Someone is Calling for Help
Once a week I go from Tel Aviv University to Jerusalem to deliver a lesson in Maale Cinema School, and I use the opportunity to tour the Old City, finally arriving at the Western Wall. It is always bustling with clicking cameras, many voices and languages. Now, at three o’clock in the morning, silence is absolute. Only myself and the Wall, four eyes and the stars from above. Now, facing its silent might, I could again see that small, bi – dimensional and symbolic Wall with three cypresses above it, painted on our home wall in Morocco. The painting that expressed the apparently unrealizable dream of my father, to one day reach Jerusalem.
Do those who live here, in the opposite houses, know what it means when they open the window and the immense, two thousand years old dream enters directly their living room ?
While I muse near the Wall, just in front of me an old man appears, with a ladder and a broom. He leans the ladder on the Wall, climbs it agilely and starts sweeping the notes from within the cracks. Who is it ? how come ? why does he take away the notes ? I never knew exactly what was happening with the notes in the Wall. Millions of papers and wishes – where do they disappear to ? after all, two thousand years of requests and pleading could turn this stone wall into a paper wall, and here is the answer. But who is this man ? and what does he do with the notes ? and who allowed him to ? the old man on the ladder seems ethereal, lean, light and very agile, relative to his age. He climbed and came down the ladder as if floating, his white hair blowing in the wind, and not much more is needed to imagine that under his white Talit he hides wings.
While musing, a hand pats me on my shoulder. I turn around and see a policeman in front of me. He asks with serious face : “What are you doing here ?“ “What does one do near the Wall?“ I answered. “Identity card!“ he demanded. I put my hand in the pocket to take the wallet out, but nothing. This happens with me always under stress. “Come with me”, he ordered me and started towards the police cabin. He noted my particulates in the glassed and narrow cabin and started writing a report.
“Why do you roam the Wall at such a late hour ? “ he wanted to know. I told him, with some concern, about the small naïve Wall my father drew on the house wall in Morocco. A light smile covered his tough face, and he admitted that this was the same in his own home, in Sana. Moreover, his father, who passed away short time ago, continued painting the wall even in Rosh Ha’Ain “as if we never came here “. The old man with the ladder, with the winged Talit and the broom movements seems as if he soars in the air. And I now found enough courage to ask the policeman with a smile : “So what ? God does not read them ?” “Listen”’ said the policeman, touching my shoulder in a friendly gesture, “God does not look at us. I have been here for the last twenty years, and nothing. So closed to matters, as we say. I am intimate with Him, as we say. I am not ashamed to talk with Him loudly. What do I ask for ? Don't Egged members get free ride ? don’t El Al workers get free ticket once a year ? the Wall policeman deserves some luck, no ? all that I have done in order to reach this place, and what do I ask for ? good place in the middle, as they say, not first, but why the last ? Yankale has been promoted. Haim received an increment. Chicko went abroad, and me ? I got Aziza. Five children and three grandchildren …
”Have you written a note ?” I asked . “Oho!” he said, “ but you are talking to the wall. Peres’ driver, my neighbor, tells me, when he wants a raise he goes directly to the President… I am kind of a driver of God, no? I could even say I am His body guard. Don’t I deserve something small from Him ? millionaires come here with TV cameras, women with diamonds size of a stone of the Wall. I ask you! Do they need a Wall ? had I had what they have I would have given my place to someone else. Why take place in the queue ? and you know what they ask for ? “God, cause this government to fall !“ At five o’clock in the morning! “How do you know?“ “What does it mean how do I know? Are you kidding ? read it yourself”, he says and takes out of the drawer a plastic bag full of notes. “When I am alone at night, I go and pick some of the motes from there. “You!?” I gape. “The Wall’s guard ?” “Come off the nonsense!” he says. “Why? What do you think ? that they go up to heaven? Take, take, read”. And he pushes into my face a stack of creased notes. “I am sorry …” I stammer several apologies. “ I don’t … “ but he opens an ATM note and reads aloud :”May Nasarallah die!”. From a dentist receipt he reads aloud : “That my husband will win the primaries” From an MK sheet: “I want to occupy the castle, kill the king, screw the wife !”. But there were also other requests: “ God, send angels to watch for Gilad Shalit”, “God, make them eliminate the multiplication table”, “Dad left mother, what will happen now?”, “I am 35, tall, intelligent, green eyes. Please send me a bridegroom”, accompanied with a lipstick kiss. And so he continues to read to me the troubles of the world. See here, I told myself. While I was thinking to write about this a script for a TV series, here in the policeman’s cabin ends the way of humans’ prayers to God. “And God?” I asked. “Does He need the note? “ he answered. “Believe me! He hears even when we keep silent”. “And you? What do you need this for? “ I wanted to know. “I read it before I fall asleep” “Before you fall asleep? “ I wondered. “You see the troubles of the world and are comforted by it. As they say: A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. Want some to take home? “ and he takes a stack and pushes into my pocket, as if giving me candy. “Take, take it. It will do you good, believe me. Don’t see it like stealing mail. It is not as if they reach up there. Here, look ! see where they are going to!” and he points at the Wall, where a bonfire darts and the winged old man stands near it like an angel, fanning it with an infinite flow of notes, his large shadow falling on the Wall.
Jerusalem dawn starts breaking, and with it the toll of the bells and the trill of the Muasins. The bonfire went out and the old man disappeared. The policeman and me stood in the cool air and looked at the Wall, now clean of notes, rising obstinately towards another day of eternity, like a piece of nature, like the sea in front of the windows in Haifa or Tel Aviv. I was fascinated by the sight, and the policeman, who felt it, patted my shoulder and said to me: “It is yours”, and disappeared into his cabin.
I came closer to the Wall, it keeping growing with every step I made, until it touched the skies. I then touched it with the tips of my fingers, my eyes shut. Suddenly my hand felt a note.
The old man, I thought, did not make sure to remove all of them. I could not control myself and took the note out. It was a small napkin of a Jerusalem restaurant, in which I read sneakily two words, in a feminine handwriting : “Protect me!” I felt like a sinner, but I laid the note in my pocket, deciding to deliberate at home about who wrote it, when my left hand touched another note. Without hesitation I found myself taking also this note out. When I opened my eyes I saw on a check paper, in Rashi “Protect me!”. I wondered. Again I shut my eyes and as if drawing lots, I groped with my hand among the cracks. I opened my eyes and read in Italian : “veglia su di me”. This was indeed too much. I looked carefully around me, maybe someone was playing a practical joke on me. There was no one around, I was entirely alone with the Wall. This was scary and amazing. I went to another corner and tried another pink note that protruded out. The same cry in French: “Protegez moi”. I did not know what to think. Was this magic? I used to always put notes in the Wall. Now I get notes from it. I ran along the Wall back and forth and drew notes from all corners. Scores of notes. My pocket was full of notes of all types, of all colors, of all languages, feminine handwriting, masculine, childish, all with the same cry : “Protect me!” Who wrote it ? after all this is a new day. And the old man had cleared it all and threw it into the bonfire. Does someone call for help ? who ? maybe someone asks me to fulfill a mission ? whose mission ? for whom ? who is the emissary ? who sends him ? and what mission ? who was the old man ? a municipal worker or an angel who brought notes from up, while sending others from down ? what is happening to me ? I came to speak to the Wall and it speaks to me ! I did not know whom to turn to. Speak to the policeman ? approach the Prime Minster ? maybe the Fire Fighters ? I decided to write it in the blog. Because something has to be done. It cannot remained this way.
Once a week I go from Tel Aviv University to Jerusalem to deliver a lesson in Maale Cinema School, and I use the opportunity to tour the Old City, finally arriving at the Western Wall. It is always bustling with clicking cameras, many voices and languages. Now, at three o’clock in the morning, silence is absolute. Only myself and the Wall, four eyes and the stars from above. Now, facing its silent might, I could again see that small, bi – dimensional and symbolic Wall with three cypresses above it, painted on our home wall in Morocco. The painting that expressed the apparently unrealizable dream of my father, to one day reach Jerusalem.
Do those who live here, in the opposite houses, know what it means when they open the window and the immense, two thousand years old dream enters directly their living room ?
While I muse near the Wall, just in front of me an old man appears, with a ladder and a broom. He leans the ladder on the Wall, climbs it agilely and starts sweeping the notes from within the cracks. Who is it ? how come ? why does he take away the notes ? I never knew exactly what was happening with the notes in the Wall. Millions of papers and wishes – where do they disappear to ? after all, two thousand years of requests and pleading could turn this stone wall into a paper wall, and here is the answer. But who is this man ? and what does he do with the notes ? and who allowed him to ? the old man on the ladder seems ethereal, lean, light and very agile, relative to his age. He climbed and came down the ladder as if floating, his white hair blowing in the wind, and not much more is needed to imagine that under his white Talit he hides wings.
While musing, a hand pats me on my shoulder. I turn around and see a policeman in front of me. He asks with serious face : “What are you doing here ?“ “What does one do near the Wall?“ I answered. “Identity card!“ he demanded. I put my hand in the pocket to take the wallet out, but nothing. This happens with me always under stress. “Come with me”, he ordered me and started towards the police cabin. He noted my particulates in the glassed and narrow cabin and started writing a report.
“Why do you roam the Wall at such a late hour ? “ he wanted to know. I told him, with some concern, about the small naïve Wall my father drew on the house wall in Morocco. A light smile covered his tough face, and he admitted that this was the same in his own home, in Sana. Moreover, his father, who passed away short time ago, continued painting the wall even in Rosh Ha’Ain “as if we never came here “. The old man with the ladder, with the winged Talit and the broom movements seems as if he soars in the air. And I now found enough courage to ask the policeman with a smile : “So what ? God does not read them ?” “Listen”’ said the policeman, touching my shoulder in a friendly gesture, “God does not look at us. I have been here for the last twenty years, and nothing. So closed to matters, as we say. I am intimate with Him, as we say. I am not ashamed to talk with Him loudly. What do I ask for ? Don't Egged members get free ride ? don’t El Al workers get free ticket once a year ? the Wall policeman deserves some luck, no ? all that I have done in order to reach this place, and what do I ask for ? good place in the middle, as they say, not first, but why the last ? Yankale has been promoted. Haim received an increment. Chicko went abroad, and me ? I got Aziza. Five children and three grandchildren …
”Have you written a note ?” I asked . “Oho!” he said, “ but you are talking to the wall. Peres’ driver, my neighbor, tells me, when he wants a raise he goes directly to the President… I am kind of a driver of God, no? I could even say I am His body guard. Don’t I deserve something small from Him ? millionaires come here with TV cameras, women with diamonds size of a stone of the Wall. I ask you! Do they need a Wall ? had I had what they have I would have given my place to someone else. Why take place in the queue ? and you know what they ask for ? “God, cause this government to fall !“ At five o’clock in the morning! “How do you know?“ “What does it mean how do I know? Are you kidding ? read it yourself”, he says and takes out of the drawer a plastic bag full of notes. “When I am alone at night, I go and pick some of the motes from there. “You!?” I gape. “The Wall’s guard ?” “Come off the nonsense!” he says. “Why? What do you think ? that they go up to heaven? Take, take, read”. And he pushes into my face a stack of creased notes. “I am sorry …” I stammer several apologies. “ I don’t … “ but he opens an ATM note and reads aloud :”May Nasarallah die!”. From a dentist receipt he reads aloud : “That my husband will win the primaries” From an MK sheet: “I want to occupy the castle, kill the king, screw the wife !”. But there were also other requests: “ God, send angels to watch for Gilad Shalit”, “God, make them eliminate the multiplication table”, “Dad left mother, what will happen now?”, “I am 35, tall, intelligent, green eyes. Please send me a bridegroom”, accompanied with a lipstick kiss. And so he continues to read to me the troubles of the world. See here, I told myself. While I was thinking to write about this a script for a TV series, here in the policeman’s cabin ends the way of humans’ prayers to God. “And God?” I asked. “Does He need the note? “ he answered. “Believe me! He hears even when we keep silent”. “And you? What do you need this for? “ I wanted to know. “I read it before I fall asleep” “Before you fall asleep? “ I wondered. “You see the troubles of the world and are comforted by it. As they say: A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. Want some to take home? “ and he takes a stack and pushes into my pocket, as if giving me candy. “Take, take it. It will do you good, believe me. Don’t see it like stealing mail. It is not as if they reach up there. Here, look ! see where they are going to!” and he points at the Wall, where a bonfire darts and the winged old man stands near it like an angel, fanning it with an infinite flow of notes, his large shadow falling on the Wall.
Jerusalem dawn starts breaking, and with it the toll of the bells and the trill of the Muasins. The bonfire went out and the old man disappeared. The policeman and me stood in the cool air and looked at the Wall, now clean of notes, rising obstinately towards another day of eternity, like a piece of nature, like the sea in front of the windows in Haifa or Tel Aviv. I was fascinated by the sight, and the policeman, who felt it, patted my shoulder and said to me: “It is yours”, and disappeared into his cabin.
I came closer to the Wall, it keeping growing with every step I made, until it touched the skies. I then touched it with the tips of my fingers, my eyes shut. Suddenly my hand felt a note.
The old man, I thought, did not make sure to remove all of them. I could not control myself and took the note out. It was a small napkin of a Jerusalem restaurant, in which I read sneakily two words, in a feminine handwriting : “Protect me!” I felt like a sinner, but I laid the note in my pocket, deciding to deliberate at home about who wrote it, when my left hand touched another note. Without hesitation I found myself taking also this note out. When I opened my eyes I saw on a check paper, in Rashi “Protect me!”. I wondered. Again I shut my eyes and as if drawing lots, I groped with my hand among the cracks. I opened my eyes and read in Italian : “veglia su di me”. This was indeed too much. I looked carefully around me, maybe someone was playing a practical joke on me. There was no one around, I was entirely alone with the Wall. This was scary and amazing. I went to another corner and tried another pink note that protruded out. The same cry in French: “Protegez moi”. I did not know what to think. Was this magic? I used to always put notes in the Wall. Now I get notes from it. I ran along the Wall back and forth and drew notes from all corners. Scores of notes. My pocket was full of notes of all types, of all colors, of all languages, feminine handwriting, masculine, childish, all with the same cry : “Protect me!” Who wrote it ? after all this is a new day. And the old man had cleared it all and threw it into the bonfire. Does someone call for help ? who ? maybe someone asks me to fulfill a mission ? whose mission ? for whom ? who is the emissary ? who sends him ? and what mission ? who was the old man ? a municipal worker or an angel who brought notes from up, while sending others from down ? what is happening to me ? I came to speak to the Wall and it speaks to me ! I did not know whom to turn to. Speak to the policeman ? approach the Prime Minster ? maybe the Fire Fighters ? I decided to write it in the blog. Because something has to be done. It cannot remained this way.
אין תגובות:
הוסף רשומת תגובה