The rainy season is finally upon us here in Israel as we continue to persevere in the face of a year-long, multi-front war. Tempers can flare unexpectedly between fellow human beings over all sorts of things from politics to muddy shoes. Luckily, as a psychiatrist working in Jerusalem, I’m used to handling a wide variety of emotions from aggression to apprehension and everything in between.
During one of the year’s first thunderstorms this past week, I returned to my office after getting lunch from the bakery across the street. My new patient—a European diplomat stationed here in Israel—was waiting for me upon my return. He was half an hour early for his appointment and told me that he’d been referred by the physician at his national consulate who recommended my immediate services. He didn’t need to tell me that he was nonplussed at having to stand outside in the rain without an umbrella because that one was rather obvious.
“Come in please,” I offered amicably as I turned the key and held the door open for the fellow whose fine Italian suit was soaking wet.
“You know Doctor, it would be nice if I didn’t have to be drenched in the rain while you got a bagel for yourself.”
I ignored the unpleasant antisemitic nature of his comment as well as the desire to point out that he could have brought a raincoat to stay dry. I didn’t mention that he was thirty minutes early and that was why the door was locked or that I’d eaten a croissant instead of a circular lox-and-cream cheese sandwich.
“And on top of that, what kind of physician wears hiking boots to the office when he’s seeing patients? It’s not very professional and we would never have that in my country. You’d never be able to practice medicine like this where I’m from.”
While I wasn’t feeling particularly defensive, I wanted to offer a practical thought, “I just don’t want to spend your time thinking about how cold and wet my feet would be if I wore loafers instead of these boots knowing the forecast called for rain.”
The consultation focused on—go figure—issues of narcissistic anger. It ended up being a relatively-productive initial session and fifty minutes later as I got up to walk him to the door, my new patient noted that I was carrying a firearm under my suit jacket
“Oh,” he said interested. “I didn’t know you were in the army.”
“I’m not,” I responded pleasantly. “Unfortunately I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Oh that’s right, you’re a Haredi man. Haredim are anti-army. Why do you have a firearm then?”
“I’m not anti-army, I moved here when I was above the draft age. I do work frequently with soldiers and volunteer when I can with fathers who have lost their sons in the war. But no, I’m no soldier. Just a regular guy.”
“But why do you have a gun?” He asked, struggling to make sense of me. “Are you a settler or something?”
“I try to settle people’s problems for them as part of the therapeutic process,” I winked at him, refusing to take the bait and answer any further questions.
We made up a time to meet again and he stepped into the street, my patient surprised me by saying, “You know I had a Bar Mitzvah when I was younger.”
I blinked, honestly surprised by his doorknob comment. Here was a fellow who looked like he’d be more at home in Düsseldorf or Zurich than in any synagogue I knew about. His name sounded more German than Yiddish and his outward disdain had led me to believe he wasn’t particularly fond of Jews or The Jewish State.
“Here I was, making all sorts of judgments about you based on your looks. I just wanted to point out that it goes both ways,” he smiled at me.
And thus ended our brief encounter, a microcosm of the patience and the open-mindedness that is required from us all to coexist.
Anyone living in Eretz Yisrael is making a sacrifice for the sake of The State of Israel. Sure it’s dangerous to be a Jew anywhere these days—whether in Amsterdam, Kiev, Brooklyn, or Haifa—but here in Israel, the daily reminders are more in-your-face. We must constantly impress upon ourselves that—whether or not we agree on everything—there is so much more that connects us than the smaller things that set us apart from each other.
Ultimately, this story isn’t about politics or war. It’s about shoes and the people whose feet are inside of those shoes. Or more accurately, it’s about what happens when we judge a human book by its cover and forget that we are all part of the same cosmic Jewish library.
May we not forget.
