This Year in Jerusalem (well, almost)

On the plane from Kiev to Tel Aviv I sat wedged between an elderly Ukrainian woman and a young curly haired Israeli in Tie Dye responding to an e-mail correspondence asking what my favorite part of my favorite city, New York, was. Saved as a draft awaiting an Internet connection, I almost immediately rewrote it by the time I settled into my bed last Sunday night. Perhaps the fact that I have spend the last three months surrounded by monotonous Soviet buildings or the cold weather of the Caucasus (or the fact that no one here has questioned what ‘being Kosher’ means) is to blame, but Tel Aviv has inched its way closer and closer to New York’s exalted place in my mind. Of course nothing will replace the feeling of leaving a Yankee game high fiving people I don’t know or grabbing a slice of the pizza and sinking my teeth into sweet sauce and savory crust. Yet, Tel Aviv is an incredible city. Each section, much like New York, has its own distinct personality. Neve Tzedeck, where I have spent this past week with relatives from France, is an old neighborhood with richly renovated flats lining the narrow stone streets that overhang with lushes gardens. Its main arteries are clogged with petite Parisian cafes serving up a modern mixture of sushi, falafel, and gelatos, Israeli fashion designer shops with quirky crafts and run way cature, and art galleries filled with sophisticated canvases of old men in Kippas.

 Only a few blocks away is a restored district of Bauhaus houses, known as the White City, built in the late 1920s and 1930s by both local architects and immigrants from Europe. Stark white washed facades line the wide promenade with geometric faces and functionality in the smallest of details. Walking in the opposite direction one happens upon Jaffa, the original town as ancient as civilization’s history (the solitary rock that stands among crashing waves off the port is said to be where Andromeda was chained in Greek mythology). The olden rocks intertwine to form a maze of walls, hidden arched doorways, minarets, and gardens of bright orange and purple flowers. Even the more urban parts of Tel Aviv seem beautiful with parks and monuments penetrating the corporate towers. And, finally, all this moves towards the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, which completes the utopia with crystal clear waters, sandy (and free) beaches, and a boardwalk lined with fruit juice stands, parks, and even a lane for bikers (a far cry from my summers at Belmar, though to be honest wading through the waves did make me long for some DJais cheese fries and the porch of a certain 19^th Ave apartment).

But what really puts this city in the running with the Big Apple is the people. For the first time in months I see bright colors (no, not my current hue of red but in local attire) and diversity: the single ethnicity that crowds the streets of Tbilisi and Yerevan save for a lonesome foreign diplomat is replaced with men and women of all races and religions. There are Ethiopian Jews and Philippine Christians rollerblading, a male couple sitting together on a bench overlooking a serene sunset, lubavitches in tall fur hats buying water next to a tall girl with pink hair and a tattoo across her back. And, in contrast to those Caucasians I have left behind, when I smile on the streets people smile back, and I even make a friend with an Arab environmentalist who also enjoys a run at seven each morning.

Prying myself from walking the streets and absorbing its energy, I spend my first pesach in Israel, finally making Next Year in Jerusalem a reality (well, almost). We join twenty other fellow Frenchmen in a private hotel room for our first seder, done entirely in Hebrew. Though I miss wearing a Boston hat for the Wicked son and answering questions for ‘I’m an Egyptian, now get me out of here!’ while charocet circles the table, this year’s seder is filled with my cousin Victoria teaching me Who Know’s One in Hebrew and swallowing a long string of bitter herbs (Herrmann family- if you thought our ‘big chucks’ were bad wait till you see the size of what I ate).  Once the four questions were asked and all our hand washing was done we began on the meal, a buffet, and on conversation, in French, about everything from the differences in American and French universities to Justin Beber’s recent visit to Israel. Despite me hoping this is not the last Passover spent in my homeland, these seders will truly be something I will never forget.

While not busy holding a shank bone above my head or hiding a piece of matzah in the hotel I find my way to the Palmach Museum, wherein I took a vivid and interactive journey following eleven freedom fighters of the Palmach from 1941 to 1948 through desert battles, celebratory camp fires, and sobering grave visits. The Palmach was the elite fighting force of the Haganah, the underground army of the Jewish community) during the period of the British Mandate of Palestine, and though the stories told are of fabricated soldiers the emotions one leaves with are very real. I also visited the Tel Aviv Museum of Modern Art, where I found halls filled with wonderful Degas and a large collection of Chagall combined with a rarely impressive exhibition of contemporary figurative paintings; a few days later I biked North to the Eretz Yisrael Museum, a large outdoor expanse of archeological sites, Jewish folk dress from Morocco to Uzbekistan, Roman mosaics, wine presses, an Israeli postal history and coin museum, and even a planetarium- in essence an entire Smithsonian within in one city bloc. Friday morning I accompanied my cousins to the shook, or the market place. The narrow street, hidden from the sun by awnings, is flanked with everything anyone could possibly need: fish heads lay on ice next to a mountain of fresh strawberries and passion fruit as vendors yell their prices; the sweet aroma of spices flow from enormous bowls of blue, red, and yellow seasonings while all of Tel Aviv frantically scans the stands for a few last minute dates or avocados for tonight’s feast. 

As Shabbat fell onto Tel Aviv, extinguishing lights in lofty apartment buildings and halting the busses that usually bustle along in bright yellow, I found myself looking out from a balcony at a breathtaking view in Jaffa, in the oldest part of the city. The sea rushed calmly onto invisible rocks beyond the sand colored city walls as distant hotel towers stood solemnly against the blackness, leaving an ominous neon reflection in the dark waters. Looking below, I watched a single candle being lit through the darkness of a church window. One by one, pious faces came into sight lit by a warm glow until the entire interior was basked in a dance of orange and yellow flames. As the figures took their seats in the pews, the bell tower sprang to life with a droning wail, soon to be joined by a nearby Imam calling from an unseen minaret. “Even the sounds are fighting each other.” My eyes peel from a little girl bowed in prayer towards the host of the evening, our Kiddush cup and Matzot waiting for us just behind the ajar door. I watch as he too looks down at the church, listening to the bell echo off the Imam’s melodious chanting.

If asked what first came to mind when reading about my runs with Mohammed, surely the first thing for many is that he is an Arab and I a Jew; the fact that we are both environmentalists with pessimistic views towards a comprehensive and multilateral climate change mandate is at best a second thought. Either by society’s nudge or our own human characteristics we tend to highlight differences rather than similarities; the media is perchance the guiltiest of this practice. This past Thursday hundreds of demonstrators took to the streets of Tel Aviv to sign a declaration for an independent Palestine. The media broadcasted footage of those against the demonstration holding signs with ‘traitors’ and ‘Jewish Nazis’ screaming against white cardboard as men and women marched peacefully in the backdrop. What they failed to mention was the diversity of both groups: artists, soldiers, Sephardics, Ashkenazis, Arabs, and all else in between were present, pushing aside their vast differences to rise in unison. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict may be as distant to a peace accord as an understanding on environmental initiatives is between Green Action and The Patriot at Lehigh. And yet, I cannot help but find some hope in the cooperation I see between individuals I thought could not possibly find even a favorite food in common. The Do Touch theatre in Neve Tzedeck brings together those who see the world through their fingertips and those through their eyes for a common vision. The Israeli PETA stands at the corners of Yitzack Rabin Square, both Arabs and Jews with pamphlets in hand. Even the soccer game broadcasted on the beach of Real Madrid against Barcelona brings English, French, Hebrew, and Spanish speakers together to scream at a missed goal. If we open our eyes a bit wider, perhaps we will realize that in a region seemingly overflowing with disagreement and differences, similarities, and collaboration, are actually all around us. Bundling my scarf around my neck and turning towards the Shabbat table I respond to my host’s comment. “No, not fighting. They’re in harmony.”