Jerusalem Report — 2019

🚌 I’m quite independent getting around the city bus system with my pass, similar to my Metrocard in Manhattan. On an excursion to the Shuk (downtown open market), my son Mordechai (f/k/a Max) and I stepped onto a bus with standing room only, the usual combination of many secular but majority religious people on board, including mothers with strollers, Torah scholars, and schoolchildren.

I couldn’t make my way down the crowded aisle but no matter, this silver-haired lady can stand with the best of them.

I stood over two seated boys about nine or ten years old. I knew they were religious by their yarmulkes (skullcaps), white dress shirts, black slacks, and the ritual fringes hanging out from under their shirts (tzitzis). Their father, standing next to me, said something to them in rapid Hebrew. They both looked at him and listened, although seeming a bit puzzled, and then one of them climbed out of his seat to relinquish it to me.

When we got home, I told my son how impressed I was with the dad who was teaching proper manners to his children.

My son, who understands and speaks Hebrew after his many years as a resident, explained, “Mom, that’s not what happened! The man was not their father. He saw you standing near them and explained to the boys that they should move to make a place for the older person. After one of the boys did, he went on to say to both of them how it was an honor (in Hebrew, a Mitzvah) to show respect, and that God would look over them and their families in their merit.”

This is Jerusalem. Things like this happen here. A teaching from a stranger to a child on a city bus in the space of a minute, from the older and wiser to the younger with a thousand things still to learn, needing a nudge in a practical way . . . perhaps leaving more of an imprint than a book lesson.

Yes, I’m thankful for the seat, but even more so to witness the learning and values passed on through generations, one bus stop at a time.

✈️ When I fly to Israel, I get the third degree by El Al agents, all Israeli, standing at portable podiums lined up in the ticketing area at Logan Airport. Every passenger waits their turn to be interviewed and observed closely. Maybe they are trained by the Mossad (Israeli Secret Service). Protecting an aircraft is no small thing.

The fact that I am a silver-haired grandmother visiting her grandchildren makes no difference. I better know their names and birthdates and be prepared to show photos on my iPad. What real grandmother doesn’t have photos?

I’m grateful that when my son and his family travel from Tel Aviv to the States, they and all others on the flight undergo examination on high levels as well. Precious cargo.

I remember the days before 9/11 when we could get to the airport late and run to the gate unfettered, waving to the agents to let us on. Even Grandma doesn’t get a pass anymore. And wouldn’t that be ageism, assuming that older folks cannot form intent or wish to be automatically exempt from safety measures? We are largely good citizens willing to cooperate with the authorities responsible for our safety.

I’m on board with it.

🇮🇱 I traveled to Israel for the first time in December 1999. Mordechai had been studying at Aish Hatorah since 1997 and I figured it was time to visit him there, both to support him in his learning endeavors and catch a glimpse of the religious life he chose. He arranged for a small apartment in the Old City and found a guide to give me the Israel 101 tours of archaeological and holy sites.

One early morning, we hiked up Masada together. If I had known how steep and treacherous some of the paths, I would not have done it—but I did. The place is full of ghosts. Looking down at the berms that the Roman engineers patiently built up to the plateau to reach the Jews seeking safety there—and the hidden caves where they were overcome—I too felt the horror of their numbered days.

I’ve returned to Israel almost every year since then, as each of my four granddaughters was born, eventually covering every month and nearly every holiday.

In January of 2019, I booked my ticket on short notice to serve as Mother of the Groom at Mordechai’s remarriage. I escorted Sara, my beautiful new daughter-in-law, to the chuppah (wedding canopy) on a magical Jerusalem night, on a rooftop terrace under starry skies.

This last half of December 2019 is my first time visiting during Chanukah week.

🏡 Mordechai found me an Airbnb in the neighborhood, a modern “tiny house” barely fit for two but perfect for one. The bedroom was rather monkish, with two single beds and a closet with six hangers and bare wooden shelves but no door. The kitchen and bath were sleek and modern, obviously remodeled for the Airbnb trade. The front room had a leather loveseat couch and a kitchen table which I used for a desk. Behind the entry gate to the property, the path was strewn with tropical flowers and various forms of ornamental cactus. A small table with chairs sat under a palm tree in the sunny side yard.

Each morning and evening, I walked for exercise and exploration up the hills and down the streets in a neighborhood reminding me of San Francisco, with its multiple levels of steep streets but instead covering the hills of Jerusalem. I ordered my morning coffee and brioche at the patisserie, a ten minute walk up the hill, and planned my day.

I learned a few things on this trip that I hadn’t encountered before:

🍷 Chanukah in Israel is nonstop party time, eight days in a row. Families gather or friends meet all over the city. The highways are jammed and busses are filled with revelers, the young and hip fill the wine bars downtown, and children visit grandparents to claim their Chanukah gelt.

I’ve never seen so many donuts (sufganiot) in my life—bakeries outdo each other in tasty fillings and creative toppings. My patisserie up the street, owned by a family who emigrated from France to escape ant-Semitism, displayed the most artistic examples, carefully displayed as if in a Parisian shop window.

The bakeries at the Shuk replenish supplies on large trays every hour. I learned that Starbucks in the early 2000s and Dunkin’ Donuts in 1996 attempted to establish multiple locations but their efforts failed and they’ve stayed away since. Israelis are fine with American products, but don’t mess with Middle Eastern expertise at baking holiday treats and brewing espressos and cappuccinos with quality beans roasted and ground on site.

🕎 What I also learned is that Menorahs are lit and remain outside to openly celebrate and publicize the ancient miracle wherein a one day supply of oil for the temple lamps burned for eight. The prevailing custom is to stand the menorah not just in the window, but outdoors. Shockingly, it took me my entire life to acquire this information. In winter weather conditions, rain or strong winds won’t extinguish the flame.

My son brought over a menorah enclosed by a glass container with a metal frame for lighting not candles, but wicks in small glass cups of liquid or solidified oil. We lighted each night both at his place and on the steps to my tiny house.

My husband’s Yahrzeit (date of death in Hebrew calendar) falls on the seventh night, always. I observed a personal moment of silence, then let my son know, “I will never again feel joy on the seventh night, even if I am in Israel.” In the orthodox tradition, he had sponsored a learning session for religious men in the community, with a spread of food and sweets, as an honor to his dad. How kind of him to help diminish some of the sadness for me.

On my walks, I saw menorahs displayed at homes and apartment buildings all over the city on the front stoop or on stone walls or hanging by a wire from the mailbox. I never liked digging candle wax out of the holders and this, finally, solves that irksome problem.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 New families have challenges, same as I did. Mordechai has four girls. His wife Sara has a boy and a girl. Together, they have children ages 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, and 17 and visitation schedules with the other parent.

When I married in 1972, I became both a wife and a parent of two little boys. I see Mordechai and Sara doing exactly what I did, treating all of the children as equal and loved members of the family, regardless of birth origin and legal status. The kids are navigating their own relationships with each other just as the parents are adjusting to the new children in their households.

Continuing with the principle I instinctively adopted as a newlywed, I now consider myself a grandmother of six Israeli teenagers. The new family needs support and affirmation now, just as we did then.

On the first Shabbos (Sabbath) all of the children were away. We enjoyed a quiet day taking walks, reading, eating the food prepared the day before and staying warmed on the heating tray, maybe sneaking in a nap.

On the second Shabbos, my granddaughters slept over. They brought their books and curled up to read on the beanbag couch. Their current favorite is the Harry Potter series—three of the girls read him in English, the fourth prefers the Hebrew translation.

✡️ Board games and word games are alive and well. I brought over SORRY!, a game I had played in my childhood. Along with the children, I learned the rules, developed strategies, and wiled away the evening hours after clearing the dinner table for games. For a change of pace, we took out the Mad Libs—Chanukah Edition for silliness and belly laughs.

Sample:  “We celebrate Chanukah for 100 days because that’s how long the chocolate syrup lasts!”

Then some gambling, playing Dreidel and piling up or losing shekels, dependent purely on the luck of the landing. With my granddaughters’ encouragement, I tackled Rummikub, a really cool strategic numbers game. “Gramma, you got it!”

One by one, the children went up to bed, and I walked down the stone steps to my tiny house, my haven from the rainy season that began the second week of my visit.

💗 Tonight, before leaving for Ben Gurion Airport, my granddaughters vie for a seat in the car but there is room for only three. It amazes me how important I am, but I do remember how connected I felt to my own grandmothers.

Mordechai reminds me of this in a conversation we had years ago. I had already made several visits to Israel and was familiar with the Nesher Van Service making airport runs to and from Jerusalem. I told my son not to take a day off and come to the airport—I would book a ride directly to his place.

He replied, rather firmly, “Mom, do you know how important it is when a Gramma comes to visit?”

I quickly got the picture, “Okay Max, I’ll see you at the airport!”