Jerusalem, by Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000)
On a roof in the Old City,
laundry is illuminated by the last light of day:
The white sheet of my enemy,
The towel of my enemy
to wipe the sweat from his brow.
And in the skies of the Old City,
a kite.
And at the end of the string,
a child
that I couldn't see,
because of the Wall.
We have raised many flags,
they have raised many flags.
To make us think they're happy.
To make them think we're happy.
I want to tell you about Jerusalem. In Hebrew, the the word 'shir' means song and poem, as if there really isn't any difference. Amichai was a poet, and he sang about Jerusalem. I can merely add and interpret.
This is the only Amichai poem to have only the epithet 'Jerusalem', and it's a relic of a forgotten time; the lament of the divided city, between 1948-67.
A lament. People not 100 metres away, going about their daily lives, are enemies. At this time, the Old City of Jerusalem - including the former Jewish Quarter - was in Jordainan hands, and Amichai must have been somewhere to the west, looking into the city from the next hill along. A kite, unaffected by the physical division of the Old City wall, acts as a symbol of universality in an understated way.
from Jerusalem 1967, poem 2 by Yehuda Amichai
A man who returns to Jerusalem knows
That the places that used to hurt no longer hurt
But a gentle warning remains on everything
Like a light veil moving,
Warning!
A divided city. Even today, it remains divided. Arab neighbourhoods are in the East, Jewish in the West. The seam line never healed. And now this is seen as a good thing, because before long, Jerusalem will be divided again, with walls and borders. It's inevitable. But things have changed since 1967. Most East Jerusalemites work in the West, and the city functions as one economic unit. Jerusalemites, Arab and Jewish, are against dividing the city again, but they can see no choice. So it has always been in this city; waiting around for tragedy.
I've lived for six months in Jerusalem; not very long, but enough to feel the place. "Jerusalem is full of used Jews", said Amichai, and it's true; there's a sense of weariness there. It is not where you want to bring up your kids. There's a tension that you can't get past. Nowadays, of course, there's the russian roulette of getting on a bus or going to work, but that's new. It was there before. As the man said:
from Jerusalem 1967, poem 2 by Yehuda Amichai
Jerusalem is built on the reinforced foundations
Of a trapped scream. If there were no reason for the scream
The foundations would shatter, the city would collapse. If the scream were screamed,
Jerusalem would explode into the heavens.
Some days it seems that there really is no reason for the scream, that Jerusalem isn't worth it. The relics of former glory seem just relics. Some days, it's too much, the holiness and history and emotion seem to overwhelm me until I nearly scream the scream that will catapault the whole lot into the air.
Neil Gaiman reckon that all cities have human personalities. Jerusalem is a single woman, of indeterminable age. Sometimes, she seems an old, childless widow and sometimes she plays the blushing, innocent maiden. And I'd be a fool if I didn't admit some love there for this mysterious creature. It's a difficult relationshp; she's sullen, and has been hurt without having learnt the lessons of the past. She ignores my advice but expects me to stand by her. And, like a fool, I will probably end up moving to be nearer to her one day.
Amichai showed me I'm not the first to feel this way, and I'm greatful. While love for a person drives lovers apart, love for a place brings them together; something long ago observed:
Jerusalem is built as a city that unites people as friends (Ps 122:3).
All translations my own, from Hebrew. The poetry remains (c) Yehuda Amichai's estate.
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