A short anecdote and a short observation:
Anyone who has ever visited Jerusalem’s City Hall knows that they are serious about their hours. The Arnona Department, specifically, is inundated by swarms of residents eager to file for property tax discounts. Similar to many of Israel’s bureaucratic offices, it is a place no one really wants to be. And, truthfully, it doesn’t seem that they are too eager to keep anyone there. The one o’clock closing time is strictly enforced and as closing time approaches the gate abruptly closes, locking out a crowd of unhappy Jerusalemites.
Last week I was one of those unhappy Jerusalemites—on the other side of that closed gate: I wasn’t locked out; I was stuck in. The hour was after one and I was sitting on a chair waiting for my roommate to return with a document that needed to be urgently signed. The kind secretary assured me that if I remained she would allow my roommate to reenter with the necessary paperwork.
So I sat there and waited. For an hour. Alone. With nothing to do.
I glanced over at the secretary and I noticed that she was engrossed in conversation with a man who, too, remained in the room past the one o’clock closing time. I wondered what they were discussing. And then I overheard (they were speaking in audible tones): they were discussing faith. She was not religious and he was religious. Their conversation was beautiful: he was gentle and unimposing in his argument and she displayed a genuine interest. They discussed God and belief and the responsibility that duality places upon man. She questioned and doubted and wondered; and together they thought and considered and answered.
And then I realized: in that same hour that I sat there and waited—Alone. With nothing to do—those two people stood there. Together. Engaged in meaningful conversation. Her formal work hours had ended and yet she remained, curious to hear what this man had to offer. And this man, his needs fulfilled, remained, eager to speak with a stranger.
The juxtaposition of our two experiences—disparate yet connected—emphasized the power of time and the potency of human relationships. The sentiments of frustration and impatience that result from the bureaucratic system are seemingly a common experience; and yet this moment revealed its latent subjectivity. The nature of the experience is determined by the individual and his or her attitude. While time is a fleeting factor, it can be appreciated through the determined efforts of the individual to recognize and realize his or her surrounding elements.
Soon after my friend returned with the document. All that remained was for the secretary to sign the paper and enter the data into her computer. Concerned that I would interrupt her conversation, I hesitatingly handed her the paper. She took it from my hand and yet, preoccupied, continued her conversation with the man. I stood aside and smiled.
I waited patiently and watched with amusement as the guaranteed durability and strength of the bureaucratic model disintegrated. Its supposed speed and efficiency was supplanted by the instability and precariousness of human life. The reality in which genuine personalities interact exposed the human side of bureaucracy. My past experiences with Israel’s bureaucratic offices, while sociologically interesting, provided little means of personal interaction. They were either ‘do you have that document?’ or ‘please go pay this fee’ or ‘I’m sorry, you’ll need to first get a signature from that office. And, by the way, they are only open on Wednesdays’. And then a polite smile.
This time, though, there was none of that. This time, there was silence from her side, as well as mine. I was unconcerned with the delay and I didn’t mind her disregard for my needs nor her negligence of her duties. It was a simple encounter in which the efforts and concern of one stranger and one government worker exposed that which hides behind the rigidity and stiffness of bureaucracy: real people. The system often stifles the individual, prides itself on impersonability, and yet this experience allowed me to glimpse within her soul, to her concerns and worries and hopes.
While I expected myself to be frustrated and impatient, I found myself enjoying the situation. I enjoyed interacting with a real person, one whom I could appreciate and understand; I enjoyed witnessing a genuine conversation; and I enjoyed watching as she rebelled, albeit unknowingly, against the system.
And mostly, I enjoyed that it was all for the sake of Judaism. How holy.
Last month I spent a day in the hometown of today’s murderer.
I was in East Jerusalem on an organized trip in which Jewish men and women explore and experience the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through interaction and dialogue with those of the latter group.
On the most basic level I can say that the trip was intense and meaningful; and yet I have been unsure as to what I want to say about it. I have been contemplating and procrastinating and waiting. Time passes and truths change and old experiences must be adapted to new realities.
And, thus, the reality of today’s horrific terrorist attack certainly demands careful reconsideration.
East Jerusalem was foreign to me. It was a Jerusalem I didn’t know existed and it was a Jerusalem that belied the “Unified Jerusalem” signs that hung amongst the streets of my Jerusalem. It was a Jerusalem that revealed contradiction and complicated the simplicity of what I always believed.
We toured the area with Ashraf Khatib, a field officer for the Negotiations Support Unit, and I walked along the “security fence” and I touched it and felt the paradox of physical manifestations as means of solving deep social conflict. We listened to an impressive presentation delivered by Walid Salem, of the Center for Democracy and Community Development and we sat in intimate conversation with Palestinian East Jerusalem residents.
The visual representation of the nature of the conflict was awfully powerful. Much of the value of the situation lay in the essence of the encounter. The ability and willingness to listen to the other provides great meaning.
There were moments, however, when speaking with Ashraf and Walim, that I realized the complexity of the situation: we are dealing with professionals who, despite genuine motives, eventually resort to formal rhetoric. When a Jewish participant inquired about the possibility of improvement of interpersonal relationships between the Palestinians and the Israelis, Ashraf, almost mechanically, responded that the solution to this issue is for the Israeli government to comply with the demands of the British Mandate.
Instead of remaining on the level of the micro, Ashraf resorted to the micro: he defines the personal question of relationships in terms of land and borders and thus obscures the essence of the conflict. It is a dynamic conflict involving people and feelings rather than technicalities of land and borders and straight lines. It is the question of rhetoric versus relationships.
With all the apparent paradox, though, the conversation and games with the Palestinian residents provided genuine dialogue. I heard the Palestinian narrative; I heard an underrepresented view. It was a moment in which stereotypes were shed; labels removed; and a sense of unity and humanistic empathy created. My most basic sensitivity to the plight of another human being and the understanding of human experience was aroused. They spoke of family, of friends, and of community; for a moment we shared a language.
The content of the dialogue was intense and complex: the definition of peace itself was unclear; and yet the mere ability and willingness to listen and appreciate the other weaved a delicate sense of togetherness.
I returned to West Jerusalem with appreciation and hope.
And yet:
It was late and I went to pick up my bike which I had left locked in a park. And yet, when I arrived at the park my bike was gone. Stolen.
There was a police officer nearby. He saw what had happened: “Why’d you leave your bike here? It was an Arab who stole it—obviously. It always happens.”
And without a moment for me to react, he drove away.
And then:
A Palestinian construction work plows his bulldozer into a bus and pedestrians and cars in the center of Jerusalem. He deliberately murders Israelis and wounds at least forty others. He crushed them; he crushed us—all of us.
What do they want? And who are They, anyway? Because They told me they wanted peace and claimed support for non-violence conflict resolution and yet They want to steal and kill and disturb the social order.
And truthfully, I believe both of Them. I truly believed those Palestinians when they smiled and we sat in the confines of the American Colony Hotel and they told me of pain and aggravation and hope.
But then I returned the mundane happenings of life; and as much as I wanted to yell at the police officer for the-matter-of-fact manner with which he asserted a Palestinian had stolen my bike, inside I believed it as well. And a month later, I believe that murderer today, whose hometown I had visited, when he brutally killed three human-beings and caused me pain and aggravation and told me he doesn’t want peace.
My hope, though, I’m unsure about: I'm not sure what's left of it; I'm not sure what will be of it; and I'm not sure who's in control of it.
It’s been almost a month since it happened; and yet it is taking time to process its events. The images, interaction, and memories remain clear; and yet demand clarity.
I was on the bus home from school. It was a long day and it was late in the evening and we were approaching Mea Shearim, the Haredi neighborhood of Jerusalem. And then we stopped moving. I peered out the window, as I began to smell smoke, and noticed the garbage bins in the distance: they were set on fire and placed along the main road of the neighborhood, and thus there was only one very narrow lane for traffic.
The streets were mobbed with men and young children dressed in black and white and earlocks and velvet hats and bekeshas. The kids were disturbing traffic; they were taking smaller garbage bins and throwing them in front of the passing cars; they were shouting; they were causing me to feel as though I was a stranger in a foreign city with foreign people.
I was stunned. Traffic was stopped. People began murmuring on the bus. No one knew what was going on.
And so I got off the bus. I approached a haredi woman standing on the sidewalk. She was married and relatively young—perhaps late twenties.
What’s going on here?
I’m not sure of the exact details. Apparently, a young boy died in a car accident and the government won’t let them bury him. They want to perform an autopsy. A tragedy. A tragedy. Unbelievable. Can you imagine if you had died and they wouldn’t let you be buried?
She spoke passionately. She was staring at the fire and the words floated out of her mouth, sounding a bit premeditated.
I remained standing with her. I was intrigued and emotional and frustrated and I shared those sentiments with her. I insisted that while I can empathize with her pain, such a means of action will provide no solution.
She was convinced otherwise: this is the only way that the government changes things; we go out and protest and this is how things change. I am very proud of them; this is the right thing to be done.
Passer-byers stood and watched. People noticed us. People watched us. People, I assume, wondered.
I though, could not accept her arguments. I asserted that such action—while on a local level may provide solutions—foster greater splintering within the Jewish community; this is surely no conduit to empathy and understanding. The innocent onlooker—the outsider—experiences distance and frustration and disunity.
And she had a quick response: I’m not looking for unity. There’s not chance of that and that’s not what I daven for. I daven that one day the chiloynim will come back. And that’s all I can do until everyone comes back.
And no, she’s not going out there. She’s not trying to bring them back. Because—like she said—she doesn’t want any contact with them unless the chiloynim come to them. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with them. Her kids see them driving on Shabbat and scream goy goy. And they think that the woman without a head covering is a goya or an arab. How can she teach them otherwise?
Her words were bewildering. I was shocked—in the truest sense of the word: the abrupt and simple manner with which she disregarded all attempts of unity was painful.
It is difficult to fathom any united effort if, as she claimed, there is no incentive to reach unity; the absence of a common goal precludes any common action-- of which I strongly believe.
Eventually, perhaps frustrated, the woman mentioned that her kids were waiting for her at home and that she was worried that someone would walk by and record our conversation and she walked off.
I too, though, walked off frustrated: I was frustrated at her harsh and insensitive words; I was frustrated at my inability to empathize with her; I was frustrated with the paradoxical reality I attempt to decipher; I was frustrated that I felt like a foreigner; and I was frustrated with the abruptness of the conversation’s ending.
And yet, amongst the inundation of despair I embraced this intimate moment. For me it was a unique moment which provided the haredi woman a forum to define herself and defend herself against the other. I appreciated the encounter as an attempt at dialogue—a means of expression, of understanding. Appreciation, I think, is integral to the development of a solution.
While I do recognize that this woman’s words represent her alone and that she was, perhaps, an extreme representation of the community, I remain slightly despaired and yet forever hopeful.
Martin Buber has a powerful book entitled On Intersubjectivity and Cultural Creativity. He writes elegantly and poignantly. And, perhaps, herein lies a viable approach to the solution of this conflict.
Here’s what I read:
“A time of genuine religious conversations is beginning—not those so-called fictitious conversations here none regarded and addressed his partner in reality, but genuine dialogues, speech from certainty to certainty, but also from one open-hearted person to another open-hearted person. Only then will genuine common life appear (47).
Genuine conversation, and therefore every actual fulfillment of relations between men, means acceptance of otherness. When two men inform one another of their basically different views about an object, each aiming to convince the other of the rightness of his own way of looking at the matter, everything depends so far as human life is concerned, on whether each thinks of the other as the one he is, whether each, that is, with all his desire to influence the other, nevertheless unreservedly accepts and confirms him in his being (65).”
I like to think of this approach as my guidance. I like to hope that this model will transfer from the ideal to the realistic.
The next step is the general implementation of such a motive; the next stage is genuine education. And, as always, the question remains: is it possible?
You may think that was a sigh of despair. And in a way it was. But more importantly, I think, it’s a sigh of concern—of deep distress.
Last Shabbat while reading the Chareidi magazine Mishpacha, I came across an interview with three influential Chareidi rabbis on the “Burning Issues of Chareidi Jewry”. A prominent section of the article discussed the respective rabbis’ positions towards the Reform, Conservative and Modern Orthodox movements. Here’s a bit:
“Members of the Conservative and Reform movements are all from our beloved Jewish brethren, may they one day merit to see the truth. The movements themselves, though, cannot, in all honesty, be viewed as Jewish movements. Since the goal of their movements is to distort Judaism, eliminate belief in Hashem, and eliminate mitzvos and Torah, there is no other way to view them.
Our approach to Conservative and Reform Jews should be to speak to them, let them know we care about them, introduce them to Torah, and try to get them to understand how much they are missing by not having Torah.
Before World War I and World War II, Orthodoxy joined the other movements in certain organizations to empower the Jewish community before the government, perhaps for the sake of the Jews overseas.
...But there are more problems created than solved when such bodies represent the Jewish people in the eyes of the government.
Number One, it gives them legitimacy in their own eyes and makes us recognize them. Inevitably, we will be sitting down with them at the table and calling them “Rabbi this” and “Rabbi that” when they possess no scholarship, and are utterly undeserving of being called a rabbi in any way.
…Number Three, giving them recognition causes us to stop and look at them as people who are lost and in need of being healed and helped. We will stop looking at ourselves as rescuers, and begin to see ourselves as their equals, or just another sect.
...I would say that Modern Orthodoxy is not a Torah movement, but I wouldn’t say it doesn’t have Torah value.”
I was stunned.
(Admittedly, I did include the excerpts that emphasize the impact of the expressed opinions and I do recommend that you check out the website where the article should appear by the end of the week; yet the potent shock and paradox is undeniable.)
And then yesterday I came across this article posted on the Haaretz website professing that “We have had it up to here with the ultra-Orthodox”:
“These are painful statements, but they must be said loud and clear: Two peoples live in this land, both Jewish - they and we. They are the ultra-Orthodox, who see themselves as emissaries of God on earth. We are all the rest - secular, traditional and religious. It is not that we have suddenly separated; we never were one people. We tried to delude ourselves that we were. They knew all along that we were not.
What did we not do to preserve unity? We were ready to admit that they personified the true Judaism; we accepted marrying and divorce according to the laws of Moses and Israel based on their version; we accepted - willingly or gritting our teeth - limitations on our lifestyle; we agreed to ignore the status quo agreement that was wrung from us as hush money, so that they would not show up before the United Nations investigative committee and persuade it to prevent the establishment of the Jewish state; we sent our young men and women to defend them, while they spend their time at yeshivas or just wandering the streets; we agreed to support them, since after all they do not have time to work for a living; we even came to terms with their spitting at us, we whose "wagon is empty" while theirs is full.
All these things did us no good. They continued to take the fruits of our goodwill from us, while giving nothing in return. A unilateral treaty was created in which we give and they take.
…Therefore we have had it up to here with their insults. We are no worse Jews than they are. On the contrary: Good manners come before Torah. Humanness is not the antithesis of Jewishness, but rather stems from it."
Again—stunned.
But then I took a moment to understand: the attacks are coming from both sides. They are hurtful and often unfounded; they are piercing and unnecessarily blunt; and although I do see elements of truth in each argument the truth remains irrelevant. What concerns me is the form in which each author presents the facts: verbal wars are certainly not conducive to meaningful reform. Tasteless words and biting phrases will certainly hamper progress.
In this splintered society we must disregard focusing on the differences and attempt to produce a network of empathy and understanding. We can no longer assume a position of superiority and importance: I believe that there is truth in my way; yet that does not preclude belief in the other way— a belief in both ways.
We have a common tradition; a text: we have the Torah. From there arises dissention as a plethora of interpretations produces an even greater number of opinions. We must, however, trust the proclaimed intentions of the other and validate every individuals desire to forge a relationship with God.
The approaches are each very different; yet the complexities that produce a system of customs—the very habits, symbols and values that characterize one group—are a means of personal expression and demand appreciation.
At the end of the day, though, we must expose mutual ground. I do recognize that nice thoughts and happy ideals are partially meaningless. And this is where you come in. The question remains: how do we alleviate this tension? How can we create a common living ground which honors the respective differences? Even if there is dialogue—what issues shall be discussed?
It seems it’s always someone: Arab and Jews; Religious and Secular; Modern-Orthodox and Ultra-Orthodox.
Oy.
Deep down I am hesitant to post these articles. Perhaps they will only exacerbate the present schism rather than alleviate the discord. Ultimately, though, change and productivity result from awareness.
So here it is. It all depends on us.
Read More......
Today I read this:
Maybe worse are others who are content to wear “I love Israel” t-shirts, and are driven to write letters “defending Israel” to their local papers, but are either unable or unwilling to see the imperfections of our home–thereby retarding efforts to fix and mend, to build a healthy nest for our People. The ‘love’ these organizations teach is the love of romantic comedies or fantasy romances — a drunken, vertigo inducing love that covers all flaws and produces little for the long-term benefit of the relationship.
As love goes, however, as my fear grows, so does my obligation to my People, and my desire to participate in the next sixty years–at least–of the building of a home that will provide my People a model of commitment-despite-imperfection, loyalty-through-action. And I am encouraged by the fact that I am not alone in this: despite the cynicism of the average Israeli, they, too, are committed to building such a home - to defending, growing and developing a place to which our People can always return and participate in, no matter the disagreement, the disillusionment, the anger and the tears.
(from 60bloggers.com: “Love is not a Crush: Israel and Obligation” by Ariel Beery-that same one, by the way, that co-launched Creative Zionism)
And then I thought this:
This Yom Ha’atzmaut Project is a great initiative. It’s novel; reveals subtleties; creates awareness; allows for expressed diversity yet retains solidarity; and fosters an environment of positivism.
We’re basically extracting all the darn good things place has got to give.
But let’s not forget why this place has got all those darn good things to give: because of a great number of people who considered their existence and considered Israel’s existence and realized that the two are a proportionally related.
Cause, apparently, they love Israel.
But what really is love?
Do we love Israel just like we love to hang out with friends; and love to watch a great movie; and love to walk on a breezy day; and love our parents?
Or do we just love loving?
And so I truly hope this:
That all this talk of Israel's greatest accomplishments will bring about a genuine love: a love that appreciates the good and recognizes the not-so-good; a love that enraptures all its beloveds with the thrill and delight of an intimate relationship; and a love that desires reform.
Then we can really work on building our country so we can brag about her for another sixty years.
How’s that for real love?
Part of The Yom Haatzmaut Project
Why I admire our State so much:
1. Israel has created a community in its truest sense: an environment conducive to interaction and dialogue. It is a community with a common center, disparate points of circumference and yet it fosters a sense of unity. The heterogeneous composition of Jews allows each to define his or herself against the other—an other, though, that is really part of a greater We.
2.
An opportunity to celebrate Shabbat like They did.
3.
The evening was cool and the quiet then and the streets were empty. It was the first night of Channukah and I was lighting the candles later than planned. I paused before reciting the bracha—an effort to escape the haste and hurriedness of life—and began. And then down below, I heard someone answer amen.
4.
Israel is. And continues to be in the mind of every Jew. That is her greatest accomplishment.
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Making aliyah, it seems, is not the fruition of that idealized dream. And by “it seems,” I mean I once thought it was. I came here to live because I can and We can and We should and from there everything would work itself out. Somehow.
Yet that Somehow still hasn’t shown up. Or rather, that Somehow has transformed into a Someone: a Me.
Israel is a complex country: a country that professes the ideals of democracy yet attempts to retain loyalties to a historical and religion responsibility. Israel is a country that needs my help along with your help.
Living here, I have come to realize, is not about finding the most comfortable place to live, that town that reminds me most of back home or the location that will best suit my needs. Living here is about us—about the community of Am Yisrael—and what we can do to ensure that such an entity exists and continues to exist, even beyond the borders of Israel.
This past summer I met a group of solid people. They were all young and intellectual and motivated and strived to affect change. They were part of the PresenTense Institute, a Creative Zionism summer program. Their website tells it best: they enable “socially-minded entrepreneurs from the fields of hi-tech, business, social action, education and the arts to turn their envisioned projects into reality.” Basically, they are a bunch of young minds who care and do something about it. It's pretty impressive.
Become part of this active reality at http://www.creativezionism.com.
Read what they have to say. Think about what they have to say. What do you have to say?
We are living in precarious times. The meaning of Zionism is up for debate. It is a term we afford great prominence; it is the subject of much debate and discussion and yet in some sectors it is slowly being replaced with alternate values and morals.
What is Zionism? What do we want out of this place, anyway? How are we going to actualize such goals in an age of post-modernism and equality for all and pluralism and individualism and social concern?
The folks at Creative Zionism know. Do you?
I recently discussed the power of sudden change to provoke introspection and reveal the latent.
The pigua that occured last week at Merkaz HaRav poinantly exemplifies this ability. It has demanded that we think. It has demanded that we realize. It has demanded that we act, once again, as a We.
The murder was attrocious. It is perhaps, though, more powerful to leave the illustration and description to the sensitivity of the mind as words can only convey certain meaning.
This video is a subtle yet sharply powerful interview with Rabbi Yerachmiel Weiss, head of the of the yeshiva of the mourning Merkaz HaRav.
It is imtimate and important. It is emotional and difficult.
Just like life here in Israel.
Please watch.
http://www.keshet-tv.com/vod/vod.aspx?id=4745&article=172147&GroupID=4803
Often during winter days, the Goodness of Life lays dormant while the murkiness of the fogs obscures its presence and the chills of the cold demand it seek refuge indoors.
Today, though, was a different winter day. The rays of the sun traced the trail of the dancing breeze and insisted that I follow while the fresh air belied his affiliation with winter. And everyone noticed. Towards evening, I sat in the Gan Sacher Park and watched as two families separately conducted barbeques on opposite sides of the grass. Each reclined, laughed, ate and played. Each left a few plastic cups behind. Each enjoyed.
One was Jewish and the other Arab.
I sat in close proximity to the Arab family and watched as they ate sunflower seeds and joked over bites of chicken and sips of tea. A little girl curiously walked by me and smiled. The family soon packed up to leave and I relocated to sit beside the other family. It was a Chareidi family with six young children. They giggled and fought and played soccer and ate and I watched.
The mother eventually approached me to offer a pita and hamburger. She profusely apologized for not having offered me food earlier and yet I politely declined on the ground, of what I assumed legitimate, and explained that I was a vegetarian.
She looked at me with an astonished yet gentle glance.
Vegetarian? But what will you do when Mashiach comes—how will you eat karbanot? Eat. Eat. You can start again tomorrow. Please.
I smiled.
Her voice was sweet and genuine and harmonized with the subtle tones of serenity that seemingly escaped the grip of the fleeting hours. Her authenticity surprised me yet propelled a feeling of pleasure for it is the anomalous incident that often provokes reaction.
I was overwhelmed with appreciation for hot winter days; for simplicity; for real people; for latent goodness; for the ability to reveal.
Much of life is a matter of exposing the concealed—of ordering the indiscriminate. Especially in Israel. Beyond the muddled nature, though, of life resides a most basic structure of wholesome people who enjoy picnics in the park. Such is the power of summer weather in the midst of winter. It is the power to influence a sensitive perspective. It is the power to remind us that the existence of subtleties is a matter of subjectivity. It is the power that disperses the fog and provides harbor for the cold and reassures the Goodness of Life.
And so I walked home slowly and noticed that beside my house there was a fragile tree dressed in delicate blossoms.
I like to think of it as the only supermarket in town whose shelves showcase oranges and bread and pistachios and cilantro while its isles serve as the stage for local musicians and the canvas for artists. Sometimes I go there to buy ingredients for soup and other times to be part of the cultural melting pot. Some say it’s stuffy and uncomfortable. I say it’s refreshing and invigorating.
It is a microcosm of the Israeli society. A 16 by 16 model, if you may. It invites everyone. It accepts everyone. And it is a forum in which people of all sects and sectors and orientation and religion coalesce in pursuit of a common goal. Its mundane objective, though, need not belie its noble effects.
It’s the Mahane Yehuda food market and it’s a relatively simple place. So They say.
But They aren’t always right.
Because a supermarket that brings me to tears cannot be a simple place. The Shuk is not a simple place for it is a reflection of the reality here in Israel. And the reality here in Israel is anything but simple.
So They say.
And this time They’re right.
I was rushing through the Shuk and I didn’t notice him until he raised his hand and slapped his face again and again. They were both Arabs. The older one was heavy set, around twenty two and he was directing orders at a younger boy who was around twelve. Apparently he did something wrong and violence replaced the orders and the little boy stood silently as the older boy’s punches shaped his face.
As the boy’s hands formed a respite for his broken face and a shelter for exposed shame and a well for the collection of escaping tears—I stood still for a moment. And then I, too, trapped my tears and buried my words and left them as thoughts. Cause everyone else did too.
It was at that moment that I felt unsure. I was meandering through the Confusion and Issues and Division of my mind and thinking about the Complexities and Depth and Contradictions of the Israeli society —and I got lost. Suddenly something so familiar was so foreign and somewhere so comfortable was suddenly so confusing. No one was there to offer a word of salvation. No one spoke. And so neither did I.
These unspoken words, though, expressed the greatest paradox of this society. They say that Israel is a country where opinion is never absent—whether on the line at the bank, the bus ride through town or a stroll through the streets. There’s always something to be said: something deserving of comment. Suddenly, though, after witnessing that frightening scene at the Shuk, no one had a voice. No one had a comment. Where was that opinion that always seems to penetrate the alcoves of every situation?
I tend to say that they were Arabs and I was scared and those are their problems and so I didn't involve myself. But those are just excuses of mine. Just like everyone else’s. They are excuses that create the façade of a society; a society cannot exist under circumstances in which man lives of his own accord and each faction functions within a framework of apathy. The anomalous and the normative continue to exist here in a seeming companionship—an affiliation that is bound to skew the priorities of a country so delicate and reshape its contours to include the atrocious as a ritual of life.
We cannot continue to depend on what They say—cause it seems They don’t always have something to say. And once that day comes maybe the complexities and contradictions of the Shuk will finally fuse into the relatively simple place They say it is.
It was the three minutes when the allusion that I could trap the moment belied its transient properties and a time when I thought I held the solution to things and deemed the complexities of life to be mere misunderstandings.
I was nearing Jaffa Gate on my way to the Old City and I passed him. He was the waiter at the local café—the one who would ask if everything was okay and if he could clear my mug. We knew each other by face. We always acknowledged each other with a smile. And that was all.
This time though it was different: there were no tables surrounding us and no dirty plates waiting to be removed and it was just me and him. Out of context, it demanded more than a smile and he initiated conversation.
Where are you off to?
The kotel. And you?
Home. I live here.
And so the conversation continued. We spoke of nothing lofty and remained in the realm of the mundane but beneath the surface our mingling words were creating something extraordinary: dialogue between Arab and Jew. During those few moments we were crossing boundaries and signing a personal peace treaty. Everything seemed so simple for a moment; there was no tension lurking at our words and no definitions seeking to categorize us.
We could all get along so well, I thought. It’s only a matter of extending the smile to encompass words of conversation. There is no reason that they must all be grouped together as They and us as Us. We can all function as a We, can’t we?
But as we passed through Jaffa Gate and he continued walking in the direction of the Arab Market, I betrayed the We and told him I was turning right. The simplicity of the comment, though, clashed with the fragility of that which took only six minutes to create because I wasn’t just circumventing the Arab Market—I was circumventing the greater issues as well, the real issues.
It was as though our relationship immediately retreated to what it once was and non-verbal conversation replaced language as the mode of communication. My decision to turn right answered all the questions hiding in the alcoves of our previous conversation. It expelled all simplicity and temporarily voided the peace treaty. It exposed our conversation as brief chatter, fleeting with the moment that nursed it. Because suddenly I wasn't so willing. Suddenly I wasn't so comfortable. I was scared. And while I was willing to walk with him, I wasn't willing to walk amongst his friends and brothers and parents.
It was then that I questioned the nature of our short meeting and wondered whether my fear of pushing the limits contradicted the motive of a genuine conversation. But then again, while we did not speak of the controversial issues that inundate our cultures and divisive matters that permeate our societies, we did speak. We spoke a language that recognized and respected the presence of the other. We spoke words that concluded an informal conversation but may lead, one day, to the commencement of formal discourse.
It makes me wonder, though, which words retained greater influence—those which were spoken or those which were left unspoken?
Display Name: Aliza
Gender: female
Home Town: New Jersey
Current City of Residence: Jerusalem
Favorite City outside of Jerusalem: The towns and homes that sprinkle the rolling hills and flowered mountains of the north where the Serene is more calm and the Pace of Things doesn't rush
Yeshiva/Seminary Attended : Migdal Oz
Occupation : student of English Literature; sociology and anthropology
Interests or Hobbies : creating new out of old; arts and crafts; jumping into ma'ayanot; baking bread and eating it fresh out of the oven; challenging myself; drinking tea; testing my boundaries; learning from people; learning about myself from people; being near water; wandering the Shuk; picking olives to make olive oil; meandering through streets and paths and alleys of yerushalayim; staying calm; capturing happiness and knowledge to store away in neatly lined mason jars
Random Questions:
What's the earliest you've gotten up to watch cartoons and what did you see?
Watching cartoons was never an early morning activity for me. TV in general did not appeal to me. It may have been some innate aversion to television or the fact that my family only had one tv screen in the house and thus watching it required me to sit a foot from the tv as I attempted to hold the antenna in a good position and simultaneously catch a glimpse of the show. It was a difficult task. And so I gave it up. I think it was one of the few things in life I gave up and yet do not regret. There are so many other wonderful things in life that do not require me to sit immobile as I hold an antenna.
What's your favorite planet and why?
I can't really say I've had too much exposure to planets—at least not enough to foster sentiments of favoritism. Fourth grade, though, did change that a bit. It was a project on the planets. And it was scary and daunting and overwhelming. But I conquered it. I conquered Uranus. I picked up that pencil and wrote and drew pictures with colored pencils and I have the product to prove it. It was a masterpiece and I was nine and I mastered it. I was really proud.
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