Every morning, my son’s shuttle to his special needs preschool is accompanied by the oddest couple – a man and a woman who, under almost any other circumstances, might never choose to spend time together. His melava is haredi – profoundly religious and right wing, and a big fan of Itamar Ben-Gvir.
The driver is as secular as they come, a regular at the protests who insisted his kids go to a mixed Jewish and Arab school, and who spends time on the front lines of Israel’s fight over its own democracy.
I have strong opinions about all of it
They’re on opposite sides of the argument about Israel’s future, its identity, its very soul.
Sometimes they debate in the car.
It’s mostly banter, really, though every now and then they try to pull me into the conversation.
I have strong opinions about all of it.
I love being Jewish. I also believe that being Jewish makes me neither better nor worse than anyone else. I have plenty to say about religion and politics and the future of this complicated little country.
But in that car, I usually stay out of it.
Because at the end of the day, these are two people who have dedicated part of every morning to helping keep my son safe.
I wouldn’t call them friends exactly.
But there is genuine warmth between them now.
And I love that special education can do that.
The morning was hard
It can take two people who might otherwise meet only across a protest line – or an argument – and gently compel them toward a common purpose.
Loving my son.
This morning was hard.
Lately, my little one has stopped asking to go back to his “castle” every day. That ache has softened.
But every time we walk through Jaffa Gate to wait for the shuttle, I still brace myself.
Maybe it was the heavy clouds. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was my own anxiety leaking through the brittle spaces in ways children always seem to sense.
Whatever it was, he had a full-blown meltdown in the back of the car.
His melava quietly handed him a book.
The driver reached over and put on The Beatles.
I climbed into the front seat, girding my mental loins, feeling profoundly tired – less like the pirate queen I usually aspire to be and more like a bedraggled castaway trying to get home to her own life.
Slowly, my son settled.
He began turning the pages, pointing to each letter, tracing every shape carefully with one small finger.
No one talked about politics.
No one argued about religion
We just listened to The Beatles.
“It has to be so hard for you,” the driver said.
“I’m praying for you every day,” the melava added.
And as we drove through Jaffa Gate into the morning, “With a Little Help from My Friends” came on.
It’s a cliché.
I’m willing to lean into it.
Jerusalem is heavy – layer upon layer. And sometimes those layers don’t impose, they support.
Yesterday I found another apartment – another house to add to the list of places this wandering Jew will shlep her suitcase.
It isn’t my Ottoman dollhouse.
But when I walked inside, I felt the faint possibility of home.
I’ll buy another pink tea kettle. I’ll hang more fairy lights.
I’ve lived in so many houses.
And I’ve learned that home is something you build with people far more than with stone.
Maybe one day I’ll live in my old house again.
Not anytime soon.
The Byzantine well courtyard is still buried beneath rubble.
There is still a bloodstain, in the shape of my neighbor, on the stone floor by the stone steps leading up to my teal door and shattered garden.
There are still moments when I feel haunted by every loss I’ve ever carried.
And yet…
I know I’m going to be okay.
Not because everything has been repaired.
But because people keep showing up.
A haredi woman.
A secular driver.
A little boy learning his letters.
Friends from all corners of Jerusalem who carry impossible things together every morning before breakfast and still make sure to check in on me.
So many people all around the world who’ve helped in both spiritual and practical ways.
Just then, the sun broke through the clouds.
The Beatles kept singing.
My son kept reading.
And I realized that, for all the heartbreak of this past year, I really am getting by with a little help from my friends.
It’s Tuesday. “Twice good,” our tradition teaches.
So, good morning, Jaffa Gate.
Good morning, magnificent city.
Good morning great grandmother and all the ancestors whose winding, broken paths somehow led to ours.
Good morning, Jerusalem.
Whatever happens next, I’ll bring fairy lights. ■
FAIRY LIGHTS
IN GOD’S BACKYARD:
A JERUSALEM LOVE STORY
By Sarah Tuttle Singer
KDP
238 pages; $36
