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?
For years, the members of the Syrian Orthodox Club would start their loud rehearsals on the pipes and drums some time in November in preparation for their Christmas Day Parade, past my street on the corner of the Jewish Quarter, proceeding down through the market to the Holy Sepulcher. (Their Christmas Day falls on January 7th.) The vibrations emanating from the clubhouse would make the pictures in my children's room rattle on the wall. In the first couple of years of our encountering this phenomenon, I was afraid the pictures would fall. Only after a couple of seasons were such fears allayed. The pictures continued to rattle, but never fell.
When my children were small, I used to use the start of these rehearsals at 5 p.m. sharp, as a reminder to pick up my kids from their afternoon hugim. On Shabbat, I'd use their thumping drums as a signal to get up from my Shabbat nap for the Third Meal. (Similarly, I use the 7.00 bells of the Syrian Orthodox Church, adjacent to the club and on the corner of my street, to augment my alarm clock in the morning.)
On their parade past my courtyard door, the teenage members of the Syrian Orthodox Club would dress up in green Scottish berets with red pompoms, red tartan kilts, beige knee-length socks and white gaiters, and blow those bagpipes and beat their drums with wooden drumsticks. The younger children, in similar attire, would deftly twirl long wooden batons between their fingers.
With this column in mind, I'd decided to go and talk to them about this custom. I had heard about the Scottish regiment in the Old City during the Mandate, but, not finding anything on the Web or in the index of the thick history book of Jerusalem in the twentieth century that I'm reading, I thought I should at least talk to them about it.
So, I'm waiting to hear those familiar bagpipes when darkness descends so early. I'll find someone there to talk to. One recent afternoon, at 5.00, I'm returning home and I see a black-gowned Syrian Orthodox priest, with tall black hat and full black beard, walk along my street. I vaguely remember that my mother is on speaking terms with one of them named Simon, who knows English. Is this he?
"Brother Simon?"
The priest stops. "Sorry?"
"Are you Brother Simon?"
"No, my name is Matthew. Sorry, I don't speak English."
"Hebrew?"
His Hebrew is much more fluent. I ask him when the bagpipe players will begin to practice for their Christmas procession.
"You know, there is a war going on. We will not have a festive procession this year. We didn't have one last year, either. You know, in past years many Syrian Orthodox came from Sweden and they came from other countries in Europe to join us for the festivities, but now it is too dangerous. No-one wants to come."
I nod understandingly. We talk a few minutes: he tells me that the Syrian Orthodox Church uses Aramaic as its language of prayer and I tell him that some of our Jewish prayers are in Aramaic. (I don't even mention some of the Shabbat songs and the whole body of Talmud in Aramaic.) He probably understands the Aramaic of the Books of Ezra and Daniel better than I do.
Brother Matthew's face suddenly brightens. "You know, it is a miracle. I learn Hebrew here in Jerusalem for three years. But you are the first person I speak to in Hebrew. Yes, it is truly a miracle!"
Iraqi Arabic is Matthew's mother tongue, so I wish him a "salaam eleikum" as I take leave of him.
"Eleikum salaam," he returns, and I feel I've made his day.
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?
For years, the members of the Syrian Orthodox Club would start their loud rehearsals on the pipes and drums some time in November in preparation for their Christmas Day Parade, past my street on the corner of the Jewish Quarter, proceeding down through the market to the Holy Sepulcher. (Their Christmas Day falls on January 7th.) The vibrations emanating from the clubhouse would make the pictures in my children's room rattle on the wall. In the first couple of years of our encountering this phenomenon, I was afraid the pictures would fall. Only after a couple of seasons were such fears allayed. The pictures continued to rattle, but never fell.
When my children were small, I used to use the start of these rehearsals at 5 p.m. sharp, as a reminder to pick up my kids from their afternoon hugim. On Shabbat, I'd use their thumping drums as a signal to get up from my Shabbat nap for the Third Meal. (Similarly, I use the 7.00 bells of the Syrian Orthodox Church, adjacent to the club and on the corner of my street, to augment my alarm clock in the morning.)
On their parade past my courtyard door, the teenage members of the Syrian Orthodox Club would dress up in green Scottish berets with red pompoms, red tartan kilts, beige knee-length socks and white gaiters, and blow those bagpipes and beat their drums with wooden drumsticks. The younger children, in similar attire, would deftly twirl long wooden batons between their fingers.
With this column in mind, I'd decided to go and talk to them about this custom. I had heard about the Scottish regiment in the Old City during the Mandate, but, not finding anything on the Web or in the index of the thick history book of Jerusalem in the twentieth century that I'm reading, I thought I should at least talk to them about it.
So, I'm waiting to hear those familiar bagpipes when darkness descends so early. I'll find someone there to talk to. One recent afternoon, at 5.00, I'm returning home and I see a black-gowned Syrian Orthodox priest, with tall black hat and full black beard, walk along my street. I vaguely remember that my mother is on speaking terms with one of them named Simon, who knows English. Is this he?
"Brother Simon?"
The priest stops. "Sorry?"
"Are you Brother Simon?"
"No, my name is Matthew. Sorry, I don't speak English."
"Hebrew?"
His Hebrew is much more fluent. I ask him when the bagpipe players will begin to practice for their Christmas procession.
"You know, there is a war going on. We will not have a festive procession this year. We didn't have one last year, either. You know, in past years many Syrian Orthodox came from Sweden and they came from other countries in Europe to join us for the festivities, but now it is too dangerous. No-one wants to come."
I nod understandingly. We talk a few minutes: he tells me that the Syrian Orthodox Church uses Aramaic as its language of prayer and I tell him that some of our Jewish prayers are in Aramaic. (I don't even mention some of the Shabbat songs and the whole body of Talmud in Aramaic.) He probably understands the Aramaic of the Books of Ezra and Daniel better than I do.
Brother Matthew's face suddenly brightens. "You know, it is a miracle. I learn Hebrew here in Jerusalem for three years. But you are the first person I speak to in Hebrew. Yes, it is truly a miracle!"
Iraqi Arabic is Matthew's mother tongue, so I wish him a "salaam eleikum" as I take leave of him.
"Eleikum salaam," he returns, and I feel I've made his day.
This story first appeared
in the Jerusalem Post Magazine, 4 January, 2002
in the Jerusalem Post Magazine, 4 January, 2002