Commentary from Jim

Note: what follows is a commentary from Jim about the complexities of this place. He asks that you be sure to read both parts.

I Hate Jerusalem

I hate Jerusalem. It disturbs me. It sickens my very being. Touring here is an immersion into centuries of cruelty, violence and bloodshed. Perhaps not unlike other major cities we have visited but here the history is palpable and unyielding. The perpetual cycle of death/destruction and reclamation/restoration makes living in the moment seem unreal and tenuous. Any period of tranquility is mortgaged in blood; the next payment is always due.

I’m not even sure which Jerusalem I hate: Old City, New City, West, East, Muslim Quarter, Jewish Quarter, Christian Quarter? It’s many divisions symbolic of the kind of fractured spirit that permits the abdication of moral responsibility and fosters righteous, self-serving violence. I lay no fault nor assign any blame. I see people unable to completely free themselves from their destructive heritage.

People go about their daily routine, as they should. For me, the tragedy, sadness and mayhem that both predates and threatens this moment is unbearable. The intrusion of visions and voices, cries and screams from the past flood my conscious. I am sure that if I were a resident I would find some way to filter or neutralize the impact of Jerusalem’s brutal past on my psyche. I am equally sure that its toxicity could not help but seep into and alter my mind, mood and manner. As a visitor I have the luxury of outrage and contempt. I risk exposure but am able to return to the safety of my suburban life (deadly in its own way) where brutality is limited to schoolyard brawls and overwrought soccer battlefields. I fear, however, the exposure may have been too great.

I find nothing sacred or holy about a land that spawns brutality and annihilation. It is impossible to ignore the heinous acts committed in the name of religion. No church or mosque or synagogue can eradicate the blood spilt for its foundation. Architecture and art are monuments to belief systems that value land over life.

I have a prayer for this city but no god to pray to for god has been hijacked by those who use him as artillery in a war, not of their creation, but of their perpetuation. God has been turned from a plowshare into a sword, devastating the land rather than cultivating it. I pray that all who live on this-or-that boundary find a way to stop the seepage of a brutal past into their own lives. The only boundary that should exist is the one that permanently seals off the past in order to secure the future.

I Love Jerusalem

I love Jerusalem. I love Jerusalem much the way one loves a charming, intelligent, disturbed-but-stable relative. Despite erratic past behavior, one can enjoy their company, delight in their eccentricities and marvel at their gifts, all the while nursing a slight uneasiness. My uneasiness has nothing to due with safety or security. I admit that there have been times, while strolling down Jaffa St, touring a museum or watching a crowded bus pass by, that I’ve imagined a devastating explosion. However, I also imagine, at times, Joan Rivers naked. Clearly my propensity for horrific scenes has nothing to do with security.

My uneasy relationship with this disturbed Jerusalem is that I can’t seem to get past the past. This is not a city that lacks for drama, nor does it lack for energy, vitality and creativity. What’s not to love?

I sit here, at an outdoor café enjoying my Balkan shashouka for breakfast. The city begins to wake. Storefronts open at a sluggish pace as if hung over from the previous night’s frenetic crowds of shoppers and diners and Birthright youths. A father strolls in with his young son taking the table next to mine. The boy’s legs dangle and swing freely from his seat, clearly in love with the man who brought him here. What I love about Jerusalem is the tapestry unfolding before me. Despite depictions of a disturbing past, it is beautiful and inspirational. Its elements are woven together to tell a story that is both tragic and heroic. Taken as a whole it is a work of art in progress crafted by a people whose strength and determination will not be denied.

During our visit to Hadassah Hospital to view the Chagall windows, the docent told the story of an attack on a medical convoy from Mt Scopus in 1948. In her telling she repeatedly used the phrase “…when WE were attacked.” WE not THEY. There was no question in her tone and timbre that the assault was as if she were there at the time. It occurred to me in that moment, this was not the first time while in Israel that I had heard the collective WE in reference to events outside of one’s personal experience. Perhaps that is not unique to the Jews, however, I would never say,
WE were attacked by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor!” Instead I would more likely say, “The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor” with no visceral attachment to the assault on my people and, by extension, an attack on me.

In Jerusalem, the epicenter of Jewish identity, a unified, collective, visceral identity is the heart that sustains life; all the more amazing given the centuries of Diaspora. Despite their far flung presence across many national boundaries the collective WE was maintained and brought back to this city in an ark of hope. It wasn’t until I joined Marc Friedman’s minyan at the Western Wall (Kotel) at the start of Shabbat that I began to understand how this phenomenon might have occurred.

While the others prayed in Hebrew, I read the English translation. Having been raised Catholic, I am more than familiar with parts of the old testament, particularly Psalms. As I read, I noticed, really noticed, the use of the collective WE throughout. It was Torah, common to all Jews in the Diaspora that sustained the Jewish identity. Having observed many times, over the years, the importance of the Torah in Jewish life, I now understood its significance.

The Jewish presence here in Jerusalem is the result of an impossible collective identity maintained over the ages. The voice of the Chagall docent not only relayed the details of the assault but, in an unmistakable tone, conveyed that WE will not be victimized. WE will not be left vulnerable to the capricious, if not hateful, conditions in other national venues. I love Jerusalem because it is populated by people determined to move beyond past hardships and declare, “WE are a people. What is done to one is done to all.” I love Jerusalem because it has led the way, for other races, ethnicities and belief systems to sustain their own collective identities in the face of those who would strip them of it.

I love Jerusalem because, in this moment, a surprisingly cool breeze crosses my face and a young Arab boy sits across from the man he loves the most and WE are having breakfast.