Jerusalem on a Friday afternoon is half empty, and the half that’s not empty is busy packing up, closing shops, pulling down blinds and going home. Shabbat is coming and on Shabbat everything stops. The shuk – the market – where last night it was seriously rocking, was still busy, but this time the busy was all about closing in time.
More than anything (so far) this is when it hits that Jerusalem is not so much a different place to Tel Aviv as a different planet. It marches to a completely different beat. There are Haredi – the Hassids – everywhere. A big presence. The people look less cool, less tanned, less beautiful. And there are tourists by the bus load.
Still though, you’ve got to eat. You’ve got to have a drink. It’s Friday night in the second biggest city in a developed, Western(ish) country. There’s got to be something open. We see a supermarket and, well, it’s got to be worth an ask.
“You’re looking for bars now?”
“Yeah, you know, something to eat and something to drink”
“It’s Shabbat, you know”
“Yes, we know”
“Well, you could go to Rivlin. There are some bars and restaurants open there. It gets quite lively”
We make it to Rivlin and supermarket bloke was right. There are some bars and restaurants open. Three bars and two restaurants. Outside of the centre life might be more lively, but this is supposed to be the kicking triangle, the area between Jaffa and Ben Yehuda and it’s eerily quiet. At 6.30pm a siren goes off. The stupid tourist looks around wondering what’s going on because, let’s be honest, it’s not going to be a car alarm after someone’s tried to nick the car. The siren, it turns out, is Shabbat.
We choose one of the bars, have some food and drink and stay there a few hours till it gets too cold to stay outside. Israeli cold, not English cold, but still a bit cold.
It’s about 10.30, maybe 11, by the time we call for the bill – Ruth’s got to drive back to Tel Aviv – and have a bit of a walk. Her car’s here, somewhere. The curious thing is that although there are a few more places open now, they’re still mostly empty. It’s a big city, this is the lively area and it’s Friday night. Where is everyone? Jerusalem really is different to Tel Aviv.
Meanwhile back at the hotel, even the tumbleweed is staying indoors. Somehow I’ve managed to book myself into a Haredi (Hassid) hotel and there’s more chance of Poch getting on the phone asking me to replace Harry Kane than getting a drink at the bar. Not least because there isn’t a bar. I hadn’t even noticed when I checked in. Oh well, I’ll go up to my room and watch the porn channel on the telly….
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If I thought Friday night was quiet, it was only because I hadn’t yet experienced a Saturday. Breakfast was a bit of a washout – “Can I toast the bread please?” “Toast? It’s Shabbat” – so I thought I’d get some breakfast out. Right.
The streets are deserted. In one way, it’s kinda nice. I remember talking with Antony about Shabbat and, religion aside, the feeling of switching off, of turning the phone off and putting it away. No internet, no nothing. We never do that at our place and it’s probably no bad thing to do.
I walked down Jaffa Street, the wide hustling bustling heart of the city. A wide boulevard with hi-tech tram tracks down the middle, shops, bars and restaurants on either side. Only there are no people and no hi-tech trams and the only people are groups of tourists, all languages and shades, following a leader who walks holding a sign for them to follow. The sun beats down and I walked down the middle of the road heading to east Jerusalem, the Old City.
Reading about the Old City and the history drips off the pages. It’s not just Rachel, it’s everyone’s Rachel. If you’ve got a religion, you’ve got a seat at the table. The star turn for me is The Wall, but there are more churches than in a church exhibition and there’s Temple Mount, maybe the epicentre of the conflict. For Jews, the first and second Temples were built here, for Muslims the Dome of the Rock and Al Aqsa Mosque were here. If I were the picky type – and, really, I’m not – I’d point out that the first Temple was built in 957 BCE and the Dome was built in 692 CE and if I were the picky type I’d point out that means we were here first. Just as well I’m not the picky type.
The Old City. Well, that answers all the questions about where everyone is. It’s packed. Rammed. Mostly with tourists still playing Follow My Leader, but also the Haredi. How do they do it? They’re wearing black clothes, black frock coats – you know the drill – and the most magnificent fur hats and they still look cool. I’m wearing a t-shirt and shorts and I’m schvitzing like a vunce. How do they do it? The old boys do, in fairness, look hot but the young lads and middle aged men just look like they always do.
In through Jaffa Gate and down into the narrow alleys and side streets and you can barely move. Tiny alleys all crammed with shops selling religious artefacts, schmutter t-shirts with schmutter slogans, phone cases… just like a street market. And people are shopping, seriously shopping. (This is the bit where traditionally we put in a line about shopping being the new religion). The tourist leaders stand around while their flock shop and shop. The architecture’s different and there are more menorahs and mezuzahs on sale, but I can’t help but feel it’s like Camden Market on a busy day.
I follow the signs to The Western Wall and, somewhere inside, there’s a sense of trepidation building. The Wall. How can we say? Its reputation precedes it. The nearer you get the higher the concentration of Haredi, and they’re all in a hurry, rushing down the alleys, their coats flying open, the fur hats not moving. How do they stay on, these huge lumps of head furniture?
It’s a sight The Wall. The scale, the people, the people praying, the massed Haredi, the variety of people, people from everywhere in all manner of religious costume. I walked around and tried to breathe it all in.
I’d been really thinking about Antony and his faith and Rachel and her tomb and I’ve realised that if I want to understand Israel it’s as important to understand the religious pull as it is to talk to Palestinians or “settlers” or drink in sidewalk bars in Tel Aviv or anything else. And the curious thing is that of all those things, the religion was always going to be the hardest thing for me to get my head around. People’s suffering, people living nice lives, people living on settlements, these things are easy to put into some sort of framework.
I walked by The Wall. I sat by The Wall. Leaned against The Wall. Put my little written note in The Wall. I put the ring I bought in the refugee camp on The Wall and took a photo. I know a good photo op when I see one, but missed the opportunity for a Facebook gag about giving Him a ring. I looked at The Wall and waited for The Wall to look back.
It’s an extraordinary place, The Wall, extraordinary on every level, and your heart can’t help but be swept away by the weight of history and meaning, but I’ve got to be honest. I didn’t feel it and while I know that the last time I was in shul was for my barmitzvah, it was still a bit disappointing.
Hours later, I still don’t know. Part of me hoped that when I went to The Wall I’d find Rachel, but I didn’t. She wasn’t there. Maybe she was on the other side of the barrier where the women are allowed.
I knew on the way back to the hotel I’d pass last night’s bar and if they were heathen enough to be open last night, then maybe they’d be open today. And it was open. And it had the football on the screens. And so I ordered a lager and sat down and watched the football and immediately felt much better.