The Torchbearer of Light

“There’s nothing like Easter in Jerusalem;” this is a much-heard sentence among Jerusalemite Christians. “Many people get excited about Christmas, but I care about Easter more than Christmas. I’m a Jerusalemite after all,” says Lama, a local resident, during a casual conversation with Jerusalem Story in April 2025.1 “It’s a miraculous time,” chimes in Roula, another resident.2 “Especially Sabt al-Nur: A day unmatched in virtue and significance.”

For this distinctive story of Sabt al-Nur (Saturday of Light, or Holy Saturday, which occurs the day before Easter and is the holiest day of the year for Orthodox Christians), I spoke with Rami Salfiti, a licensed tour guide and lifetime resident of the Old City of Jerusalem with a refined lens on issues related to the city in which he is rooted. Rami is not only a torchbearer of rare knowledge, but as of the past 10 years, he has become the actual torchbearer of light. He is the first person who carries the flame of the “Holy Fire,” which descends from the Tomb of Christ inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and carries it outside as thousands of people wait in breathless anticipation.

“It’s the most beautiful day of the year,” Rami agrees with his fellow Jerusalemite Christians.3 “The Holy Fire only originates in Jerusalem. Even in Greece, they wait to receive the light from this particular place,” he adds. In the Jaffa Gate area, Rami says, diplomats would be waiting in their cars, ready to carry the light of the Tomb and take it by plane to their home countries. It is only after taking the Holy Fire from Jerusalem that these countries get to celebrate Easter.

And the first person to take that very fire—the fire of Holy Saturday, which goes out to all the different corners of the country and to various parts of the world—from the heart of the Holy Sepulchre Church is none other than Rami Salfiti.

“How did that happen?” I ask.

“It’s the status quo,” Rami says.

The “Status Quo,” by definition, is a longstanding agreement for the administration and management of Jerusalem’s holy sites. The rulings of the Status Quo, regulated during the Ottoman period in the 19th century, “established a general outline for conduct”4 for Muslim, Jewish, and Christian properties. For the latter, a series of decrees were issued to regulate the administration of holy sites by the different denominations. In the context of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the three main designated custodians per the Status Quo are the Greek Orthodox Church, the Franciscan [Latin/Catholic] Order, and the Armenian Church.

“It was essentially after the Crimean War, after 1868, that the Status Quo was implemented,” Rami explains. It was in that respect that these three Christian denominations’ access and properties inside the Church were separated.

The way that the Status Quo is implemented inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre Church today, as Rami explains it, is through steadfast consistency: the rules and customs are “kept as they are,” sustained and maintained for decades on end without any changes whatsoever.

For example, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre never changes to summertime, Rami explains; “there is no daylight savings time in the Church.” Even if the state [whichever it is] and its people change their watches, the church preserves the original timing, as set by the Status Quo more than 150 years ago, he maintains.

Other examples of the Status Quo are in how it must be the Greek Orthodox Patriarch who will pray inside the Tomb of Christ, invoking the descent of the Holy Fire, and once the light emerges, he will pass the flame to the Armenian Orthodox bishop accompanying him. It is then that an Armenian Kaghakatsi (member of the distinct Armenian community who has lived in Jerusalem since the fourth century,) will speedily transport the light from the first window of the Tomb towards the highest floor (of the Armenian Church) and onto the different parts of the Church. Meanwhile, from the second window of the Tomb, a member of the Slehit family will pass the Fire from the Patriarch to someone from the Samara family, simultaneously lighting up the other side of the Church. The church bells will soon ring, but that, too, Rami explains, has to first be followed by the naqus; a wooden or iron plank struck to produce a resonant sound. “If you pay close attention,” Rami notes of the Holy Saturday rituals, “you’d notice that the sound of the naqus precedes the church bells.”

“It’s all part of the Status Quo,” Rami confirms; “they must keep everything as is. This remains to be the case, until and unless a new change emerges.” Once any change happens, however little, then a new foundation is set, and kept from there on end. “It only takes one time to violate the Status Quo,” he explains with full clarity. If it gets changed once, then the new structural order replaces the old, and becomes the new norm.

It was in this respect that Rami personally set two new baselines to the Status Quo during his lifetime. The first time was 25 years ago, when he made a change pertaining to the night of Holy Friday (as explained later in the article). The second time was 10 years ago, when he became the first torchbearer of light, a role he has held since then.

In 2015, Rami managed to be the first person to take the Holy Fire outside of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on Holy Saturday. Surrounded by thousands of people awaiting to light their lanterns and candles [usually in a bundle of 33 candles, symbolizing the number of years that Christ lived on earth], Rami managed to run with the Holy Fire at hand. He ran all the way up to the roof of the Church and triumphantly managed to accomplish his mission.

At the speed of light and with full vigor, Rami achieved one of his most meaningful childhood dreams: “Throughout my childhood, I used to see people running with the Holy Fire, and I’d envy them. I would look at them and wonder, why not me? I stayed tenacious until finally I managed to make it happen. And I am grateful to have managed to sustain it since.”

As the Status Quo principle works, he has technically asserted authority by becoming the designated person for this task. “I was lucky to have broken the Status Quo.” Rami feels privileged. Every year now on Holy Saturday, Rami Salfiti’s is the face that people outside of the Church are counting down to see running speedily to bring the light out at the sounds of church bells and joyful celebratory chants.

The other “Status Quo” norm that Rami managed to reposition goes back even further to 25 years ago.

Rami Salfiti established a new norm for the Burial of Christ ceremony 25 years ago, which happens annually on Holy Friday in Jerusalem. On this evening, Christians of the Orthodox traditions commemorate the lamentations at the site believed to be Christ’s Tomb. Of special significance on this evening is that 12 renowned Jerusalemite families carry the liturgical banners. They take three rounds around the tomb, offering incense while depicting icons and banners of saints. These 12 native Arab Christian families (including Habash, al-Yousef, Katu’a, Zachariah, Katan, and Jina’an) belong to the original Eastern Orthodox tradition. They are considered the guardians of this ancestral heritage. Twenty-five years ago, Rami marked his own presence in this significant place and has preserved it ever since.

Rami’s leadership roles in these events are not haphazard. Rather, they are deeply meaningful. Clearly, these enduring rituals have personal significance for him. The memory of his late mother is deeply embedded in this path, as is that of his late grandmother. The latter used to keep the Easter flame lit in her tiny lantern throughout the entire year; she would put it out after one year, only for one day, on Holy Friday, and then light it up again with the new light of the resurrection, to be preserved for a whole new year.

Rami also brings examples that he considers significant to the historic story of the indigenous community vis-à-vis the presumed holy sites. For instance, he mentions the Ari family (originally, al-Qari’, which literally means ‘the reader’). “This is a family name that, originally, refers to the eloquent Arab reader who used to recite verses of the Bible in the Golgotha, in Arabic! This was also the only family that was allowed to sell candles in a specific corner of the Church,” Rami reveals. “Farraj was another family that was allowed to sell candles in a different corner and had access to few of the balconies within the Church.”

The enduring prominence of the indigenous Arab Christian identity, in his view, had been at the forefront, and such facts are crucial for Palestinians of today to learn and preserve. As far back as the year 1534, Rami explains, Arabic was the dominant language at the Church of Jerusalem. The historic Arab centrality began to change after the designation of a Greek patriarch in that same year, after which the Orthodox denomination became known as “the Greek Orthodox,” with the Greek language taking precedence over the Arabic.

Deeply aware of the indigenous roots of the Arab Orthodox community, Rami shares his exploration of the gradual marginalization of the local population, so to speak, within church properties. He mentions how efforts were made in the early 1920s and after to consciously sideline the Arab presence at the church synod, and later the local council—both of which were critical entities where decisions regarding Christian properties were made. The consequences of this marginalization have become apparent as of late with the infamous loss of some Greek Orthodox properties in Jerusalem.