In the darkness just before Jerusalem’s dawn, two pairs of feet crunch across the gravel forecourt of the church that houses Jesus’ tomb. A nightbird flying overhead would see two men walking briskly, dressed in warm clothes against the chill air. One, taller and larger, has the air of a weightlifter. He is Adeeb, of the newest generation of Joudehs. In his hand, he holds the 500-year-old key to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Wajeeh Nuseibeh, shorter, older, light-haired and tidily dressed, almost dapper, walks with him, hurrying to keep pace. They walk north across the parvis to the massive church door. Here, they will once again carry out their 850-year-old historic duty. Adeeb will hand the thin, long iron key to Nuseibeh. A hatch will open, a ladder will be pushed out. Nuseibeh will climb the ladder and turn the key in its lock, opening the door to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The key will go back to Adeeb. Without a word, the two Muslim men whose families have guarded the doors of Christianity's holiest church for centuries will return to their homes, perhaps to resume their interrupted sleep. I spent 7 days in the old walled city of Jerusalem, waiting to find a family that could recall its own history back to the days of the legendary Ottoman Emperor Saladin. I found my man on my fifth day, when I stepped into the gravelly forecourt of the shrine at the centre of Christendom: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was a medley of architectural styles imposed by different Christian monarchs. The acoustics of its dark interior magnified and distorted whispers and the shuffling of feet. At the church's door, over 800 years old and nearly 20 feet tall, stretched a long line of tourists waited to enter. As I watched, it began to move. A ferret-faced fellow was laboriously swinging it to a half-shut position, ostensibly to regulate the throng. Because of his vaguely Levantine looks, I approached to ask him if he was a Church employee. “No,” he said briefly. “I am Wajeeh Nuseibeh.” As though anticipating my next question, he added, “I am allowed. To handle this door.” “By who?” “By al-Malik al-Nasir-i-Salah al-Din al-Ayyoubi,” he said importantly. Salah al-Din. The Emperor Saladin. Over the next hour, I heard the story of Nuseibeh's unusual legacy from a Sultan.

History has teased Nuseibeh by allowing him to open and shut the doors of Christianity’s church every morning and evening, but alas, he may not keep the keys. That honor belongs to another Jerusalem family, the Joudehs. After trouncing Richard the Lionhearted in battle, Saladin was concerned that fellow Muslims might destroy the church and build a mosque in its place, but also wanted to keeping the peace between the various factions that claimed the church, including the Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox, Syrian Orthodox, Ethiopian Orthodox and Coptic Orthodox denominations. He issued a farman or royal decree entrusting the church's keys to the Joudehs, a high-ranking and widely respected Muslim family. The Joudehs cherished the farman but felt that climbing a ladder to unlock the door every morning was beneath their status. Where were the Nuseibehs at the time? “My ancestors fled Jerusalem when the Crusaders attacked in 1099." Nuseibeh replied sheepishly. "We hid in Boreen, our village in Nabulus. When we returned, the key was already with the Joudehs. The Sultan said we’d have to open and close the doors. We are proud to carry out that duty.”

In a world where religions are pitted against each other, the centuries-old peace between Muslims and Christians in Jerusalem is a beacon pointing at how things could be. Archbishop Atallah Hannah, Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, puts it succinctly: "In this Holy Land, we are one people, one family, Muslims and Christians."