A place has different meanings for different people, and the Jewish people have centuries of experience in imbuing deep meanings into stones. It is an experience that reaches the highest levels of expertise where Jerusalem is concerned. The subjectivity of scenery overwhelmed me this week, as I walked through the Jaffa gate in Jerusalem. If I were a baggage less beholder, the Jaffa gate in Jerusalem would merely be a place of interesting hustle and bustle. People of different religions and traditions rush in and out of the old city, longing to inhale some of its mysteries, enchantments and charms. The gate opens to a colorful, busy world, filled with odors and tastes that assault the senses. Arab youngsters roll through the gate, their carts filled with large, oval-shaped and sesame-covered bagels known as "Jerusalem Bagels", baklava cakes soaking in honey and freshly-squeezed, cold lemonade that is so sweet it makes you nauseous; Jews in traditional garments walk hurriedly toward hidden entrances, their heads down, their eyes darting in different, nervous directions as they hasten their pace and disappear in the alleyways, always walking in a rigid fashion that gives them the appearance of being surrounded by a hidden wall that separates them from the rest of the world; Armenian monks walk gracefully, slowly, sometimes as if walking in a dream, filled with flowery scents and music of harps, defying the thick air and the noise of the surrounding crowd.
The gate is a place of diversity and tense pluralism, of vibrant, living, pounding hearts. But for me, walking through it, I could hear the tortured voices of the past; I could see the shadows of my family members, silently hanging in the wind; and I could hear the quiet lullaby cut the air with beauty that drowns all other voices. Because for my family, the gate was always a place of tragic, painful and haunting death.
Almost 90 years ago, when World War I was ravaging the entire region, my great aunt Feiga was living with her 2 sons in Jerusalem. Her firstborn, Saul, was old enough to be drafted, and the Turks were indeed taking all the young men they could – and most of them never returned. The only ones who were able to avoid the draft were those who were crippled, ill or rich. While Feiga's husband was indeed considered rich, there was one thing he was even more than that: a great, cruel miser. And an abuser. Feiga and her sons never knew a happy or peaceful moment when he was home. For Saul, going to the army was an escape, as long as he was positioned close by so he could help his mother against the cruelty of his father..
Until they ran out of luck.
One night Saul came home, and he quietly told his parents that if he doesn't pay the Turks BAKSHISH – bribery - he will be sent to the Antallia front the next morning. It was a front that no one returned from, a certain death warrant. Desperate, Feiga turned to her husband and for the first time in their married life she begged him for money. Her husband turned to her and yelled: "Are you out of your mind?! I would rather have him killed than give him money! At least with the money something good can be done, what good is he??" Feiga did the one thing she never dreamed she would do with her husband: she argued. At the heat of the argument, he was so angry that he turned to hit her. At that moment, Saul couldn't take it any more: years of humiliation, hunger, fear, sadness and silence erupted in one great outburst: he lifted his gun and fired twice – one shot directly at his father's heart, the other at his own. They both died instantly. When the Turks arrived in the morning, they found Feiga sitting on the floor, Saul's body in her lap, her hand caressing his head, her lips singing a sweet lullaby. Her husband lay dead at her feet. Understanding what had happened, the Turks decided to punish her and her family "so all those who wish to escape the service" will learn what happens to traitors. They hung the 2 dead bodies at the entrance of the Jaffa gate, and ordered Feiga to stand vigil. For ten days and ten night she stood, quietly singing, stopping only for an occasional drink of water or piece of bread that merciful people managed to stealthily pass to her. After ten days she was allowed to burry her dead. That is the scene I see whenever I go the Jaffa gate, the scene of my own personal ghosts: Feiga pacing and humming, two bodies hanging, the DALAL - the Turkish announcer – walking in front of her and announcing to the world her sins. And I can only think that, if a place has a different meaning for each person, the meaning also brings thoughts. At the Jaffa gate, I could only think of the following verses, stemming from my larger narrative: "Yitgadal VeYitkadash Shmei Rabah..."
Why have I told you this story? The answer to this question is yet to come in a few, short weeks...

Until then
Shabbat shalom,

Liat