May 21, 2012 By: yunews
Stern College's Avital Chizhik on the Diaspora Jew's Constant Quest for Jerusalem
We鈥檙e standing in a hall in downtown Manhattan, overlooking a dusky Liberty Harbor.
The girl standing next to me points to the river view and says, 鈥淒oesn鈥檛 it almost look like Jerusalem? That terrace over there and that tree? The way the sun is setting?鈥 I gaze for a minute at the view. We鈥檙e overlooking a dark Hudson River, a boat passing by, the Statue of Liberty in the distance. No, it doesn鈥檛 look like Jerusalem in the least. Not here. This is most certainly New York. I muster a smile, trying to think of an agreeable response, until I finally sigh and admit, 鈥淣o, it doesn鈥檛 look like Jerusalem. Not at all.鈥 She鈥檚 not happy with my answer. She鈥檚 fresh off a spring break Birthright trip and is probably still seeking Jerusalem. 鈥淏ut look, the tree, and the sunset? Why, you don鈥檛 see it? Something about those shadows.鈥 I鈥檝e learned to nod politely in these moments. I understand her; It鈥檚 like stepping off a plane in JFK and still smelling Jerusalem, hearing a loudspeaker and thinking for a second that it鈥檚 the call of the muezzin. Somehow we always know how to seek Jerusalem, wherever we are: whether it鈥檚 by Babylon鈥檚 rivers or the Hudson. It鈥檚 some kind of inner compass that directs us there 鈥 not just for times of prayer, but in everything, on our living room walls and our silk paintings, in our wedding invitation calligraphy, our whispered consolations to mourners. Even in the Soviet Union. My mother tells me about her childhood in the far north of Russia, the wait for exit visas in the 鈥70s. She tells me of dark winter nights, secret copies of 鈥淓xodus,鈥 gatherings with fellow Traitors of the State and political activists. Jerusalem 鈥 it was the magical formula whispered between activists. 鈥淪oon, we鈥檒l be sipping coffee together in a Jerusalem caf茅,鈥 Mark Morozov, one of the activists, said in farewell, as my mother鈥檚 family gathered to emigrate. The idea of Jerusalem is ingrained in the subconscious of the Diaspora Jew, arguably a different image than the one preserved by the Israeli. A place, yes, but also a reality, an ideal to constantly face and toward which to strive. It鈥檚 become the perfect metaphor for all of Israel, and even for Jewish identity itself: a complicated place of winding streets, hills and valleys, divided, beautiful and tense. A fusion of east and west, ancient and modern, 鈥渁lways of two.鈥 As Yehuda Amichai notes in his poetry, it鈥檚 at once an object of fantasy and entirely mundane. And often, it鈥檚 the ordinary that penetrates the Diaspora Jew. It鈥檚 not just praying by the Western Wall or wandering the Old City; it鈥檚 also about that bus ride you take and the kind old man who blesses you and hands you a bag of fresh lychees. Is it naive, then, that I melt a little, every time I walk by children playing in the city鈥檚 streets? That I can spend months in that place, and still shake my head in disbelief over the miracles that took place there? Is it possible to yearn for the place in which one already stands?
Some Israelis laugh when they watch us grow misty-eyed: 鈥淵alda, you鈥檙e impassioned with this place, aren鈥檛 you?鈥 They tolerate it, wonder at our shameless romanticism, smile at our naivet茅.
But I鈥檝e come to be proud of my admitted naivet茅. It鈥檚 that same idealism of standing by the Hudson and seeing Jerusalem somewhere in the distance, the same fervor of the early pioneers and their ruthless conviction, the same bright-eyed conversation held somewhere by the Arctic Circle and planning caf茅 outings.
Soon, we鈥檒l be sipping coffee together in a Jerusalem caf茅. That activist, who had promised to meet my family in Jerusalem, died in a Soviet prison seven years afterwards; my mother鈥檚 family settled in Brooklyn. But the stories of those wintry nights, of waiting for an exit visa, remain strong 鈥 we鈥檙e still seeking, straining to see Jerusalem from afar.
This Yom Yerushalayim, I鈥檓 reaffirming my conviction to return, if for no other reason than to sit in that Jerusalem caf茅, for the sake of those who couldn鈥檛.
The author, Avital Chizhik, is a recent graduate of and the outgoing president of the 黑料社 All Israel Club. She hopes to make aliya before next Yom Yerushalayim.
