Concealed within the ancient walls of Jerusalem's Old City, near Herod's Gate, is a piece of India that time has not forgotten. The Indian Hospice — or Zawiya al-Hindiya, as it is known by the community — is more than a relic of cross-continent Sufi history or a diplomatic token of Indo-Arab relations. It is, to me, home — spiritual, political, and deeply personal heritage.

Imagine the sounds of the rustling of dry leaves being swept by my mother in the courtyard, and the smell of fresh well water nourishing the old citrus trees. I remember preparing and putting together the rooms for pilgrims and diplomats, blessing the space, ironing bedsheets just, and escorting Indian visitors, who usually came exhausted — to a place that greeted them with the harmony of home. Many cried upon entering, not only by the sanctity of the land, but by the unexpected comfort of finding an Indian haven in the middle of Jerusalem.

This space, worked by one family, the Ansari family, for a hundred years, is equal to its stones and olive trees. It is a living witness to a shared heritage; it's a cultural bridge and a site of spiritual peace in a city of contested identities.

Indian Sufi saint Baba Fariduddin Ganj Shakar, a seventh-generation descendant of the second Caliph of Islam, founded the Hospice. As he travelled through the holy lands in his pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, he reached Jerusalem, and the local population, moved by his piety, contributed to his cause a room and a mosque. Indian pilgrims who were rushing to follow him left no stone unturned in visiting this humble zawiya, which, over time, developed into a seven-dunum complex. New wings, gates, and halls became possible with gifts over time from Indian royalty and rulers — some of which included the Nizam of Hyderabad and the Nawab of Rampur.

Its function changed over time: during World War II, it was a space for Indian soldiers in the Middle East for the British. After Independence, the Government of India regularised relations with the Hospice, and it became the centre of India's diplomatic and cultural activity in the region.

My great-grandfather, Sheikh Nazir Hassan Ansari, was appointed in 1924 by the Islamic Supreme Council and was also advocated by Indian Khilafat Movement leaders to be the Trustee and Director of the Indian Hospice. He laid much of the foundation that exists now and ensured that the doors of the Hospice remained open, not only to Indians but to all pilgrims of peace and spiritual sanctuary.

He was later succeeded by his son, Sheikh Mohammad Munir Ansari, my grandfather, in 1952. His era was decades of occupations and wars and shifting borders, but he managed to keep the Hospice afloat, mostly without the assistance of outsiders. It was only in 1992 that the Indian government began regular financial assistance to help support this institution and its pillars.

My grandfather passed away in May 2024. Following a hundred years of unimpaired family stewardship, tradition calls for my father, Nazeer Hussain Ansari, to carry the legacy forward. A child of the Indian Hospice, born and hoist within its walls, he holds a deep understanding of the space, not just of what is seen, but of what lies concealed. His presence commands respect, not through power, but through care. He knows of rooms submerged under decades of dust and rubble, rooms forgotten by most, but not by him.

His is a soul that rises with a broom in hand, walking through the courtyard, checking every corner with precision. Ensuring that the Hospice is always in a state of quiet readiness — preened, peaceful, and prepared to host. The Indian Hospice lives through him, and he through it; its heartbeat pulses in his routines; its memory carried in his soul. To entrust this space to anyone else would be to separate it from its lifeblood.

Living in Jerusalem is to be in a state where you're perpetually balancing identities — Arab, Indian, Muslim, diasporic — all in a place burdened by history and holiness. For me, the Hospice grounded it all. The family business was assisting in the preparation of tea for Indian pilgrims, learning to describe directions in Hindi, Arabic, and occasionally even English or Urdu. The walls did not just hold travelers, but stories — some inscribed in the pages of our old library, others in the laughter of families reunited.

“You know, Indian pilgrims with all their different religious backgrounds — Hindu, Sikh, Christian, Muslim — they all have the same reaction,” my father often tells me. “When I take them to the sanctuaries of the Old City, there’s a silence, a kind of reverence in their eyes. And when they come back to the Hospice, they always say the same thing — that this place feels like a little Indian oasis in the heart of Jerusalem.”

Time is a distorted element. You feel the presence of Sufi saints, freedom fighters, poets, and soldiers. A clay pot discovered during reconstruction stands on a shelf beside black-and-white photographs of diplomats and dignitaries. The call to prayer from a mosque is mixed with the rustling of citrus leaves.

There is truly a spirit here — a spirit of generosity, religious openness, and cultural kinship. And if that spirit is watered down by bureaucracy or shared control, we risk more than a family tradition. We risk losing India's only living piece of spiritual heritage in the Holy City.

In a city where erasure is political, memory must be resistance. The Indian Hospice is a singular symbol of non-violent co-existence, of India's historical pluralism, and of the inconspicuous labour of families like mine that have sustained such spaces across generations. As we mark 100 years of Ansari leadership, my wish is that the Indian Hospice is given the recognition, protection, and patronage it is due, not as a relic, but as a living archive of identity, culture, and resilience. It is a fragment of India in Jerusalem, and it will stay that way.

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