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.
Today I see the beauty. It is in the pearly dawns. It is in the grey stones, gilded when the sun shines. It is in the Western Wall, where sorrowful hearts pour out their hopes and dreams and fears to their creator. It is in the modest homes, however poor, that nevertheless house silver Shabbat candelabra and shelves of holy books. It is in the eyes and faces of people in the street who have made a commitment to live in this spiritual city.
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.”