A boring post, but so tends to be life

My window

The infamous rooftop

“Nu” I asked Zohar, the middle-aged woman, whom I often see behind the reception desk at my current home, the Old Jaffa Hostel “Are you the boss here?”

She laughed.

“The boss” she answered, gesturing towards the ceiling with both hands “is upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” I parroted. I was slightly baffled; while there is a great rooftop at the top of the building, and a bunch of mattresses for more adventurous travellers to sleep on, that’s about it.

“I meant, up there” she corrected herself, annoyed at my dumbness, and then I clicked: I realized which Boss she was talking about.

“But” added Zohar after a moment, as if chewing on thought that wouldn’t go away “the real boss is here” she thumped her chest “the boss up there doesn’t always help, I’m not convinced. But your heart knows and will tell you, if you listen well.”

Both Zohar and her daughter are, like many Israelis, tough and a little abrasive on the outside. Like an eggshell with spikes, perhaps?

“Have a look at the map yourself, it’s all there. Don’t be lazy!” Zohar snapped at me on my first day at the hostel, after hearing me inquire timidly whether “there is a chance-that perhaps-she might happen to know-where the post office was”.

But once you crack that eggshell, there is bounty of pudding and sweetness in there. After over a week of me being here, we are very friendly.

And I love this bloody place.

Even though the noise outside (the flea market, people shouting at each other at different times of day and night) annoys the shit out of me, and at night (oh at night) ravenous mosquitos feast on my dermal tissues like there is no tomorrow.

I love the rustic rooms full of old photos, and I love the fact that there is enough other half-residents and half-tourists like me stationing here; queer, socially awkward nerdy types, sexual outlaws or undefined kinds of misfits – which makes me feel right at home. There is of course a steady stream of young, 95% American backpackers passing through, clogging the lounge with their ipads, iphones and whatnot. They are sweet, but they barely register on my film screen, if you know what I mean? They don’t seem to notice me either. Somewhat, somehow, I’ve moved to the more invisible middle-aged group, and how did that happen and when? So, while the young lasses don their super cool dancing-queen outfits to go out partying for the whole night, I chat with Zik the cleaner in broken Hebrew.

“Enough of this studying” he’d tease me “If you want to learn Hebrew, you’ve got to speak with people!”

“What was that? Sorry, I didn’t understand” I’d say in return.

By the way, I haven’t said my last word with regards to the glamorous party-land yet. The raucous gate-crasher Smilla will be back one day in her wildest glory. Just sayin’

In the meantime, the quaint rooftop of the Old Jaffa Hostel it is. Me and outsiders, out-sidering together awkwardly. Then the magnificent “Allah Akbars” (Muslim call for prayer) rip from the three neighbouring mosques in a thwarted attempt at unison, and the whole mess dissolves for a minute. The clear voices of these unseen muezzins seem to cradle my heart; I long for these moments. The other day these spiritual chants went on for an exceptionally long time, and I was ecstatic.

But not everyone was.

“Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuuuuuck Allah!!!” an anguished voice floated over the roofs, competing, albeit unsuccessfully with those of the imams.

“La illaha illa Allah!” responded the muezzins.

“Fuuuuck Allah” the voice grew more desperate and raspy as it diminished in power.

“Allahu Ekber” continued the muslim singers, unfazed.

To that there was no response. Undoubtedly the infidel lost his sinful voice.

Noone should fuck with Allah, you see.

Anyone could be Jesus. Yes, even you!

“Hallo! My name is Carlos*” introduced himself a bright young man after Samira entered her dorm room at Abraham Hostel in Jerusalem for the first time.

"Hi, I'm Samira" said she.

"So, my name is Carlos, but really, I am Jesus"

Whoa, how's that for an acquaintance, Samira made a small inward jump. On the outside, she kept her cool. She's used to eccentric individuals; she worked in fashion industry for many years after all.

He seemed nice and friendly, so Samira continued to acquaint herself with him. I'm sure as hell she was intrigued. The Messiah business was no joke, or sassy pick-up line, it turned out. Carlos, or "Jesus" truly believed that it was his mission act as the hand of God and (try to) redeem the stray (again) and sinful (always) human race. He'd been in the Holy City for three weeks up to that point, performing purifying rituals and waiting for the God-appointed day to announce his son's second coming. Set ablaze, the infidel Jerusalem was to crumble and fall. And it was amidst the debris, that Carlos cum the Messiah was to be revealed; to lead the petrified flock towards purer, simpler future, governed by love and devoid of grief.

But she did go to dinner with him.

Despite that unusual kink of his, Carlos was no wall-jumping raving loony; no half-baked cookie. His speech was coherent. He has a comely face, adorned by a beard that he'd grown long. His sense of humour remained unscathed. He was blessed with a healthy appetite for food, although he did refrain from alcohol and grapes. And last but not least, he proved not entirely resistant to Samira's womanly charms.

"You drive me absolutely bonkers" he said to her "But right now the timing isn't right to pursue a new girlfriend".

Samira didn't despair.

The Big Day was approaching fast.

"Would you like to come to the (Wailing) Wall with me tonight, to watch Jerusalem burn and be rebuilt by God's will?" he offered generously to my friend.

"Sure" answered Samira. Off they went. Alas, Armageddon didn't hit. Not a single burning leaf was to be sighted in the immediate surroundings, not to mention burning bush. Nothing, but the most ordinary comings and going of the HaKotel HaMa'aravi - land. The evening stretched interminably like Negev Desert and Samira grew weary.

"Stay a bit longer" pleaded "Jesus" - "I know it will happen tonight. You and I will rebuild Jerusalem together"

But she had to go. She had already made plans to celebrate her last night in Jerusalem with a friend, by having lambchops and wine.

She saw him at the hostel later on. Still no miracle. "Jesus" returned deflated but still hopeful. He threated he was going to visit the Western Wall the day after. Maybe the exact date of his appointment with God had slipped through the cracks in his mind, due all excitement. Or maybe God himself had changed his plan ever so slightly. Unfortunately time wasn't on Carlos' side. His flight back to Miami was leaving in a couple of days.

* * *

It’s the first time I have heard of such phenomenon, but apparently, the malady called Jerusalem Syndrome is no joke. Affected tourists have been found wandering in the Judean desert wrapped in hotel bed sheets or crouched at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, waiting to birth the infant Jesus.

The Jerusalem Syndrome was first clinically identified by Dr. Yair Bar El, former director of the Kfar ShaulPsychiatric Hospital and currently district psychiatrist for the Ministry of Health. Bar El studied hundreds of tourists who were referred to Kfar Shaul for treatment between 1979 and 1993. On the basis of his work with these visitors, who had been declared temporarily insane, he reached some highly interesting conclusions.

The clinical picture that emerges usually consists of the same symptoms. It begins with general anxiety and nervousness, and then the tourist feels an imperative need to visit the holy places. First, he undertakes a series of purification rituals, like shaving all his body hair, cutting his nails and washing himself over and over before he dons white clothes. Most often, he swathes himself in the white sheets from his hotel room. Then he begins to cry or to sing Biblical or religious songs in a very loud voice. The next step is an actual visit to the holy places, most often from the life of Jesus. The afflicted tourist begins to deliver a sermon, demanding that humanity become calmer, purer, and less materialistic.

No one is certain about exactly what causes Jerusalem Syndrome. Perhaps it's jarring for a serious Bible student to arrive in modern-day Israel where, instead of prophets in sandals, he hears businessmen discussing profits on cell phones. Or maybe it's the fact that Jerusalem has always been a magnet for messianic messages, and visitors get carried away.

Perhaps it’s not too far fetched to suggest that before your next planned visit to Jerusalem, you might want to take along the phone number for your favourite shrink back home.

More info http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/History/jersynd.html

*not his real name

Endings, beginnings and all that jazz called life

Old Jaffa by night

'"Something's ending" said Jaskier

"Something's beginning" answered Yarpen'

A.Sapkowski, Saga o wiedzminie.

Alas, there’ve been some shifts in my Israeli life (did I just say "My Israeli life?" ha, ha).

I have moved cities, for once. I still cruise between the City of Fire and the City By The Sea for work reasons. But I’m now based in Tel Aviv, in Old Jaffa to be exact. A quaint, blessed little area surrounded by mosques and nourished by the sea.

I have also suffered some rather significant losses in the friends’ department.

While this last thing saddens me greatly, the rock-solid truth that all endings tend to coincide with new beginnings has been a consolation to me.

You could say that after the first weeks of fervent travelling and social activity, my existence in the Holy Land has finally come to a standstill of sorts (much like Jerusalem and Tel Aviv do on Friday nights).

My days seem to revolve around two activities: studying Hebrew and writing (plus the occasional falafel+pita fix for the hurting brain). I also go to the beach. In the evenings I peruse the narrow streets of Old Jaffa with my camera, boringly enchanted by rustic charm of the sandstone buildings and the glint of tastefully placed lighting. Then I’m in bed with my book by 10 pm, more than ready to delve into the land of Morpheus. Yup, I’m a complete bore – but that’s no news. The news to me is that under that mediocre costume beats a heart, one that is brimming with passion - for people, for connection, for experience, for living - once again.

I still have my moments: when my demons crawl out of the dark corners and screech in my ears, and pull at my sleeves and want me to be reckless, or to run. I wouldn't be myself without these, right?

But undoubtedly there are minutes, hours even, when I feel peaceful. Or contented. Or perhaps…ooops, what was the word?

Happy.

And that's good. Tov meod.

Shabat Shalom!

Random snapshots, stolen while walking the (exceptionally busy today) narrow streets of Old Jerusalem...

Challah bread

Co-existing peacefully

Don't mess with us!

what happened to...Axl Rose then?

Not the Garden of Eden indeed...

Shabat Shalom everyone!

Is it hot over there?

Here’s a little Jerusalem story that Bertrand recalled to me, and is happy for me to share with you.

Characters:

Bertrand, the ever curious scientist on a spiritual path

An Orthodox Jew (let’s call him OJ) of unspecified age, properly clad in black and white, with twirling side locks completing the picture.

Place:

Lobby of the hostel, where Bertrand is staying. Bertrand is chilling on the couch, when OJ, who seems to be the friend of the house and frequent visitor saunters in, sees Bertrand, and the two of them begin small talk.

OJ: Where are you from?

B: From France, but now I live in Australia.

OJ: Wow, Australia! So, tell me, is it hot out there?

B: Well, it’s winter at the moment…

OJ (interrupts him): No, I mean GIRLS. Is it HOT???

Bertrand (bewildered): I guess you could say it’s all right…

They go on for a little while in this semi-tedious mode, and then…

OJ: What do you do for work?

B: Research.

OJ (suddenly animated, fingers flexing in kneading movements): MASSAGE???

B: No, research!

OJ (disappointed): Oh…

The story, when told, spurred peals of laughter, followed by earnest reflection whether such smooth example of one-track mind (hot->girls->massage) could, and would be by-product of OJ’s religion-governed sexual abstinence, and in consequence, his sexual repression?

Quoted after Marissa Brostoff: Abstinence Education: Not Just For the Goyim?

"That the Orthodox Union supports abstinence before marriage is hardly news. Halacha (Jewish law) and rabbinic writings prohibit not just non-marital sexual relations, but also some seemingly benign behaviors that might precipitate sex outside of marriage. Many traditional Jews are shomer negiah, which means that they refrain from physical contact with members of the opposite sex other than a spouse or close relative. They may also practice yichud, which prohibits members of the opposite sex from spending time alone together."

You can read the rest of the article here

I reluctantly recalled my own up-close third-degree encounter with a young Orthodox man in a dark alley of Old Jerusalem from the year before, which left a bad taste in my mouth (but thankfully wasn’t threatening to my life or anything like that). Then there was the Bedouin in the Negev, a young man lonely in the desert and most likely forbidden contact with girls of his own faith (Muslim I presume), consoling himself by voyeuring Western tourists during their ablutions and attempting to lure them into his bedroom ("Do you want to see my room?").

Says Shiva Rodriguez of Liberated Christians: "Some of the side effects of sexual repression as observed in human beings include lack of self-confidence, low self-esteem, depression, suicidal tendencies, and higher aggressive behavior. A child who has been taught to believe that sex is dirty and bad will often mature to become an adult who is self-conscious about his body and overwhelmed with guilt when the natural desire to breed arouses him. Adults who are restricted in their sexual inclinations will often experience frustration that can result in either suicidal actions or violence towards others.

It should come as a surprise to no one that societies that have more relaxed legislature over sexual matters enjoy a lower violent crime rate and are not often seen butting heads with other societies on the war field.
Numerous medical professionals, psychologists, philosophers, and other champions of sexual liberation and its benefits to society have been defamed and their work bastardized by political and religious leaders on the platform of morality and wholesome family values. Citizens of such societies are therefore instructed to deeply repress many of their strong natural urges and desires, resulting in an increase of frustration, stress, and emotional instability that is disguised with the mask of being “the right thing to do.” (...)

Often this opens the door wide for religion, particularly the brands that demand their followers forsake earthly delights and suppress all natural inclinations as proof of being a good and worthy person. Never has the idea of how sexual repression can result in aggressive behavior been better demonstrated than with the history of the followers of such religions butchering and torturing other peoples whose attitudes on such subjects differed from their own. Nor is it a coincidence that the punishments dealt to such people often involved the mutilation of their sexual organs."

Now go and read more here

Hey, I'm not saying that every religious person is a pervert. Okay? Okay. There are numerous spiritual traditions (Tibetan Vajrayana Buddhism for example), where sexual abstinence is practiced, but the practitioners are given methods to harness and transform their sexual energy into wisdom and compassion - to sublimate it. I don't know how effective they are in reality, but at least the powerful kundalini energy is acknowledged and worked with - it is not repressed.

Good for them.

But for the rest of us, ignorant common folk...

Bertrand, Samira and I looked at each other and wagged our heads:

"Sexual repression?" we concluded "No good."

Update:

For those interested in reading about some implications of being "shomer negiah", go there: Nice Jewish Girl's Blog.