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Published: June 16th 2007
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It’s a magical time of year for Jerusalem, when the city opens its doors to thousands of American college kids visiting on
taglit. Described by
one website as “first time, peer group, educational trips” to the Holy Land, it’s become quickly clear that “balls-out, drink-till-you-drop fuckfests” might be slightly more appropriate. While the cultural benefits of a birthright trip are surely abundant - prayers at the Western Wall, trips to Masada, bagels with Likkud on the floor of the Knesset - the fact that the Israeli government and prominent Jewish philanthropists are picking up the tab creates more than a few problems. The most obvious is what happens when you give all-expense-paid trips to waves of college students fresh off their end-of-semester grind: the term papers and final exams and STDs picked up after some ill-advised, last-chance fling.
You see them on Ben Yehuda, where the fairy lights are strung across the promenade and the buskers throw impromptu, acoustic jam sessions to apathetic crowds. The girls in stilettos and short skirts and little wisps of dresses slipping from their shoulders; the guys in sagging jeans and polo shirts with the collars turned up. They’re chattering in their cell phones
and drinking bottles of Goldstar on the street, an air about them suggesting a loose morality more than slightly at odds with this Orthodox town. While
taglit sponsors are quick to point out that dozens of countries around the world take part, you get the feeling that most of these kids have just flown in from Scarsdale or Westchester. It’s like I’ve taken a wrong turn on Mordechai Ben Hillel and found myself on 82nd and York, a fact that - in its own quizzical way - proves even more alienating than the sight of those trembling
haredi at the Western Wall.
But it’s more than just the casual exchange of bodily fluids that has locals concerned. According to
one report, certain ethical dilemmas surrounding
taglit have proven troubling. Grateful for the free flight to Israel, some kids decide, post-birthright, to volunteer with Palestinian groups in the West Bank - prompting all sorts of ire from Israelis on the right. Notes one member of the American Jewish Congress’ Western Region: “You have the right to buy a movie ticket, but do you sneak into another theater to see a different movie?” It’s hardly the best analogy - the group’s
paying for the popcorn and Jujubees, too - but you can’t fault her for bringing light to the cruel fact that many young Jews have managed to develop a conscience about the Palestinian plight.
It’s been a troubling week for the region, with Hamas seizing control of Gaza and effectively flipping a big,
kuffiyah-ed bird to Fatah President Mahmoud Abbas. Meanwhile, across the border to the north, Lebanon continues to show its reluctance for letting the wounds of war heal. Just a week ago I’d heard from a friend in Beirut. There’s been a wave of bombings in the city - another leading MP was assassinated along the corniche - and her own wedding plans for the summer have started to unravel. A pious Christian, she asked me to say a few prayers for her when I visit the sacred sites. “Maybe God will listen better there,” she suggested, though given the perpetual turmoil of the Holy City itself, you can’t help but wonder how well the Big Guy’s had His ear cocked.
But if Jerusalem’s proven anything for thousands of years, it’s that in spite of all the woeful evidence at hand, the faithful will
persevere. In the courtyard of the Al-Aqsa Mosque - where Mohammed himself ascended to heaven centuries ago - families are queueing in the heat outside the mosque’s doors, or sitting in the shade beneath the citrus trees, listening to grave, bearded preachers. In the Church of the Sepulcher, an old woman drops to the floor in a tearful spasm, crawling on her hands and knees to kiss the tomb of Christ. At the Western Wall, in the high, vaulted prayer room, men are bent over leather-bound Torahs and reciting prayers in a long, low monotone, their faces bunched into intense asterisks. Outside the faithful have written their prayers on slips of paper, thousands of white and blue and pink sheets tucked into the wall’s crevices. I find a note that’s blown across the plaza. “I wish that war would stop in Israel,” writes Molly Loftspring. “People would be happy.” I fold it into quarters and find a safe nook to tuck it into. A few guys are eyeing me warily, the
kippa on my head more than slightly askew.
The pilgrims wind their way through the Old City - the Jews and Muslims descending on the Temple Mount,
the Christians following the Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa. The way is lined with kitschy souvenir shops selling plastic rosaries and cheap Byzantine icons, little baby Jesuses with oversized heads staring up at emotionless Marys. There are pilgrims - pale Germans and bewildered Americans and an athletic Dutch couple with corded leg muscles and teak skin - hunched over their maps and guide books. You can see them laboring in the heat, sweating and squinting into the harsh daylight in a way that gives their personal Stations of the Cross an added poignance. More than a few sink defeated onto the sidewalk. They’re carrying water bottles and wearing practical walking sandals with thick Velcro straps. A middle-aged man in white tennis shoes lifts his Ray Bans and makes some sort of vague, consoling gesture in the direction of his wife. He has a ruddy, CEO’s complexion: a man who’s spent long hours clinching deals at Pinehurst, walking briskly up the green and maintaining a modest handicap. A pack of Jewish tourists crowds by, talking with nasally East-Side accents. There are a half-dozen armed guards circling around them, mumbling into their walkie-talkies and keeping the perils of the
Arab Quarter at bay.
Jerusalem is more than just a city divided: passing from the Orthodox neighborhoods to the West into the Arab East, you get the feeling you’ve crossed some bold frontier. There are women squatting and selling grape leaves on the street, young boys walking arm in arm, men wheeling carts of sesame-crusted bread down the sidewalks. I’ve stepped back into Aleppo, or Old Cairo: kids carry silver serving trays through the shadows of Damascus Gate, bringing hot cups of tea and Turkish coffees to uncles or cousins manning the shops in the souq.
I’ve moved from a hostel near Jaffa Gate, in the Old City, to a hostel just outside the Arab Quarter. On Friday morning I watch the police setting up checkpoints and barricades along Sultan Suleiman St. There are crowds gathering - old Arab men in scruffy, unbuttoned shirts and women in
chadors cradling kids to their chests. Some are gesturing over the shoulders of the young soldiers; it’s approaching mid-day, and most are undoubtedly on their way to the mosque for Friday prayers. The soldiers are rifling through passports and barking in Arabic; one stumbles as he tries to move
a metal barricade across the street. It hits the ground with a clang, and a group of old men surge toward the opening. They’re roughly corralled by a few police in crisp uniforms. A pair slip through, making awkward dashes to freedom, their leather sandals slapping against the asphalt.
On the way toward the New City I pass men taking refuge from the heat. They’re sitting in the shade of the city walls, or propped against the trunk of an olive tree. It’s been soaring past 90 all week; Jerusalem is swooning. We exchange sympathetic smiles and sighs on the street - a rare touch of communal longing in this divided city - but summer’s here, and it’s not likely to cool down any time soon.
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Kay Abano
non-member comment
LOVE THE PHOTOS!
And the blogs, of course!!! Hope you are well, Chris. Looking forward to more wonderful articles and photos. Just wanted to drop you a quick line before going off to camp. Will write you another looong email soon! =D