“The air over Jerusalem is saturated with prayers and dreams
Like the air over industrial cities
It is hard to breathe.”
I felt it, too, when I first came to live in Jerusalem 50 years ago. I was born into the laid-back lifestyle of Australia, land of sunshine, wide-open spaces, beaches and barbecues. Jerusalem, by contrast, was oppressive. The people were somber, laughter was rare. Life was so serious.
It frightened me. I could stand on the corner of a street and hear half-a-dozen languages spoken. I could see old ladies shuffling by, still wearing the faded costumes of lost communities. Soon I’d see a tourist, a soldier, a school child, a monk in a brown habit, a “hassid” in a black hat, with his long ‘peyot’ (side curls) swinging as he walked. Nobody was ordinary. I saw every category of saints and sinners, beggars, artists and poets. I too found it hard to breathe.
It took many, many years before I felt part of the landscape, one of the passing parade. There were wars and terror attacks, demonstrations and parades. Everything that happened somehow bonded me slowly to this unique city. When I first came I didn’t understand the oft-quoted: “Ten measures of beauty came to the world, and nine were taken by Jerusalem.” Where were they? Not evident like the snow-clad peaks in Switzerland; the lakes in Wordsworth’s daffodil county; the gondolas and the canals of Venice; the Eiffel Tower in Paris. There was nowhere that made you suddenly gasp at a spot so beautiful it was forever etched on your memory.
Only in Jerusalem do I fall under this spell. Nothing here is trivial. Everything one does is significant. We feel the full weight of history as we tread stones once trodden by kings and martyrs and warriors. Jerusalem is not just a city … it is an emotion. It saturates every fiber of our being. It captures our soul and never lets us go.
Now, should someone ask: “Where would you most like to live?” the answer lies ready on my lips: “Only in Jerusalem.”