The past few weeks, the people of Israel have been living with constant tension— but they’re also a nation on vacation
Someone with a guitar. Whether it’s outside Jerusalem’s Central Bus Station or at a windswept bus stop near Meron, sometimes it feels like the entire country is moving to a guitar soundtrack. Travel its breadth and you’ll see Bais Yaakov girls, dati-leumi boys with soup-bowl yarmulkes and long peyos, secular teens in ripped jeans, yeshivah bochurim — all with that telltale case slung over their shoulders. Maybe it’s because guitars are easy to learn, maybe it’s because they’ve been voicing sabra dreams and fears for decades, maybe it’s just because they’re so portable, perfect for that impromptu kumzitz — whatever the reason, if you linger at bus stops or outside train stations, you’ll often find someone crouching over a guitar, strumming soul music as the traffic zooms by.
Someone learning, davening, or saying Tehillim. Buses aren’t quite batei medrash, but there’s always someone sitting with an open sefer, mouthing the words silently. Any time of night or day, there’s someone catching up on davening and any number of passengers listening to shiurim. But these spiritual pursuits aren’t always conducted in silence. If you want to know the weekly parshah, someone will likely be intoning shnayim mikra. Amid the dinging of the electronic doors, there’s often a maggid shiur prepping aloud. One Adar I even got a preview of the upcoming Megillah leining from a baal korei practicing assiduously a few rows ahead. And rare is the bus that isn’t protected on its perilous journey through Mideast traffic by a woman saying Tehillim in a back seat.
Someone conducting an extremely personal conversation in a very loud voice. Israelis aren’t big proponents of boundaries; why save a private conversation for behind closed doors when you can do it in front of a full busload of people? Take, for example, the 30-something woman sitting on the Tel Aviv–Jerusalem train, dressed in that demure Bais-Yaakov-teacher style complete with a short, conservative sheitel, very loudly and confidently guiding a distraught woman whose daughter was embroiled in a nasty divorce. Every last passenger heard about this advisor’s recommended negotiating strategy, the benefits and possible disadvantages of involving the police, and the likelihood of Mafia involvement. Luckily there were no children on that train car, but I doubt she would have noticed. This may have been the most egregiously personal conversation I’ve heard conducted in public, but over the years those trains cars have overheard lots of dating dilemmas, surgical sagas, and family feuds — generously aired at full volume.
A Southeast Asian fellow traveler. Living in a frum neighborhood, you don’t always process it, but on public transportation, you can’t help but realize that many non-Jews reside in this country. Some are here to study. Many are here to work — for all that Israelis kvetch about their low pay, these foreign workers consider Israel a goldeneh medinah, and they faithfully send the bulk of their salaries to their families back home in the Philippines or Sri Lanka. We know the Beis Hamikdash was a magnet to foreigners from all nations, with its promise of Divine proximity and swiftly answered prayers. It’s fascinating to note that even without a Beis Hamikdash, this land still exerts a powerful pull across the globe.
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