the baby boomer: at the wailing wall

by The Baby Boomer

The Wailing (or western) Wall, located in the Old City of Jerusalem, is the holiest site in Judaism. Tradition tells us that it is the sole remnant of the second Temple, destroyed in the year 70. For almost 1900 years it was neglected, and for many years closed to Jews. Finally, Jewish forces liberated that section of Jerusalem in June of 1967, and built a wide plaza which affords Jews everywhere the chance to visit and pray at the Wall.

In the mid 1980s, when I was in my thirties and rebuilding my life after my divorce, I planned a solo trip to Israel. Up to that point in my life, although I went to synagogue on the High Holidays, I was not a member of a Temple and generally non-observant.

I had booked a hotel in the Old City, right inside Jaffa Gate. What I didn’t realize, however, was that this was the Christian quarter of the Old City. After checking in, I went to the Wall, about a ten minute walk through the Old City.

I got to the plaza and took in the scene. There were about 50 or so people milling around. Some were praying, with a rocking, back and forth rhythm called “dovening.” There is a divider running perpendicular to the wall; women pray on the right side of the divider, men on the left side.

So, there I was: kind of afraid to approach the Wall, not sure of what to do, when a man about my age started up a conversation.

“Where are you from?”
“Boston.”
“What part of Boston?”
“Actually, Brookline.”
“Brookline? What street?”

So here I was, 5,000 miles from home, and someone there is so familiar with my hometown that he’s asking me what street I grew up on! It turned out the man runs a hostel in the Jewish quarter of the Old City, where I could stay for free. I went back to my hotel, checked out, and moved into the hostel, where there were tons of other travelers.

Friday night, the start of the Jewish Sabbath, and I returned to the Wall at sundown. There were about 20 out-of-towners milling around. Another man showed up, put us in groups of three or four, and off we walked to someone’s house for a Shabbat meal. In each group there was one local who knew the way. Many Israeli citizens open their doors to strangers each and every Friday night, welcoming people with a traditional meal. Our host this night was an ex-pat from Brooklyn. After the meal, our host led a d’vah torah or study session, where he asked our help in interpreting the weekly torah portion. One of the guests apparently knew what was coming, because when it was his turn, he took out some index cards that he had filled out in anticipation of the questions. His girlfriend beamed.

Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath, I returned to the Wall. It was more crowded than earlier visits; many, many people were praying. It’s tradition to write a prayer to God on a slip of paper, and insert it into a crack in the wall. A young boy appeared and became a Bar Mitzvah with his parents and relatives surrounding him.

An old man who was about 80 years old came up to me.

“Your mother, she was Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Your father, too?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”

He took me to a table and put tefillin on me — two black boxes attached to leather straps used by Orthodox Jews to pray. One box sits on your forehead, while the other box is attached to your bicep, with the straps wrapped around your forearm, and finally around your fingers. Before this day, I had put them on exactly twice in my life, both times when I was twelve, in the weeks leading up to my Bar Mitzvah. He led me in a prayer at the Wall. The experience was very moving.

Many years later, as I was sifting through my parent’s belongings after they had both died, I found my father’s and my grandfather’s tefillin. The leather straps were all worn out from use.

This trip to Israel, and more specifically my visits to the Wailing Wall, was the impetus for a spiritual rebirth in my life.

tagged under:middle east, religion, travel