Brides Head Revisited 11.09.2014

This isn’t a journey slapping the streets of New York sniffing out sneakers, nor is it a journey trudging through Finnish snow to get a glimpse of the feted architect Alvar Aalto’s Paimio Sanatorium, nor is this a journey about flipping through comic books in downtown Tokyo. This, this is a journey of understanding. It’s about understanding who I am, where I am, and where I’ve been.

After months seeking solutions to career fatigue and my tether frayed, it was by blessing that I got to see Sassoon’s movie on the late Rabbi Goldfein. With the pearls I saw produced by the Yeshiva Gadolah, I decided on my life’s next strategic move. Yeshiva in the Old City of Jerusalem.

Pulling the plug on a job that was good to me and leaving my azaleas, my Poppy and my dearest behind, I booked passage on the cheap-as-chips Ethiopian. Relaxing on 3 seats was a dream, and though the kosher grub went down like a lead Zeppelin, my good fortune saw me being bumped to business class on the home stretch.Dropping into Ben Gurion, I, a Litvak sweated a stream while my eyeballs fogged up at the humidity. My hands clammy, clutching the new shekel, I rode backseat  in a shirut as it heaved me from side to side as we criss-crossed the valleys and hills of rocky Jerusalem. Dropping off my fellow passengers, the taxi snaked across the lunar landscape sweeping past pockets of green and clusters of milkybar buildings set deep in the contours of this historical land. Staring outwards, the welding-light bright sunshine reflecting off of the Jerusalem stone forced my eyes to squint, hindering my ocular experience.

Rising out of the mall, the masons masterpiece, the pedestrian gates of the Old City, greet me. The Harp player caressing her strings creating memory through her song takes my mind off of the knobbly cobbles beneath my feet and the tourist trinket stores corrupting the treasured experience. Having breached the Old City, my time warp begins, my spirited journey is launched.

I stare with heavy penetrating eyes into the Wall, puncturing history. Working through the onion layers of my thoughts to find my emotion, tears turn me vulnerable. I need to think deeply with much introspection to understand my location in time, in space and in spirit. The ‘hair on the back of my neck’ moment doesn’t materialise, needing to be massaged over time.
For now I leave the Wall behind and rise up and out of this sanctuary heading towards the Yeshiva i’ll be attending for 3 months. Finding the Yeshiva with the help of a printed wall map, I knock, knock, knock on heaven’s door. I’m greeted by the madrich who leads me to the dorm rooms. And so I settle.
I wear no yarmy, no white shirt, and no black pants. But I know I’m in the right place. The seforim which clad the periphery of the Beis Midrash, await my imminent plunge. The structured form of the Gemorah, and the holy black text await the opportunity to become animated. This is G-d’s country, and I’m in it.

The learning frustrates me, it pains me, it’s traumatic, this isn’t fun, but I know this is where I ought to be. The sea is vast, but I’m slowly building a boat that’ll set me journeying through the liquid Torah. Through study I work on myself, building character, awareness. Through speaking to people I gain knowledge about me. Through this experience I hear my mind speak. It’s an extraordinary journey of movements of growth.
Three months might not be enough to resolve Dan, but slowly I’m skinning the apple, revealing, little by little, more of the core. I hope to garner tools with which i can fill my tool bag of life, to be able to negotiate the difficulties and the pleasantries of life’s marvellous musings. What a life. What a journey.  This is a story, about a lad named Dan.

I’d chosen to go to Yeshiva Bircas Hatorah in the Old City having met the Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Tagger in the ‘burbs of Joburg, South Africa. With a hand shake and a smile by the salt-and-pepper bearded, charismatic Rosh, it was a done deal.

As I narrowed in on my destination, the aroma of coffee and Israeli chocolate-jammed pastries tugged at my nostrils delivering me to the entrance of Mamilla Mall, my approach to the Old City.  With its bougainvillea shading, sculpture-lined walkway and documented stones numbered and consecutively positioned, the city of old reflects the city of new.

The Old City is mangled spaghetti. Weaving my way through the tight network of hooking streets, the passages, an arms-length in width, tinted in sandy Jerusalem stone, tower above me huddling me in the city’s grasp. The narrow streets, coursing like veins, pulsing with people, instances and nuances pulls me like a gushing pipeline, streaming down past yeshivas, and squares, past the Hurva, burgerias and pizzerias, plummeting towards the heart centre of the Jewish people, the Holy Kottel. Pooled at the Western Wall, Jews of all types collide. Typical, non-typical. Black hat, black yarmie, white yarmie, an army yarmy.  A streimel, and a ‘nah nach nachman’ wooly one, a baseball cap, a crochet and a bowler.  All one nation, unified, spilling their spirit of emotion, turning to jelly at the Walls sight.

The beauty the city holds in my mind is pummelled as I make the prerequisite erev shabbis journey to Machane Yehudah, the street market. Here i’m jolted back into reality. Naive as a pimply teen I head into the bowels of this food lovers emporium and like a pinball i’m ricocheted from one person to the next bouncing off aggressive bobbas and over tanned servicemen. My shins splintered, bruised by pram wielding mommas. Trying to seek a deal on hummus I find myself forking out more than Israel’s military budget. I’m traumatised, moving upstream against the clashing crowds, I burst into sunshine, into freedom, vowing never to repeat the journey again.