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Published: June 21st 2007
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The build-up to Jerusalem’s Gay Pride Parade has been gaining momentum for weeks, covering the full emotional spectrum from condemnation to outrage to cold, blind fury. A full 70% of the local population has come out (so to speak) against the march - their point being, perhaps, that Jerusalem wants its gays the way the rest of us want our cole slaw (on the side, and preferably out of sight). Orthodox Jews and Muslims alike have howled their opposition, causing one friend to quip that it’s about the only thing the two sides can agree on.
In Mea Shearim - a neighborhood that is to Orthodox Judaism what Cuba is to the Big Leagues - they’ve been protesting all week: burning tires, hurling bottles, and taking to the streets in the sorts of numbers not seen since the days of Exodus. Local rabbis have condemned the march with a wrath drawn from the Book of Job, while a mysterious poster campaign has essentially warned any policeman working the parade to go ahead and make plans for his funeral.
The city, for its part, is leaving nothing to chance: 7,000 cops have been dispatched to secure the parade
route, along with dozens of on-call ambulances; city buses are being used to block adjacent streets to traffic. The mayor himself has publicly condemned the parade, calling it a “provocative” gesture in a city that treats its religion with the gravity the rest of us show multiple stab wounds. Against this sort of nervous backdrop, it’s safe to say the parade will be nothing like its New York counterpart - a regular riot of drag queens, PVC pants, and blow-up phalluses - or even the feel-good march in Tel Aviv two weeks ago, which drew 10,000 buff bods into the streets.
On the day of the parade the crowds are growing. College kids with rainbow flags and hand-scribbled banners strategize in Independence Park, while a group of young Orthodox girls - shrill little harpies in long, chaste skirts - harass them from nearby. They’re blowing on plastic whistles and shouting until the color rises in their necks and cheeks. When I ask one of the girls about the commotion, she huffs, “They are against God,” in the same way I once hurled insults at the San Francisco Giants’ outfield because they were against the Mets.
(It’s also
worth noting that her whistle - a cheery little piece of pink plastic - is undoubtedly the gayest whistle in Jerusalem.)
The much-vaunted police force is lying in the grass, chain-smoking and drinking lemonade and giving the place a strange air veering between apocalyptic and bucolic. There are assault rifles and riot shields stacked nearby, and piles of helmets with their visors lowered, all just a few steps from patches of daffodils and shade-dappled fields of grass. At the parade’s starting point, where the crowds are restlessly milling, a few choppers hover overhead. Bright, colorful balloons are bobbing along - red and blue and yellow and a whole bunch of variations on purple and pink - borne by an auspicious wind. When the march finally kicks off there’s a loud, whooping cheer - a promise, perhaps, that a gay-ol’ time is about to be had by all.
But while the Orthodox community hasn’t managed to stop the parade, they’ve at least ensured that the massive security presence deflates some of the fun. There are police lining the perimeter and snipers perched atop buildings along the route; now and then walkie talkies crackle near the front, our progress
held up for an indiscernible reason that, one suspects, owes something to “security.” Apart from a few half-hearted songs, there’s a listless energy to our trudge down the avenue. Most of the marchers are wearing practical footwear and sober earth tones, having traded camp for an earnestness that makes you wonder just who taught these guys how to be gay to begin with. I’ve counted just one drag queen, a scant three men in pink t-shirts with matching umbrellas and sequin-studded cowboy hats, and not a single simulated act of fellatio involving a biker in a codpiece and a twelve-foot long dildo made from papier mâché.
Much of the parade’s entertainment, not surprisingly, comes from the photographer corps, who show a militant knack for swarming when there’s action afoot. When a disgruntled protester - red-faced, reciting from the Torah - is wrangled away by the cops, the ensuing stampede almost incites a riot. There are guys with zoom lenses leaning from rooftops and others elbowing for better angles when a sudden cheer gives the false impression that things might take a turn for the flamboyant. In one apartment block, where a stout old couple is watching with disapproval from
their balcony, two photographers burst through the shutters above them, leaning close and adjusting their lenses while the pair make sour faces and shake their heads.
At the end of the parade there’s a brief rally. A couple of butch organizers half-heartedly pump their fists and puzzle over the feedback from the PA system. People are waving banners and posterboard cut-outs of such prominent gay rights activists as Nelson Mandela, Bob Marley and Joseph Stalin. Everyone’s looking around, wondering what to do. My disappointment is echoed by many of the others, who are sending SMS messages on their phones and squinting up at the sun with a sort of bewildered futility. There’s congestion along the barricades, where the police are waiting for clearance before letting the captive sodomites out onto the surrounding streets. When we’re finally allowed to funnel out there are a few weary, grateful cheers. After all the fuss leading up to it, the parade itself has mostly fizzled, and I can’t help but wonder whether a few Orthodox Jews hurling bags of flaming feces might’ve been just the spark we needed.
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Alastair
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Cheers!
Hi Christopher, This is just a quick comment to say how much I have enjoyed reading your travel blogs over the last few months. I am unfortuanate enough to have a mind-bendingly boring job, and often spend time browsing the web looking for things to entertain me. I was googling 'Morocco blog' or something like that a while back, keen to hear other people's experiences of Morocco, and stumbled accross your scrawlings here. I quickly went back to the beginning to read all your journals from the start, and have found your writing engaging, personable and humorous throughout. Not many writers achieve any of these well, let alone all of them. So thanks for saving me from boredom for 20 minutes every three days or so, and I'm really looking forward to the next entry! I hope you put this stuff in a book one day, I'll be the first in the queue (on Amazon) to buy it.