Our First Siur (Tour): Yemin Moshe and Mahane Yisrael

When we first got to Israel, one of my best birthday presents was from Kara, a book published by the Yad ben Tsvi institute. The institute is a sort of combination think tank, tourism and academic center dedicated to studying the history of Israel. Among other things, they sponsor siurim (tours) around Jerusalem led by experts in the history. As I told Toby, Jerusalem is like a living museum, and there are any number of topics and tours to take.

So the book Kara bought me, "ירושלים בכל נתיבותה," (Jerusalem in all its paths"), is a collection of in-depth tours around the city, arranged in chronological order dating back from the earliest settlement in the area in the Bibilical period to the latest buildings, somewhere around 30 different tours. I have been wanting to take one of the tours for some time, and finally Toby and I had time on Tuesday.

Since I am a modernist, I decided that we would start with the "modern" period of Jerusalem's history, which dates back to about 1860. It is always amazing to me to think, when looking around the city, that were one to live "in" Jerusalem before 1860, one would live literally within the city walls. The "breaching of the walls," that is to say, the first time Jews moved outside "Jewish Quarter" of the city occurred when English philanthropist, Moses Montefiore, funded the construction of a neighborhood, "Mishkenot She'ananim" (to which was later added "Yemin Moshe," "the right hand of Moses" named in Montefiore's honor, usually applied to the whole area) along with a windmill for grinding grain, for the sake of improving the sanitary conditions of the Jewish yishuv (community) in Ottoman Palestine (windmill pictured above).

Nestled in the hillside directly south of the Old City is the neighborhood that Montefiore built. It is a beautiful neighborhood, among other things featuring fantastic views of the southern wall of the city. At one time, the neighborhood was quite a bit rougher. There was a good reason why people didn't live outside the city walls back then: doing so put you at a great deal of risk of lawlessness and danger. The apartments that Montefiore built for the Jews of Jerusalem were supposed to be a way out of the unhygienic conditions of the walled city; but in the view of the intended residents, the dangers of spending the night outside the city walls was considerably greater. Now, the neighborhood is gorgeous...and one of the most exclusive addresses in the city.

Walking out of Yemin Moshe, we came to a park behind the famous King David Hotel. As if to prove the point that the city truly is a museum unto itself, in the middle of this park we discovered (with the help of Yad Ben Tsvi) two tombs, including one with the round stone that had previously covered it standing next to it (see picture). These tombs could date back to the Second Temple period. An archeologist from the 19th century, Conrad Schick, called the tombs "The Herod Family Tombs" based upon his (mis)reading of Josephus. We actually don't know whose tombs these were, nor where Herod actually was buried.

Walking to King David Street, Toby and I made our way to the second Jewish settlement outside the city walls, the neighborhood Mahane Yisrael ("The Camp of Israel"), which was constructed in 1868. Unlike Yemin Moshe, not much is left of the old neighborhood; being located so centrally near some of the major hotels of modern Jerusalem have meant that what once stood has largely been built over for shopping and apartments; in fact, Toby and I were unable to follow the correct route according to our guide because of new building construction.

Perhaps one of the most interesting new things we discovered (new to us, that is) was the Mamilla cemetery. Now across from the chi-chi new Mamilla Mall, the Muslim cemetery is a remarkable plot of land with graves dating back to the Mamluk period. Not surprisingly, being located on land so central to the city, the area is subject to a great deal of heated controversy, and according to some reports, as much as 90% of the original cemetery has been covered or removed. That which remains, however, features fascinating artifacts including a remarkable tomb (see photo), complete with cupola. This is the 13th century tomb, called "Turba el-kubakya," named after a Mamluk military leader, Al a-din Idogadi el-kubaki, and dated 1289.

Now the cemetery is the source of controversy due to accusations that a new parking lot - ironically, intended to serve the new Museum of Tolerance - was built over part of the cemetery, and as a result desecrated Muslim graves.

Farewells and Katamon, Pt. 2

Today Toby and I said a tearful farewell to Kara and Beruria at Ben Gurion, who will be returning to the 'States for a few months. We're both extremely bummed out, needless to say. Although you prepare and prepare, when the time comes to say goodbye, it's just never easy at all.

On a happier note, Toby's friend from New York, Ari Jesselson, was in town today, and they had a nice long playdate this afternoon. I am very grateful, as I really think it took Toby's mind off everything else for a good while.

So, to take my mind off since Toby's gone to bed (and snoring away, I'm happy to say), a little about the neighborhood we live in in Jerusalem, Katamon. (By the way, the photo at left is a beautiful shot of the sunset near on a street between Nahlaot and Rehavia that we just happened to see as we were walking from Machane Yehuda market home on Sunday evening.)

Katamon, sometimes (although not usually) referred to as Gonen (the name the "powers that be" attempted to change it to but which never stuck) is a fascinating area. It is basically bounded by a ridgeline from Rehavia to the northwest, by a series of schools and diplomatic buildings to the southeast form the German Colony (Hamoshava ha-germanit) to the southwest by a kind of industrial/high density housing, and to the Northeast by a hill, the top of which is the street leading to the president's residence and other large institutional campuses.

The neighborhood was one of the parts of the city that saw serious fighting in the '48 war, and had been before the conflict a largely Arab neighborhood. In fact, in the years immediately preceding the war, most of the Arab national consulates were located here, just down the hill from our apartment (obviously no longer). In fact, the yeshiva of the Erlau (see last post) was at one time the Syrian consulate -- although I believe the eventually knocked down the original building for the sake of space.

Because, I think, of the centrality of the neighborhood to the fight for Jerusalem in '48, a number of the streets have names which refer to the War for Independence. Our street, Bilu, is not one of them; it refers to an early agrarian-utopian Jewish nationalist group who made aliyah in 1882. But we are on the corner of Bilu and Mishmor ha-am on one side, and Hayl Nashim on the other, both of which refer to fighters in the war (mishmor ha-am=guardians of the city, Hayl Nashim= women soldiers of the Haganah). A block away, and the location of one of our favorite ice cream places is "Ha-lamed-heh" (הל"ה), which refers to 35 fighters in the Haganah who were killed in their attempt to aid the besieged Gush Etzion bloc in 1948. The main street that runs along the northern ridge/boundary of the neighborhood, Ha-palmah, is named for the elite unit of the Haganah in the pre-48 and '48 period. And so on.

One of the most interesting spots in the 'hood, and one that I intend to devote much more time looking in to, is San Simon. Currently, it is our favorite Shabbat park; two playgrounds, three large lawns -- it is great for both kids; Beruria loves the playground toys, Toby's finally gotten up the courage to join in to the pickup soccer games on the lawn. But hidden in the corner of the park, completely ignored by the dozens of Jews out for a Shabbat tiul (stroll), is a walled monastery, the namesake of the area. According to the father of one of Toby's friends, the monastery saw some rather disturbing action in the '48 conflict. It is located on a very strategic hilltop, one that the Haganah attempted to seize early in the fighting, and which gave them a strategic advantage. Unfortunately, in the process of securing the area, some of the nuns living at the place (which was then, it seems, a convent), were mistaken for Arabs and shot -- a very inauspicious moment.

As it turns out, Meir Shalev, one of Israel's most important "serious" writers, has written a novel about the neighborhood and San Simon entitled יונה ונער (Dove and Boy), which I just picked up to read today. I've heard it's pretty good; we'll see.

One other very interesting thing about the monastery: it is apparently the site of the death of Shaul Tchernikovsky (link to brief bio). Tchernikovsky was one of the great poets of (what I would call) the "second" generation of modern Hebrew literary figures. His poetry was epic and aspired towards the classics -- he drew from Greek epic and German idylls (I wrote a paper while at Oxford comparing Tchernikovsky with Goethe). He was, to put it another way, a good old fashioned Russian-Jewish-Zionist pagan (God bless 'em) -- a type of which sadly has all but disappeared. Anyhow, the $64,000 question: there is a rumor that when he died, he was interred in San Simon (it seems that now there is a grave in Tel Aviv with his name on it), but what happened when he died there? So I have heard one of two things: one that he scandalously converted to Christianity in secret at the end of his life; second that he died, was cared for by the convent (which would be surprising), and was baptised by them on his deathbed, perhaps against his will.

I'll be interested if I can find out more about this little local mystery.

Our neighborhood, Katamon (Part 1)

Well, the hagim are now over, and Kara and Beruria will be heading back to the 'states on Tuesday. Needless to say, I'm not thrilled. About them going back, that is.

An interesting conclusion to the holidays on Thursday night. As Kara and I were settling in after putting the kids to bed, we were confronted by a din outside our windows. It was the sound of Hasidic simcha (party) music, clearly being played over loudspeakers, and it was growing louder and louder with each passing minute.

Now, I just can't tell you how thrilling this was to me, because I just LOOOOVE canned Hasidic simcha music, especially played at a deafening level outside my window. (That was sarcasm). And to make things even better, it kept playing the same tune. Over. And over. And over. And over. Below is a little clip I took...check it out, and then just imagine THAT going on for two hours or so outside your window. I don't mean just the noise, I mean THAT TUNE for two hours.

Looking out the window, I noticed that a group that usually hovers around the apartment building around the corner seemed to have grown quite large. They are the Erlau, a Slovak/Hungarian haredi (ultra-Orthodox) group who have their major yeshiva just down the road in Katamon. As the noise grew louder, we saw this brilliantly lit-up van with loudspeakers playing said tune, a big keter (crown) made of lights on its roof. The text around the crown read "אשר בחר בנו מכול העמים ונתן לנו את תורתו" (Who choose us from among all the nations and gave us His Torah"). I don't know if they meant them specifically, or what...you never can tell with the Hungarian types.

I've discovered that they also seem to own a significant chunk of the apartment building next door to ours, which may in fact be the home of the Erlau Rav. The procession, as I found out when I asked two young Erlau girls knocked on the door to ask if they could use our bathroom, was of the Erlau Rav himself being escorted up Rechov Bilu (our street) to their apartment around the corner after the conclusion of Simhat Torah.

So, for the uninitiated (which included me until someone set me straight a couple of weeks ago), the Erlau look like Hasidim...the same furry hats (streimels), same bekeshes (silk caftans), knickers, the whole nine yards. But technically they are not Hasidim, but the followers of the more extremist ideological descendants of the early 19th century leader of the Pressburg Yeshiva, the Chatam Sofer. Interestingly, when I found this out, I realized it was a bit like a homecoming -- another offshoot of the same Hungarian ultra-Orthodox strain live just up the road from us in Westchester County (near Mt. Kisco), the Nitra. Nowadays, they've pretty much merged in terms of dress, behavior, language (Yiddish, although I also hear them speak a lot of Hebrew on the street) and rebbe-reverence (or should I say "rav" reverence) with Hungarian hasidim.

So, you see the Erlau walking around all over the place in the 'hood...and they are usually pretty low-key, but this was quite the extravaganza.


It brings to mind my deep ambivalence about the haredim. In Israel, they are an extremely controversial block in a way they aren't in the United States, so my feelings are slightly less complex here...I am fairly well-ensconced in what I would regard as the plain old "da'ati" (just traditional or religious -- that is, keep shabbat, kosher, etc., but not in anyone's face about it), and ergo not so thrilled about the haredim.

But one of the things that has struck me -- in fact, shocked me -- is how difficult it is in the United States to be just plain old "da'ati." Because there really is no over-arching society of "Jewishness" in the sense that it exists here. In other words, here there is an entire infrastructure of culture, identity, symbolism, and so on that are "Jewish" no matter how you slice it. You speak Hebrew. The holidays are the Jewish holidays. People take vacation on Sukkot, even if they've never sat in a sukkah, because that's the vacation time. The founding literature of the national identity is the Tanakh (Bible), the Mishnah, as well as Shay Agnon and Yosef Hayim Brenner.

In the US, you have to choose your Jewish identity in a way that you don't have to here, and I've noticed it makes for some strange bedfellows once Americans come here. You especially see it in the Americans who come for the holidays or for the year. If they are Orthodox in the US, they constantly try to find that right category that seems most familiar as "Orthodox" in Israel. The problem is, it doesn't really exist per se. As a result, many of the Americans gravitate towards a kind of ersatz haredi-ism. They aren't truly haredi, in the sense of my Erlau neighbors, but their cultural signifiers are really closest to haredi from the Israel mindset. They are kind of an "Anglo-da'ati/haredi," if I had to come up with a term for it. It's an interesting thing to observe.

Oh, shul update. I discovered that the Yad Yehuda ha-Levi, the minyan that meets in the actual beyt knesset (synagogue) of the Yehuda ha-Levi school (Toby's school), is just perfect for me. To my delight, over Sukkot I discovered that it is the shul of choice for just about the entire Bar Ilan University Jewish studies faculty, which is just great for me. And the bonus is that Toby's friend from school, Natan, and his family go there. So, happily, after our long search, I think we've found a home. And the drashot (speeches) are in Hebrew!

Next time I'd like to write a little more about Katamon...a fascinating neighborhood.