July 2005
Hello from Jerusalem,
I had just finished an interesting lunch with the director of an organization that sends groups of Israeli and Palestinian youth to a two week peace-making summer camp in the U.S. Upon their return from America the participants initiate programs and events fostering mutual understanding in their communities, school, synagogues, churches and mosques. Driving back, thinking about lunch and antsy to get back to my office, I was stopped by an opportunity to participate in an impromptu exercise in mutual understanding…in the middle of a Jerusalem street.
I was driving on a road under construction, clogged with construction debris, equipment, and hard hat wearing workers. Have I mentioned Jerusalem traffic yet? Except for Shabbat and holidays (especially Yom Kippur when you could sit with a friend to play a game or two of chess in the middle of the busiest intersection in town), the traffic here is heavy. It can get pretty horrible, really. This formerly four, now two-lane street-under-construction was a perfect example of Jerusalem roads at their worst. Heavy traffic crawled at a snail’s pace. Imagine my consternation and amazement when, from my seat in the second car from the light at a narrow, congested intersection, I saw that though the light had turned green, the car in front of me was not moving. I could tell the driver was fiddling with the ignition, pumping the pedals, probably saying a little prayer (common in this town), possibly muttering the opposite. I shook my head, smiled and waited for the horns to blow. A large truck waited directly behind me, then a bus full of people, then many cars, and no one had room to pass the stalled vehicle: we were all in the same, stuck boat.
About one minute into the green light, the guy in the immobile automobile got out, looked back at his fellow motorists with a sheepish grin and shrugged as if to say, “So it won’t start! What to do? If God (by whichever of His many names he is known here) has decided my car will stop here, who can prevent it?” He popped the hood, messed around a bit, then got back into his car to try, alas in vain, again. As the second green light cycled on, the horns began to blare, as if that would help. I’ve coined a term: a Jerusalem honk. It’s what the fifth car in line does a split second before the light turns green. Automobile horns are well used here. I even use mine at times, not comfortable behavior for a polite American driver (something I now believe most Americans are, at least compared to drivers in India, Portugal, Korea and for sure, Jerusalem), but sometimes, a public service so the line of cars behind me doesn’t stay stuck behind a distracted driver.
Suddenly, an attractive young lady walks purposefully to the man in the car and starts talking to him. They chat for a bit, look around, chat some more, then look some more. I know where this is going and I’m torn between wanting to dive in and help, and feeling hesitant to expose myself to I’m not sure what. Reticence winning, I put on my most stoic, preoccupied expatriate look, as useless as I begin to suspect that will be. A young man wearing a colorful kippah (Jewish male head covering often called a yarmulke in the U.S.) joins the group at the car, says a few words to them, then moves to the rear of the car with the girl. At that instant my eyes meet the girl’s and she beckons me, her raised eyebrows inviting me to the pushing party. With the light cycling back to red once again, the hot summer sun beating down, heating tempers already frayed by daily life in Jerusalem, and the group at the rear of the car waiting, I put my van into park with the motor still running, and in my U.S. government worker suit and tie, join the other two at the stalled car.
Just as I began to think to myself, “Gosh, another pair of hands would sure be nice right about now,” another pair appears attached to a twenty-something Hasidic man in long black coat, black beard, side curls, hat, the works, who joins the three of us. Pushing the car out of the driving lane became quick work for this odd foursome. In no time, we had eased the car into a parking place on the side street out of traffic. With nary a look back, I dashed to my van in time for the light to turn green, possibly for the fourth time by now. Quickly slipping the transmission into drive, I put my foot on the accelerator and eased forward, leaving behind the ecumenical rescue team I had briefly joined.
That moment was a perfect vignette of life in Jerusalem. The pressures of daily life here as anywhere, weigh on everyone: bad traffic, rude people, car breakdowns and all the other troubles and trials of living. Put these in the context of this place fraught with divisions and disagreements, many passionate, some violent, about religion, property, politics and more. You can see how life here can be unusually wearing. And yet somehow, on a human level, this pressurized mixture of people can come together in a pinch to serve common human needs, doing even something as simple as pushing a broken down car out of the road.
As a witness to such moments and a party, albeit a cautious one, to this moment, I still have hope.
