"Stories fill us with new light - and new life."
--R. Shlomo Carlebach
--R. Shlomo Carlebach
What If?
The moss-green wooden cart, its side panels painted light blue, framed with deep red, stopped in the cobblestone alley between the Armenian pottery store and the Bedouin robes store. Ahmed looked at the small child sitting on the step in front of his cart. The child, tears of fear dribbling down his cheek, looked up into Ahmed’s black eyes.
The moss-green wooden cart, its side panels painted light blue, framed with deep red, stopped in the cobblestone alley between the Armenian pottery store and the Bedouin robes store. Ahmed looked at the small child sitting on the step in front of his cart. The child, tears of fear dribbling down his cheek, looked up into Ahmed’s black eyes.
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On the Seam
"Sabah el her," I greet Abu Amir, my corner grocery-store owner. His name is actually Muhammad, but since every other Arab is called Muhammad, he is also called "Father of Amir," his eldest son. He receives everyone in his store with equanimity and grace. My down-stairs neighbor, Sarah, calls the store our local "seven-eleven," but this grocery is more a "seven-eightish," which suits us fine, and it is most useful when other stores are closed on a Friday afternoon or Saturday night. Regulars, yes, even Haredim in their Shabbat regalia, can walk into the store on Shabbat or Festival, take what they need, and pay him after Shabbat. Abu Amir nods amiably in return to my greeting.
"Sabah el her," I greet Abu Amir, my corner grocery-store owner. His name is actually Muhammad, but since every other Arab is called Muhammad, he is also called "Father of Amir," his eldest son. He receives everyone in his store with equanimity and grace. My down-stairs neighbor, Sarah, calls the store our local "seven-eleven," but this grocery is more a "seven-eightish," which suits us fine, and it is most useful when other stores are closed on a Friday afternoon or Saturday night. Regulars, yes, even Haredim in their Shabbat regalia, can walk into the store on Shabbat or Festival, take what they need, and pay him after Shabbat. Abu Amir nods amiably in return to my greeting.
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Ramadan
I open the bottle of baby Acamol: it's empty! I need to get some more, fast. I put the baby in the Snugli and run out the door to my local pharmacy at Jaffa Gate - a seven-minute walk from my home in the Jewish Quarter.
I walk fast down St. Marks Street where a couple of Arab children play marbles on the rough stone pavement. I skip down the steps, past the skirts, Bedouin dresses and robes that line the black stone wall, past the colorful Armenian pottery and Bukharan kippot displayed on the opposite ledge, to the Shuk.
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The Odd Couple
“Excuse me, how do I get to the Wailing Wall?” the slim, young woman with black eye-lined, almond-shaped eyes and a tiny jewel in her nose asks me.
I would not have given the question a second thought; I would have immediately given her directions how to get there from the Jewish Quarter parking lot where we stand were it not for her black scarf, tied in Muslim style, covering ears and neck as well as all her hair.
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"Hey Brother"
“Hey, Brother, how-ya doin’?” That’s how I first greeted him at the Central Bus Station. I’d never seen him before, but there was an immediate attraction to the tall, dark-haired youth, about my own age, who stood in front of me. I admired the thick curls of the neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. Was it really that much shorter than my own, or did it just look that way because of the curls? We were both taking the bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv and we continued a lively conversation on the bus.
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Annette's Cart
Annette gets on the bus at Mahane Yehuda Market and plonks herself on the seat next to me.
“There’s room here for a shopping cart, too.”
I don’t know if she’s asking me a question, or simply making a statement, but I see no cart.
Annette’s long white hair is pulled back under her black gold-edged snood, her elbows hidden under the sleeves of her off-white shirt. The long gold earrings in her pierced ears dangle at the sides of her neck.
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Night of Stools
With the gray stool that I bought when my 25-year-old was one year old, I leave the house. Down, through the flower-filled courtyard and out to the street. I look up at the nine-night-old half-moon in the darkening sky. In six nights it will be full. I cross the Cardo, that renewed Roman thoroughfare, and stride down Rehov Hayehudim. I find myself walking behind two women, one in carpet slippers, one in rubber thongs, each with a black stool in her right hand.
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From the Jerusalem Post Magazine
Of Pipes and Drums
It was a leaky week. My neighbor's mother had a leak in her roof, and, as if in sympathy, my mother also had water dripping through her ceiling down to her sink. I, too, had my share of leaks. Water in the hallway, a pool of water in the bedroom, and more water on the bathroom floor.
After a Shabbat of religious shoveling with a dustpan to avoid an impromptu swimming pool in my living room, my husband came up with the brilliant guess of the source of our leak: the hot water pipe.
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The Bagpipes of Yesteryear
Who ever heard of playing "God Save the Queen" on bagpipes in the Old City of Jerusalem? Who would play "Scotland the Brave" on Scottish bagpipes within the City's walls?
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Yasser and I
I hate sewing. All you can get me to do is sew on a button... eventually. So what do I do with all the inevitable sewing that a family creates? (I also hate sewing piles.) Sometimes I give it to our neighborhood "Mrs. Fixit" - but she's best for serious alterations or creative work. Sometimes, if I'm going to visit my B'nai Brak buddy, Debbie, I'll take some to her, and she can sew while we sip a cup of ... no, not tea or coffee: I don't drink tea or coffee ... try me on carrot juice.
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