in the Jewish community supports this. That matters, even if it doesn't change the immediate outcome.
The flag at al-Aqsa—is that the real story here?
It's the punctuation mark. For fifty-nine years, there's been an agreement: you don't pray there, you don't claim it as yours. Ben-Gvir just tore that up. He's saying the old rules don't apply anymore. Everything that happens next flows from that moment.