By Elisabeth Hinze
After weeks of refusing to see the signs, I had to face facts. My favourite (and only) pair of jeans was just no longer wearable. Literally. They simply fell apart. Oh, it had been a long time coming. But still an inconvenience. Because I hate jean shopping. Add to that the fact that I’m in a foreign country and substantially bigger than your average Israeli, well, let’s just say it wasn’t something I looked forward to.
Yes, I know. There is a war going on. And I’m writing to you about a shopping trip? Actually, yes. Because I do have a point to make. So stick with me for a moment. First, back to said shopping trip…
A dazzling array of tiny clothing stores line Jaffo street in Jerusalem’s city centre, proudly, like beads on a necklace: bright, colourful and strung together snugly. It’s a far cry from your modern mall. First, there’s your mass-produced, made-in-China fair. But here you will also find gems that you wouldn’t dream of running into at any chain store or boutique. It will be more beautiful and much cheaper. The shop keepers have time. Which they will be happy to spend on you. Provided, of course, that you sit down, give them a smile, listen to their stories about children and grandchildren and times gone by.
I slip into the first store with a sufficient amount of jeans on display in the window. It’s stuffed to capacity with women, all apparently trying to outspeak one another. I pause for a second. Take a deep breath. And then take the plunge…
Mumbling a chorus of “slichah” (excuse me), I wangle my way through the mishmash of grandmothers, mothers, daughters and friends browsing through clothes, fitting on their prospective purchases or loudly giving advice on prospective purchases. I make it to the jean display without any serious collisions and start rifling. With three pairs of jeans in tow I make a run for the changing rooms.
Which is where the shopping trip turns into an affair. See, where I come from, changing rooms are institutions, mini-retreats from the shopping frenzy. Cubicles large enough for a series of cartwheels, soft, flattering lights, soothing music and at least four floor-length mirrors. Here, in this little shop, there is but a curtain. A flimsy one. I look around in mild panic. Did I miss the cubicles? Nope. It’s the flimsy curtain thing or, well, nothing.
Seeing little choice in the matter, I duck behind said curtain, making myself as inconspicuous as possible, and pull on the first pair of jeans at breakneck speed. Only to realise that my little hideaway has no mirror. Well, of course it doesn’t, I argue with myself. How dare I begrudge the other shoppers the opportunity of giving advice on my prospective purchase? This is, after all, Israel. Giving advice is a favourite pastime, a hobby.
I peek from behind my safety curtain, frantically looking for a mirror, hoping against hope to remain unseen, when a lady across the room catches my eye and smiles. I freeze. Where I come from, shoppers rarely acknowledge each other’s existence, let alone interact. It’s simply not done. Clearly unaware of this ethical code amongst shoppers, she crosses the room to take my hand and lead me to the mirror. I’m too stunned to react. She studies my reflection in the mirror. I study her. She’s probably in her sixties, sturdy, motherly. Judging from her religious dress, she’s probably never bought a pair of jeans. Never will. But it doesn’t stop her from giving advice. “Lo (no)”, she says and dismisses the pair I’ve fitted on. And promptly waves me back to my curtain to try on the next pair.
I re-emerge to see that she’s found some reinforcements. A group of women will now give advice on my fashion choices. There’s some murmurs, followed by a loud discussion in rapid Hebrew before the verdict is in, “Kacha kacha (so-so)”.
I can’t help but smile as I pull my safety curtain aside to show my audience the third option. This is what community is like, I think. Never being left to your own devises, never having to fend for yourself. And even if it’s only for a brief moment, I’m thankful that they wanted me to be part of them.
I do a little twirl in front of my ladies. They giggle. Probably didn’t see that one coming. To be honest, neither did I. Again the murmur, the loud discussion in rapid Hebrew and then the leader of the pack, the sturdy, motherly lady who started all this steps, forward to touch my cheek, “Ken, at jaffah chamudah (Yes, you are pretty, sweety). And I feel it. Pretty.
Like a mother hen she clucks around me as I pay. Others wait with her. Her daughters? Granddaughters? We leave the store together. “Thank you,” I croak, suddenly all emotional. She touches my cheek again. “You are my daughter,” she says. “Especially at a time like this, you are my daughter.”
The words ring in my head like a mantra, “You are my daughter…” Because that is what community does. It gathers the lost and lonely. More than that, it looks out for the lost and the lonely to gather them close. I had no mother, sister or friend to come shopping with me that day. I came alone. And I felt nervous, out of place. Which could simply not be allowed. Not in a community. Not in Israel. Not amongst a people who had to spent a history being treated like outcasts. And so she gathered me close, pulled me into her little circle. She made sure that I would not be alone.
“You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:34).
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Patti Erickson says
Elizabeth, I am becoming a fan of your writing, having read and commented on your article, “Between the Straits” which was so informative. I love anything written about Israel, having visited in 1992 and desiring, longing, to return on another trip. Your descriptive writing makes me feel as if I am with you, sharing in this fun shopping episode. Ironically, I recently searched for the “just right” pair of jeans with rear waist and pocket BLING in Rapid City, SD (during our June 3-week, 6,000 mile family=event trip from Arizona where we have lived for 9 years). Because the price shocked me at $100, I thereby decided I could return home without such an expensive purchase (and watch for a sale around my home area!). Thank you, Elizabeth, for the joy of being part of your “new=found family” experience. May I be your sister, too? Love, Patti
Elisabeth says
Shalom dear Patti. Well, seeing that we share a Father and an Older Brother, I’d say we are sisters indeed:-)
Much love
Elisabeth
Lisa says
Funny, beautiful and touching! A joy to read!
Elisabeth says
Thank you for your beautiful comment Lisa. I appreciate it very much.
Shalom
Elisabeth