“The Sabbath alarm has just sounded across Jerusalem, and thousands of observant Jews are making their way to HaKotel or to Beit Knesset.”
As soon as I finished writing this sentence in my journal, a single bomb sounded that signaled the end of the daily Ramadan fast. There. Right there is Israel. There is no other place in the world where you hear the high pitched buzz ushering in the Sabbath quickly followed by a blast that signals all Muslims to end the day’s fast. How strange and beautiful this tug of war is between religions, cultures, and ways of life.
Every day, I feel how Jerusalem is pulled in different direction by the Haredim or the Muslims or the Catholics or the new immigrants or the kibbutznikim or the Zionists or the Anti-Zionists or the Secularists. There are groups who want a two-state solution, those who want to give more representation to the Palestinians, those who support the rebelling youth movements in music, graffiti, and other art forms. And then there are those who want to export all Arabs, Orthodox Jews who want the disillusion of a physical Jewish state, those who want to kill all Arabs and even professors who will purposefully give their Arab students lower grades. They all pull Jerusalem towards themselves. They pull so hard that it’s sometimes hard to breathe.
I ate dinner with Tarek (we call him Dudu) last night as he broke his fast for Ramadan. It was a feast of soup, fried chicken, salad, rice, toast with humus, and olives. He told me of the true feast of food and music his family would be experiencing in Nazareth, and how the whole extended family would be together. According to Tarek, Ramadan is supposed to make one remember the poor and starving of the world, to make one grateful for the blessings of Allah. He ended the meal with a tradition he learned from his father. With hands still dripping with chicken grease, he slid a cigarette from his pack and lit the first one he’d smoked since 4:30 that morning when the fast began. He relaxed on the couch and smiled.
I find myself moving violently from emotions of depression to those of sheer elations on a daily basis. It’s written in the anthem, “HaTikva,” that for years the Jews have been yearning for a homeland, a place where they belong and now finally in Eretz Israel, the Jews have squeezed themselves in, creating a growing, international economy, making legislation that attempts to appease the subcultures and molding a national identity that can be categorized only by the word “Israeli.” To understand this identity, it takes courage. One can witness fierce loyalty and principles, but also merciless ferocity. One experiences hospitality and impulsive temperaments simultaneously. It’s a strange kind of honesty: “Here we are, love us or hate us; either way, we couldn’t care less.”
A place where they can belong. That’s the strongest emotion that I feel. I do not belong here. I’m not Jewish, not Muslim, not secular, and not Catholic. I’m an individual who can’t quite fit into any of the identifiable groups, and I’m constantly reminded by this fact.
Wow liz, so powerful. Allow me to say it, You belong, anywhere/everywhere