Lost in Jerusalem

I am lost in Jerusalem and I plan on getting more lost, I said to a helpful stranger. I do not know at which point I entered the Old City and I cannot find myself on the map. I climbed up a strange and winding path and found myself surrounded by tourists and then found myself suddenly inside. I have not known where I am since the moment I left the house this morning. Can one be lost then, if one does not know where they are to begin with and one does not care where they are going. If yes, there is a beautiful sense of freedom to this state of being lost.

Thursday night, one of the farm workers gave Abe (Uncle Avvie, if you like) and I a ride into Jerusalem. He dropped us off near the shuk around 5:00 p.m., or rush hour. Abe planned on meeting up with his friend from home, Tamar who now lives here. I planned on going to a hostel for the night and having a solitary adventure the following day. The shuk is similar to Haymarket, except more. It is hard to put into words, it has many vendors selling many types of produce, and meat, baked goods, glida and some clothes. And it was packed full of Jews trying to buy dinner, or prepare for Shabbat dinner. Abe and I met up with Tamar, near the entrance and she immediately invited me to stay with her for the night and maybe Shabbat dinner. We followed her as she navigated her way around the shuk, as I ogled harem pants. (ten sheks!, which is about 3 dollars to look incredibly ridiculous but comfortable). When we left the shuk, she led us to a burekas (formerly known to me as knish) stand where I choose some spinach, cheese and tehina (betah) stuffing. The burekas is worth a whole paragraph but I digress from our adventures...

We walked around the central square of Jerusalem with our now heavy bags, filled with our clothes, food and bottles of wine and it is long walk to Tamar's house. We tried unsuccessfully to hail a cab. Unexpectedly, a woman pulled over and offered us a lift. Not quite a tremp, I would say. This to me sums up the whole character of Israelis thus far. We were not looking for a free ride, but out of the goodness of her heart, she offered one and we excepted it.

Tamar's apartment had a beautiful balcony which wrapped around her entire apartment and later in the evening I watched fireworks in the distance. We had a quiet night in, while Tamar and I discussed our Jewish identities. I revealed my background to her, a patrilineal Jew who was raised Catholic. While she was born into a Jewish identity, I have struggled with my identification. Maybe struggle is the wrong word. I have embraced it but I have found significant opposition to this identity throughout my life, with other people expressing their opinions about the the nature of my Jewish state.

Yesterday, in the big dome a group of Eco's and an Israeli volunteer were discussing Jewish identity (this happens frequently). The volunteer, Shahar, stated that these types of conversations were new to her. She is an Israeli, she does not need to defend, discuss or explore her Jewish identity. She just is. She is also surrounded
by other Jews, who just are as well.

In the old City, I stumbled upon the wailing wall. The soldiers at the entrance flirted with me. They asked me, "What do you want? Do you want something beautiful?" "Yes,"I answered them. "Then you have found it." They said jokingly and pointed to themselves and then to me. Such irreverence before reverence.

I was lost but now found. My first thoughts were sacrilegious ones. I remembered an old debate I had with a a college friend, who stated I was not Jewish and I could not comprehend Judaism. She had been to the Wailing Wall, she said, she knew what it was to be Jewish. At the wall, I thought to myself, am I Jewish yet? Do my arguments have more sustenance, am I now entitled to my opinions?

I am at the Wailing Wall and I think to myself, No more wailing. We are home now, aren't we? If not, when are we there? When do we reach that point? The wall spoke to me, it said "Please do not cry here anymore. Please do not stuff me with your sorrows." I put a small prayer of love inside the wall, I tried to honor it in my own way. Around me, I saw tourists from all over. Many of the older women were crying, which touched me deeply. If I cried it would be through their tears, not my own. I understood where they came from, truly I did. In the background I hear men chanting in Arabic during the noontime prayers.

After I took a bus back to Western Jerusalem. I wandered around some more until I took a sheroot back to Modi'in. From the central point of the city, I had planned on walking on hour back to the farm. I was exhausted and barefoot, with little water left. And Shabbat was approaching, there were no cars on the road. Suddenly, the farm car appeared and I magically got a ride back to the farm.

That day was the most solitary time that I had spent in six weeks. I was alone with my thoughts and I welcomed them, so I could process Jerusalem fully. Today I formed thoughts such as, "I want to get lost in Jerusalem" and "I want to have a cup of coffee in the Old City" and other wishes which lay dormant rose to the surface. Later in the zula, I reflected on my Jerusalem narrative. It is one of self-exploration overlaid with the beauty of simple moments and letting go of control. Jerusalem remains for me an internal process of self-discovery and empowering affirmation. The love that I feel in my heart interweaves and coils itself around the whole of story.