Jerusalem is split into four quarters, and I couldn’t say for certain which one he hailed from. A city populated with Jews, Muslims, Christians, and many others, too, each of these communities have been finding their own ways to coexist together within the city walls. The air in Jerusalem is often filled with tension, marked distinctly by a long line of history, struggles, different religions, and varying ideologies. But you wouldn’t know it if you had been there in that moment, too. I spotted him from a ways away, as he had been kicking a soccer ball atop the infamous Jerusalem limestone pavers. With no one else in sight, he played on his own, keeping busy as the summer sun beat down strongly on us both. In that moment, it was as if all of the differences that generally tear the people of Jerusalem apart didn’t exist. In that moment, it was just us, two people, from who knows where, occupying the same stretch of the road on our own respective journeys. When he reached me, he was quietly tip-toeing along the thin wall of a random concrete barrier in the city, searching for his soccer ball that he booted too far, too high, and out of sight. He was carefully looking down into the dumpster from his vantage point on The High Ground, hunting for the ball, when he should have been looking up ahead towards me, as his soccer ball was sitting still at my feet. When he finally realized, he jumped off the wall of the barrier, and onto the elevated steps beneath his feet. Then, he made another jump down, reaching the pavement on the ground, and I gently passed the ball back to him. With the biggest smile spread across his face, he kicked the ball down the road past me and continued to run along. As he flew by, he shouted, “Shukran,” which means, “Thank You,” in Arabic, and I shouted back, “Bevakasha,” which means, “You’re Welcome,” in Hebrew, and the day was suddenly complete.