One of the more sentimental experiences for many members of my Birthright tour was our visit to the Western Wall. This last vestige of the Temple Mount is the most holy place in the most holy city of Jerusalem for the Jewish people. While still in the cover of the the narrow streets, we all closed our eyes, blindly following the leaders' hands and voices. The act of trusting someone else, both with our footing and our spirits, was even more powerful than the breeze that seemed to wrap itself around us as if preparing us for flight. Finally we reached out and clutched a metal bar, waited for an extra moment to harness the anticipation, and opened our eyes. Before us was a view of the entire square surrounding the Western Wall. Once we had looked our fill, we descended into the square itself, men branching off towards the left as women remained on the right.
The Wall itself is just a wall. It has no special markings or decorations, no unusual height or depth, but it has a very special feeling. As our guide told us, "Just as a heart can be made of stone, so too can stone have a heart." Every person has a different reaction in approaching the Western Wall. As I watched many people around me stand in awe with silent tears running down their cheeks or bow their head and press their arms against the wall in humble submission, I realized I did not feel the same. But I did feel something. For me, the something that I felt did not originate from the wall itself but from watching other people's reactions to it. Crumbled pieces of paper sprouted from the wall like little seeds of hope. I watched as a mother picked up her baby from a stroller and gathered her child's hand in her own to press them up against the wall. When people left the wall, they did not turn around and walk away, but rather they backed away slowly as if they were being pulled against their will. Through all of this I knew that people were praying for their families, for hope, for peace, for good fortune, and for good health. It was this human bond of goodness and hope that was more moving to me than the wall that inspired all of it.
As we were leaving, my Israeli friend approached me and asked about my perspective on our time at the wall. He was wondering if I felt like a part of it all or if I felt separate. In essence he was asking whether or not I was a foreigner. I said I felt both. I am a Jew but not an Israeli. I feel the history but not the faith, the sentiment but not the blind emotion, the respect but not the humble submission. At times, it was a bit like there was an invisible barrier separating me from everyone at the Wall, which allowed me to look in and understand but which kept me separate and disentangled. However, my Israeli friend said he felt the same way. He knows how special the place is, but he does not always feel the wall in his heart.
As we were leaving, my Israeli friend approached me and asked about my perspective on our time at the wall. He was wondering if I felt like a part of it all or if I felt separate. In essence he was asking whether or not I was a foreigner. I said I felt both. I am a Jew but not an Israeli. I feel the history but not the faith, the sentiment but not the blind emotion, the respect but not the humble submission. At times, it was a bit like there was an invisible barrier separating me from everyone at the Wall, which allowed me to look in and understand but which kept me separate and disentangled. However, my Israeli friend said he felt the same way. He knows how special the place is, but he does not always feel the wall in his heart.
Maybe my experience hadn't been so foreign after all.
