Israel Part 12: Jerusalem, the shuk, food in general and the comfort of familiarity

(Revised lightly on March 15, 2024)

By the time I got off the train in Jerusalem it was getting late and a heavy rain had set in. I had lost track of time, partly from jet jag and partly from a technical error. In planning my train trip I had taken screen shots of my route and while checking them again and again I somehow hadn’t registered that the time remained 11:22 on the images while actually it was past 3:00 in the afternoon when I got off the train. 

Now I didn’t really have time for Jerusalem. It’s huge. I needed to get back to Modi’in and a settle in for my last night before flying back to the U.S.

On the other hand, I couldn’t NOT go to Jerusalem. I struggled to rent a locker for my suitcase. (Misread what coins I needed and then needed to go to four different stores before I could get that change.)

It was now pouring rain. 

There was no way I was up to navigating yet another form of transportation. So as cold and wet as it was I set out on foot even as I passed several local light rail trains. It only took me fifteen minutes to get to Mahane Yehuda and, now shaking from my missed lunch, I was hungry. It didn't take long for me to find a shakshuka place and collapsed, gratefully, onto one of the bar stools. A Long Island-born cook took care of me, warming me up with a cup of hot water and mixing up the shakshuka in front of me with mushrooms, tomato and cheese. The food was delicious, warm, healthy and comforting. I had time to take in the sounds of the shuk. I don’t know how to describe this if you haven’t been there. It’s a richly cultural experience to see the spices and foods on display in this busy marketplace and to be part of something so culturally rich.

 

There is a certain discomfort and irony to my posting here about food. I awaken every day worrying whether the hostages are going to have that single piece of pita today. I’m aware of my privilege of eating in the context of Gazans not that many miles away starving while Hamas hoards food underground.

And yet I’m trying to tell a story here of everything and that means there will be both contradictions and insights.

The insight is this: Jews know what it means to be separate in the world. Sometimes this separateness is chosen. Sometimes it is inflicted by others. Regardless, that is the Jewish experience.

Throughout my life as an observant Jew, the need for kosher food has been a flashpoint for separation. It has led to conflict with others —sometimes even family. It has meant missing out on travel experiences and it has meant being excluding from social events as simple as an afternoon staff meeting at a public school.

I choose it anyway because it’s part of who I am. If I cheat, I deny the part of myself for which this is true. 

So you can imagine the joy that comes from being able to eat the way I did on this trip. Delicious, healthy, filling and welcoming. This food meant I belonged.

On the way back to the train station I saw a woman ahead of me that somehow seemed familiar. When a police car passed, splashing her with rainwater, she  turned to glare and I caught a glimpse. Jogging to catch up, I found Eliana, my former second grade student, now married and studying nursing. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to see me. For those of us coming from all around the world to Israel, it’s a delight to see people from out our past. For those living in Israel, it’s completely commonplace to see others coming home.