A typical day at the Kotel

Earlier this week, before the world went to hell in a handbasket over the Flotilla incident, we went to Jerusalem for the Zeve Incident.

A month before a religious Jewish boy turns 13 and has his bar mitzvah, he puts on tfillin for the first time. I say "religious" boys because I have no idea what other Jewish people do. Tfillin, for those who don't know, are phylacteries -- taken from the Greek word phylacteron which means to guard or to protect -- compromised of two small leather cases containing texts from the Hebrew Scriptures (known collectively as tefillin); traditionally worn (on the forehead and the left arm) by Jewish men during morning prayer).

In the world of religious kids, this is a big deal. It is the first overt gesture that identifies them as one of the big kids and removes them once and for all, from the little kid camp. You could probably argue that a circumcision is a bigger deal but no one walks around showing off his modified penis so I am not counting that.


Enough theorizing. Back to the point. Last Monday we got in the car at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m. so that we could get to Jerusalem early enough to catch a group for morning prayers -- and before the sun started pelting down on the visitors at the Wall.

Many people who come from outside of Israel hold their bar mitzvahs at the Kotel, the Western Wall, as do some Israelis. Frankly I think it is crazy. First, it is so noisy and full of pandemonium in the morning that as far as I can tell there is no way to have any meaningful prayer there. Yes, the guys who get right up to the Wall and have the incredible ability to shut out any external noise, might not agree with me, but as someone who is easily distracted (as is Zeve) I wouldn't recommned it.

And second, as the mother of the bar mitzvah boy, you might as well stay home. You aren't going to be anywhere near the important activity. You are lucky if the kid agrees to keep his tfillin on long enough to leave the men's section after morning prayers to get his picture taken with you. That way, years later, you can look at the photographs and pretend that you actually played a role in what went down. You didn't, but you can always lie to yourself.

For the mother, the extension of this problem is that by putting on tfillin your son has left you for the world of men. He will no longer be able to pop over for a quick hello to the women's side of any religious prayer environment. And by default, you can never get to him either.

Which brings me to my beef. I almost always have a beef.

There we were at the Kotel -- the Holiest Place in Judiaism -- and the frantic activity of the women's side is comparable to having front row seats at Mardi Gras. Of course, don't try to leave your seat -- you have to drag it around with you -- because someone will take it as fast as you can get your butt off it.

On the one hand we have the serious pray-ers. Some sit along the far fence totally emersed in their prayer. Some are right up at the wall, crying, wailing and hitting it. Why they do this is beyond me -- but prayer isn't my strong suit so what do I know.

Next we have the visiting-from-outside-of-Israel Jews who are celebrating bar mitzvahs. The women sit right up against the dividing wall so that they can pretend to be participating in the bar mitzvah taking place on the other side of the divider. Of course, who knows for sure since it is too noisy to tell. These people yell back and forth over the wall to their men on the other side.

Then, there are the non-religious Israelis also holding bar mitzvahs. The women in these families don't even try to fake humility at the Wall. It often looks more like a Prostitutes Convention than a holy coming-of-age ceremony. Oh, and they bring a smorgasboard along to munch on while they wait for the boy to do his part. I don't think they even try to hear what's going on on the other side.

After that we have the religious tourists who march right up to the wall and start crossing themselves so that we all know there are Serious Christians in the area. Okay, call me oversensitive, but I don't think I would go to another religion's place of worship and start praying in hebrew. Even when I went to holy Moslem sites that Jews firmly believe belong to them, I didn't start up with any Jewish antics. First of all, it might get you imprisoned or maybe killed and secondly, it isn't nice.

So after the hyper-enthusiastic Christian Crossing Fanatics, there are the totally insensitive non-religious, curious tourists who are just looking for a good photograph. These chicks will stop at nothing to hang over onto the men's side of the wall with their cameras in tow. Now, while I do understand that this is a visual curiousity during the week, it never ceases to amaze me that these same insensitive types will continue photographing during the Sabbath prayers. And the fact that the Israeli authorities don't stop it bugs me even more. This isn't a freak show -- well, sometimes it is, but still, you shouldn't photograph it on the Sabbath.

The one good thing that came out of all this people watching was that Yael and I had lots to do for the almost hour that we sat on the women's side waiting for my men to finish. I tried to pray but frankly there was just too much going on.

I just had to wait until it was my turn for a picture with Zeve.

The Nine Days

Judaism is always gearing up for some event or another. This may be true in other religions but the only gearing up I have ever noticed for Christmas, let's say, is commercial. If the Christians are doing any religious preparation -- which they may well be doing -- it has totally missed me. I won't even begin to comment on Islam or any other religion because I don't know enough about them.

In Judaism we always seem to be entering a phase: getting ready for Passover, praying for forgiveness in the weeks leading up to the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), and my personal least favorite -- the three weeks and then the nine days leading to Tisha B'Av.

Tisha B'Av is a fast day that commemorates the destruction of the first and second temples in Jerusalem, which apparently happened on the same day, 656 years apart. Every other bad thing that happened to the Jews of antiquity is also mourned on this date. As a result, TB is considered the "saddest day in Jewish history".

Never people to let a sad day go by without making it sadder, there are several prohibitions surrounding the day. Some are observed for the three-weeks leading up to TB; and others for just nine days. Besides fasting for 25 hours on the actual day, observant Jews are prohibited against washing or bathing, applying creams or oils, wearing leather shoes, or having sexual relations during the days leading up to it.

Now here is the twist. Tisha B'Av falls in July or August. And whether it is true or not, it seems to me, that it most often falls very, very, very close to my birthday. And over the years, it has been the ultimate party pooper. I have missed more birthday cakes on account of TB than I care to count. Now that I am beyond celebrating my birthday anyway, it is less of an issue -- although fasting isn't my idea for even a quietly festive birthday.

Last year, was one of those years when my birthday fell on Tisha B'av. So, where do you go with that? Obviously, not out for lunch, for starters. You can't even get up and have a happy birthday cup of coffee. That is truly cruel. And then, late afternoon when you think you couldn't get any hungrier or crankier, it is always possible that the other adult in the family will say: "Hey, let's go to Jerusalem for the last few hours of the Fast." Talk about festive. You get to go to the Western Wall and sing with all the other starving people. Actually, as a woman, you get to stand outside the singing circles, which are comprised of more than 100 boys and men, all arm-in-arm rocking back and forth like a bunch of crazed Girl Scouts.

Okay, so then the Fast ends and everyone runs for the nearest restaurant. We break the Fast with Bonkers Bagels connected with a gallon of cream cheese. Some of the tougher fasters break the Fast with juicy hamburgers. It might be my age and accompanying digestive system, but the last thing I want to eat after a hot July day of fasting is a bloody hamburger.

This year, lucky me, my birthday only fell during the Nine Days so I celebrated by not bathing. Okay, I am joking. I bathed because I figured that my birthday was cause enough to get clean -- I think you can fairly call that creative celebrating. But since I took that liberty I have used up my Get Out of Jail Free card and now I have no choice but to sit around trying to be sad until Thursday night, when I can get back to thinking about the commercialization of Christmas.

Don't get your own bus

Okay, I just read the paper again. You would think I had learned my lesson several years ago, but apparently I am a glutton for punishment. And today, I must have requested the Chinese Water Torture on maximum drip.

This is one of those days when I am just not happy to be a member of the tribe (that's an insider's way of saying Jewish --- shhhh).

So, what is my problem you ask? Thank you for inquiring and I'll tell you what's bugging me today. There are terrible things happening all over the world. You don't need a list, just read a few newspapers. And what is today's issue in Israel?

The ultra-religious Jews want their own buses because otherwise they cannot dictate whether a woman sits next to a man on the way from one religious neighbourhood in Jerusalem to the Western Wall. Now I don't mean a naked woman and a naked man. I mean two people of the opposite sex, fully clothed but coincidentally going in the same direction. The ultra-religious Jewish men want a segregated bus. They want to undo all the good that poor Rosa Parks did way back in December of 1955.

Rosa only wanted to sit at the front of the bus -- maybe the back of the bus made her naseous. Today, her defiance sounds so minor. Today, no one would care if the people on the bus were purple... well, almost no one. The ultra-orthodox men would notice and care ... if you were a woman.

I have wracked my brains (that may not be saying much) and I really and truly cannot figure out what could possibly happen if a woman sat next to a man on the bus. Are men really that weak and pathetic that they cannot focus on the bus ride if a woman is sitting next to them? These guys wear heavy coats even in the heat of the summer so they are sweaty and smelly. I am sure everyone just can't wait to sit next to one of them.

I take the bus a considerable amount. I love the bus. I just hop on, pay my fare, put my earphones in my ears and turn on my iPod -- and then I can go anywhere. No parking, no worrying about missing the turn-off. For me, the bus is travel nirvana.

Funny thing is that I spend most of my time on the bus easing away from whatever creepy person takes the seat next to me -- and just as often as not, those creepy people are other women. To me, creepiness is not gender specific. It's a universal, colour-blind, gender and age oblivious thing.

Maybe if all those misguided zealots would actually get jobs, they could afford cars or at least taxi service and then they could choose to travel with whomever they wanted. But as long as they don't, then I think they just have to accept that the bus represents the lowest common denominator of travel. And on top of that, this country has issues -- really issues. The government doesn't have time to be arguing about who can sit on what bus where.

So now, not for the first time, the ultra-orthodox are holding the Ministry of Transportation hostage (they did this to El Al a few years ago and guess who won? Not El Al.).

I really hate to rail against my own peeps, but it dawns on me that these are not my peeps. My peeps are all sane and relatively reasonable, moderate thinkers -- of various colours, genders, ages, sizes, and shapes. Some lean a little left or right at any given moment, but not so much so that they could tip the bus.

Rosa Parks's act of defiance became an important symbol of the modern Civil Rights Movement and she went on to do many great things in the name of civil rights. Now if someone could just tell me what greater good the zealots are doing or plan to do, then I promise to eat one of their black hats.