I was praying at the Western wall of Solomon’s Temple, the holiest place of Judaism, the place which witnessed the beginning of the transformation of pagan humanity into Western civilisation. The experience of touching the hewn stone blocks, polished by a myriad kisses and caresses, was profound.
israel flag IIThe Jews do not weep at the Western (Wailing) Wall about the loss of their country anymore. They sing and dance with joy. This year we found ourselves in Jerusalem after a three-week stint as volunteers for the Israeli Defence Force (IDF) program called Sar-El. There aren’t that many days in our life which one can look back to and say – truly, Fate gifted me the experience of a lifetime. I found myself in the midst of an historic occasion – a treat which not many people are privileged to witness.
Yerushalayim was festooned with Israeli and American flags. The signs “Trump make Israel great” and “Trump is a friend of Zion” were ubiquitous. Israel was preparing for the American Embassy’s transition to Jerusalem from Tel Aviv. And yet, amid the rejoicing, I was unable to shake the feeling that however important this symbolic act of supreme political realism and courage might be, it was not the main reason for the boundless joy which filled the streets on that day. ews, young and old, Orthodox and secular, atheists and believers — none of them could cared less about what the world thought of Jerusalem and who it does or does not belong to. It was Jerusalem Day, pure and simple.
It was also Israeli Flag Day and most of the people we saw carried the national flag, waving them, wrapping themselves in them. Jerusalem of Gold was transformed into Jerusalem white and blue. That was the main event: the joy of being and belonging and living, of expressing love, patriotism, ancient heritage and pride. All this was mixed up in eruption of overwhelmingly positive energy which demanded release. Intoxicated by the enthusiasm around me, that feeling was infectious. I was whooping and jumping with the rest of the crowd, which accepted me without demur and in the blink of an eye. This was the day the witness of my eyes demolished the sardonic dictum of patriotism being the last refuge of a scoundrel.
I saw Jerusalem’s soul laid bare for anyone to see on that day. I was praying at the Western wall of Solomon’s Temple, the holiest place of Judaism, the place which witnessed the beginning of the transformation of pagan humanity into Western civilisation. The experience of touching the hewn stone blocks, polished by a myriad kisses and caresses, was profound. So, too, watching the emotions of people communing with the Almighty and asking Him favours by way of notes pushed into the cracks and gaps between the ancient stones.
The Jews do not cry at The Wall anymore. On this day, singing at the tops of their voices, there was unashamed joy in observing the public and unadulterated confirmation that Jerusalem is and always has been the eternal capital of the Jewish people. The sentiment was manifest everywhere I turned — on the streets, on the roofs, on the buses and trams – everywhere. The picturesque Yerushalayim of golden sandstone was full of pretty girls handing out sweets and drinks to dancers. There were cars with loudspeakers blaring folk music to the delight of youngsters dancing horas. Smiling police on placid horses calmed the excess of enthusiasm by letting people dance but also making passage for cars stalled by the festive throng. Families with little children waving flags, bemused foreign tourists drawn into the knots of dancers, some of them evangelical Christians wqith Lion of Judah flags.
