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Marcia Fremont is a freelance writer who, after many years of coming to
Israel made aliyah in 2006. Her writing includes political commentary,
reflections on life in Eretz Yisrael, and a book published in 2001.
Additionally she is involved in research regarding dispersed and hidden Jews
throughout the world.
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By Marcia Fremont
April 23, 2007
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We must have been giddy with the freedom we just gained from Egypt to have acted with such abandon. Perhaps it was mixed with a "yeast high" (as opposed to a sugar high) having rushed out our doors as soon as Pesach went out, making a mad dash to our favorite restaurants to gobble up breads, pastas, pizzas -- anything but matzot!!
It's not that we prefer Egypt; the Almighty asked only that we remember for seven days; we were simply ready to move on toward Shavuot.
Whatever it was that night, it was pure Israel, pure Rehov Ben Yehudah, and pure fun.
Actually, it was fun that drew me to the midrahov (pedestrian mall) in the first place. Having spent a very quiet last day of Pesach I was ready to go out for an evening snack -- without matza! I yearned for a little excitement and the buzz that accompanies any Motzei Shabbat or Holiday in the downtown area. There are always more people, more choices and -- who knows -- an adventure of some kind often awaits one patient enough to linger in the lights and shadows of Ben Yehudah and Kikar Tzion.
I wasn't disappointed. I didn't even mind the long line winding its way out of the Rimon Café -- an experience I normally try to avoid. Nonetheless, the Rimon is the place to go in the center of town for people watching. And while it's the people watching that draws me, it is the camaraderie that warms me even more than my cherished cup of joe. It never fails that some simcha bubbling over at this table or that one draws the entire restaurant into joining the celebration -- singing, clapping, dancing -- all happy for the joyous occasion, whatever it may be!
In reality, it was somewhat quiet at the Rimon tonight -- except for the delirious excitement over Betar's fantastic scoring in the local soccer match. For the most part patrons were simply relishing the loaves of delicious warm bread that were disappearing from the bread baskets as fast as they were filled... content to fill their stomachs with the delicacy after a week of estrangement.
It was the action on Ben Yehuda that was the highlight of the evening and I almost missed it. Post pizza and coffee, I was headed for the bus when I heard the sounds of drums and I decided to mosey in that direction, taking the "long way round" to the bus stop. It took me an hour to get to the stop, almost missing the last bus home.
Sitting on the mall's stone benches were 3 young men, each playing a different kind of drum. The drummers were intriguing, but it was the dapper old man dancing in front of them that drew my attention and brought a huge smile. In his late 70's or more -- it was hard to tell -- and sporting a trim coat, wool hat and shiny black shoes, he gave quite a performance. Very intent on his movements, and very good ones at that, I wondered if he had been a dancer in his younger years. Playing to his audience, he spun around and flashed a mischievous grin to the crowd... it was, surprisingly, entirely toothless, but triumphant nonetheless.
More drums and drummers appeared out of nowhere and, admittedly, some of them had, should we say, derived a rush from something other than bread after the holiday. But never mind, they were excellent drummers, crowd friendly, and loved the old man dancing. So did the Breslov boys in the crowd, the young and old kippa wearers, the Haredi couples, families with children of all ages, tourists and Israelis of every size shape color and persuasion.
By this time, the entire crowd was tapping, clapping, giggling and wiggling, and more. Men -- and a couple of women -- burst into dance in the midst of the gathering, and up and down the street people were drawn into the festive fun. There were all kinds of dancers and dances -- from a Russian bottle dance (expertly done!) to modern hip hop -- and everything in between.
I watched as the old man tried to leave, and a dance of another sort began to take place when a bearded onlooker, straight out of Fiddler on the Roof, tried to stop him from leaving. Amidst an exchange of laughter and movements, it became a dance of persuasion reminiscent of Lazer Wolf and Tevya in their famous interchange. In the end, the bearded Lazer had his way, and the old man returned center stage to begin his dance again.
He had competition now, as a young man, obviously also very good, entered the "ring" and all eyes shifted to him. I too had turned my attention to this new entertainer and suddenly I realized the old man was gone. It was not for long however, for in a moment -- to the cheers of the crowd -- he came tap-dancing his way back to center stage, balancing -- what else? -- a glass of water on his now hatless, bald and rather flat head.
And so it went, the crowd and the performers having a wonderful, carefree, giddy time. It was a spontaneous event that could have taken place on many street corners across the world. Or was it? We need to ask the question.
Why was this (night) different from one in Amsterdam, London or Santa Monica, CA?
The answer is both simple and profound. This night was different for one remarkable reason: we were Jews on the streets of Yerushalayim and it was holy. We were not just one kind of Jew but every kind of Jew -- Moroccan, Iranian, Russian, Ethiopian, Ashkenazi, Sephardic -- haredi to hippie to homeless, tzitit to tanks and tees, and from a talented toothless tap-dancing old man to a fiddler on the roof, we were all there together.
Precisely because of the miracle of freedom we just celebrated coming out of Egypt we must acknowledge this miracle: in the year 5767, we laugh and dance as Jews on Rehov Ben Yehuda and celebrate that we are Am Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael, after all this time, just like God said we would. In this season of remembrances and celebration of our modern-day presence in the Land, we must not fail to constantly remind ourselves that we are here and why.
The season following Pesach moves us toward Shavuot, when we bring the fully leavened bread and the first fruits of the Land of Israel. We are the fruit of the Land. Let the dance begin.
Views expressed by the author do not
necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.
 
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