On the balcony of our rented, Jerusalem apartment, the Israeli, November sun is playing peek-a-boo through the carob trees. It's a different sun than in the US. My eyes don't squint. Oh, no. Here, they are wide open - the better to see with.
The red roofs host a slew of water heaters, congregants forming their own Temple minyan, a tribute to the elusive Hot Water God, to whom, like all other deities, you've got to turn to or, in this case, to turn on, otherwise you will be praying mightily in the shower.
Of what shall I tell you of this journey? How can I bring you here with me so I really could feel less fractured? Maybe it’s just a human feeling, the pangs of separation we feel once our umbilical cord has been severed, though sometimes it feels more like an occurrence after a natural, albeit dramtic, event, more like being dislocated, like a bone sticking out at a skewed angle, or an uprooted tree after a hurricane, forever on its side or upside down, roots to the sky, face to the dirt? Either way, it could just be a ten-year-old’s perspective after leaving her country.
After snorkeling in the Sea or Reeds amidst a fantastic Aquarian kleideoscope, we venture North through the Negev, an arid plateau surrounded by the bullish Mastiffs, the Judean mountains. Standing on top of Masada, the formidable fortress that held over 900 Jewish men, women and children who collectively decided that committing suicide was preferable to living under Roman slavery, I watched the Dead Sea meander soundlessly, leaving rich salt deposits, receding rapidly, as if taking a bow after a great show. It is. Masada is the Modus operandi for the Jews, "They will not take us alive"- our motto. There has got to be a more hopeful or relaxed way to live.
There are bastions of notices. I've noticed that Israelis aren't so quick to smile or say hello. One could assume that they are a closed, distrusting, unfriendly tribe, but that would be quite a mistake, because as soon as I offer a relational exchange, they stop, a bit taken back, and open so widely, like the Sea of Reeds. The generosity and profound giving that ensue continually astonish me. For instance, I walked into a small falafel/hummus restaurant and handing my enormous salad bowl, I asked the young Arab-Israeli worker if I could have some fried eggplant. Usually, this eggplant is only served as a side to a main dish. He said that he really couldn’t give me very much. I asked him to give me as much as he could and charge me whatever he liked. I then asked for his name and told him how much I appreciated his willingness to help me. I also invited him to visit the US. He kept filling my vat and then, when I inquired about the price, he smiled and answered “Achla”, enjoy, to your health, on the house. I was stunned. How did this falafel vendor mirror my all-or-nothing attitude so pointedly? I have tried to adopt a “Just Enough” stance in my quest for a more balanced life, but this interaction really shed a whole new light on how I was raised, and gave a poignant perspective on the all-or-nothing occupied territories conflict.
Another thing I noticed is that cultural diversity does not feel the pressure to assimilate into a melting pot and often co-habitates peacefully. There seems to be enough room for Borscht, Malabi and Schnitzel. At the Dead Sea, a bare-chested Nigerian woman was laughing as she smeared black, therapeutic mud on herself. Next to her stood a fully dressed, religious woman donning a wig, as per Orthodox custom, chatting in Yiddish, while young, red-lipsticked Russian women floated nearby on the salty water, their thongs covering absolutely nothing. Old Mother Russia would have crimsoned - as varied as the fish of the Red sea.
There is little personal space here and this lack is even more apparent in the shuk. Pyramids of cascading, purple eggplant, blushing tomatoes, and slender cucumbers nestle against massive barrels of shiny, black, brown and green olives. If you’ve ever experienced some children, or adults, scream for attention, you should hear the produce! Even the air gets conquered by the vying aromas of deep-fried Sufganiot (Hanukkah donuts), freshly baked pitot and honey-drenched kanafe, a middle Eastern pastry. There is such an incredible cornucopia of foods that I am baffled as to why most of my people are not profoundly rotund?
And as I stroll taking all this in, my beloved turns to me and says that she really could see herself living here. What is it about these ancestral Germans and the Holy Land? It seems there is a magnetic pull that tugs at the hearts of these unsuspecting visitors. Karmic healing? I don’t know, but if you might want to experience this for yourself, remember I’ll be right there with you, in the air, in the small spaces, willing to give more than you expect, especially if you don’t give up and insist on reaching a connection.
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