Where can you find Jews from Ethiopia, Ukraine and Hawaii standing together with black-shawled teens, svelte ladies in waist-length blond shaitels, and “unaffiliateds” swathed in borrowed scarves that hide their bare limbs? Some ladies arrive via wheelchairs, or pushing Bugaboos, or shod in psychedelic Nikes, or spiky Jimmy Chou’s.
Brucha Haba’a to the ladies section at the Kotel!
Decades ago when I first began to visit the Kotel regularly, the crowd was less flashy and more, shall we say, sedate. At least by the women.
David and his harp was an exception. His strawberry blond locks were adorned with a gold (plated) crown. His satiny azure robe caressed his shins as he strode about and serenaded us with songs from Psalms. In English, of course.
Yichye HaMeshuga chose a different instrument to garner attention. His long convoluted shofar blasted out from wherever he was perched. In the days before the Aish HaTorah building sprouted up, there were nooks and crannies in the stone walls facing the Kotel. Yichye HaMeshuga would dart out, blow his shofar and disappear into another small cave and evade capture. I don’t know if it was the security men or adventurous kids looking for a challenge, but no one ever caught him. The next tekiya began a new round of cops and robbers.
Today, even the women are colorful. The vibrant hues of the dresses and scarves of the Ethiopian women stand out against the predominantly dark hues of the charedi daveners. Unabashedly prostrating themselves fully on the ground in front of the Kotel matches their unfettered and wholesome beseeching prayers to G-d.
Unlike the natural spontaneity of the Ethiopian women, a Russian woman reticently tapped me on the shoulder. She asked me to pray for her, since she couldn’t read Hebrew, yet longed to pray. I peered into her light blue eyes and explained to her that G-d understands the language of her heart, and she could speak to Him directly and He will understand her words.
For the past few years, I have been fortunately able to visit the Kotel every week. Over time, I have become friends with the regulars who are there every day. My friend Shoshana usually sits with all her paraphernalia at the entrance to the ladies section, until a security guards asks her to move. “Collecting” is not allowed within the Kotel area, so she moves over to near the entrance gates. But she reclaims her turf a few days later, until another security guard will make her move again. The burning August sun and the whipping January rains do not intimidate her. “This is my job,” she proclaims to me, munching on some rugelach that I brought her. I definitely gain the most from our transactions. The many blessings that Shoshana showered on my head are well worth the few shekels. Even though at 65+ I really don’t think her blessing me with the birth of a male child this year will happen.
Every once in a while we are treated to the induction ceremony of soldiers which takes place in the large open area above the Kotel. Sweet and handsome, these 18 year olds solemnly swear to defend our country, promised to us centuries ago by Hashem to our holy Forefathers. Our soldiers are accompanied by their adulating fathers and tearful mothers. I can’t help but wonder where these teenagers will be a year hence, and pray for them even harder.
As I go back down to the Kotel, I look over the mechitza and hear the sweet voices of cheder boys singing at the top of their lungs. Their golden crowns slide down their foreheads as they march like little soldiers in front of the Kotel in honor of their Chumash party.
Meanwhile, on the ladies side I recently saw a row of sweet seven-year-old girls seated neatly in a row facing the Kotel. They were all dressed in navy skirts and white blouses with their braids or ponytails draped over their backs. Each girl was holding something, but not a siddur. Curious, I moved forward and peeked at what they were holding. Each girl held a picture she had drawn with a wish inscribed at the bottom of the page. Only when I looked at their faces did I realize that this special class of girls was a special Down Syndrome class. Their teacher beckoned them to approach the Kotel, pray for their wish, and then crumple their picture and wedge it into the cracks of the Wall.
A few weeks ago my husband and I were walking out of the Old City through the Arab Shuk. We stopped near the top of the stairs to buy some water when an unconventionally attired young man addressed us in a heavy Texan accent. His long wavy blond hair blowing in the wind is a quite normal for today. But he was wearing a white cloth tunic bound at the waist with a rope, grasped a tall rough branch, and was barefoot! He looked like he had just stepped off the set of a Biblical movie. I stared at him in amazement as he politely asked us if we knew what time it was. I gulped, regained my composure and advised him that it was time for the Mashiach to come already!
Speedily, in our days!
