The Western Wall
Thus far, Israel had welcomed me with open arms as one of its own people. Yet I didn’t know how welcomed I would be by the wall. Could my prayers, those of an uneducated Hebrew school drop-out, possibly be as important as those of the pious crowds clad in black, of the mothers dutifully concealing […]
Thus far, Israel had welcomed me with open arms as one of its own people. Yet I didn’t know how welcomed I would be by the wall. Could my prayers, those of an uneducated Hebrew school drop-out, possibly be as important as those of the pious crowds clad in black, of the mothers dutifully concealing their hair beneath scarves? I thought back to my Hebrew school days in a futile attempt to recall some prayer, any prayer, to bring with me. Alas, only memories of Shabbat services spent in the bathroom with friends, exchanging the newest lip gloss, came back to me.
As I approached the wall, I began to feel the gravity of each slow step. The thin voices of children and the hushing of grandmothers and the scraping of plastic chairs and the mumbled excuse me’s slowly faded away as I found a narrow sliver of ancient stone, and quietly squeezed myself between two crying women shaking with prayers, who seemed not to have noticed me. As I put my hand on the massive stones in front of me, I ceased to see and could only feel. In the pulsating stones, I felt the prayers of my neighbors. I felt the children praying for a new toy and for the health of their dying grandmother. I felt their mothers and grandmothers mourning; their tears became my tears, and their dead became my dead. I felt the anguish of the six million who did not get a chance to ask for happiness at the wall, and of the millions before them. I felt the blood dancing in my veins, reminding me of relatives that I never knew and will never know. I prayed that whatever goodness lived in them awaken in me someday. I prayed for my friends and family, squeezing their written requests into the crevices already saturated with those of many before me. I prayed that their voices be heard despite them not being there with me. I prayed that Jewish voices everywhere be heard.
I walked along the wall, each massive stone absorbing every prayer. I began my slow departure, not for a minute turning my back to it. Only later did I realize that no matter which way I faced, the wall had not turned its back on me.
By Ariel Tabachnik
Ariel Tabachnik is a graduate of Georgetown University where she majored in neuroscience and minored in Italian. A self-proclaimed dancing nerd and interspiritual wanderer, she is interested in science, healthcare, the arts, and our tiny existence in this giant universe.
