A week in the Land of Israel, Part 4

I am writing this at an unusual time* – it is almost mid-day and my habit is to write first thing in the morning, straight from bed, before anything else has crowded my thoughts.

I was once told that writing in the morning maintains a closer connection to the unconscious and that, is where the good stuff sits.

We have daylight saving time in the UK today which has moved the clocks an hour forwards, the result being that it is really 11am.

Yesterday I finished with Oz dropping me off on Antipatris Street in Jerusalem.

I eventually found my family’s rented flat; it was a grand reunion as we had not all caught up, this was me, my brother, his wife, their three children and spouse and two grandchildren although to me the little ones are great niece and nephew.

Me, Rod, ageing Uncle Bulgaria.

As Friday night fell and all shops were closing, my sister-in-law, nephew and I, strolled round the neighbourhood.

The flat was beside Mahane Yehuda which is a large outdoor market in Jerusalem.

Oddly, and this isn’t necessarily relevant to the narrative, I struggle with markets.

I am the kind of person who enjoys going into a shop or supermarket, scanning the shelves, paying and leaving.

Hit and run purchase.

Markets are the opposite; in their nature you must interact with the seller, gain their attention, work out the weighing system (g, Kg, lb, oz, etc) and take the thing you have been sold and the associated bags and risk that they will short-change you or otherwise do something that renders the interaction awkward.

My reason for highlighting this point is, I believe, that within the neurodiversity, markets are a potential place of stress and avoided by many; that is not to say if you are autistic, can’t visit markets, just that for me, they are a trigger.

NB There is one market in Sheffield where I get my turmeric, garlic, chilli and one-time yams/purple potatoes that is OK.

I read yesterday that there is evidence that people who are neurodivergent when shopping in supermarkets using self-scanners, experience a negative bias, as this group do not necessarily shop like the allistic majority (Fruit and veg then eggs/bread/tea then alcohol and home, cf bread, clothes, blueberries, deodorant, alcohol then frozen fish), the AI algorithms disproportionately target them for re-scans.

We wandered the streets, bought some wine and returned to the flat for Friday Night Dinner; note, I use capitals, as this meal is a big thing in Judaism and in Jewish families – it even has an associated UK comedy which I have never liked as I consider it cultural appropriation.

I enjoyed my humus (houmous) and pita and assorted other items (fig leaves, burekas) that had been purchased earlier in the day. We then mooched about the flat before bed; watching the little ones doing their thing – toddling, interacting with the adults and so on. We popped to the roof and saw an orange moon rising.

On Saturday we had a funny incident in that we had planned to visit the Jerusalem Aquarium yet, because the flat carpark was restricted by a religiously observant system, we couldn’t get the automatic gate to let us out.

We caught taxis instead.

I won’t give you more detail, suffice to say, it is like most aquariums – fish, lobsters and some rays. If you want to see a great aquarium, go to The Deep.

From there the group split and my brother N, his wife J, nephew I and me, walked round the ramparts of the Old City.

This was an unusual activity as it was daytime on Saturday, when most Jerusalemite Jews were all either praying or sleeping off their Saturday dinners.

The Old City, for those who haven’t visited is split into quarters – the Jewish, the Muslim, the Christian and the Armenian (I think Armenians are Christians which gives Christianity a disproportionate share of the holiness.)

We walked along the walls which circle the city (built by Suleiman the Magnificent my brother reminds me).

It was fascinating peering down on the different groups, whether in the Christian or Muslim Quarters. We crossed over the Damascus Gate where you can see and smell the best herbs, sumac, frankincense, cardamom and myrrh and feel that you are in an ancient place.

We were the only tourists/visitors.

The rampart ended beside the Dome of the Rock / Temple Mount – we descended a flight of ancient stairs to street level and enquired whether we could continue. It transpired that only Muslims were allowed to enter and so, we navigated the streets, passing the Lion’s Gate, via Dolorosa, Western Wall to the Dung gate.

(The Old City of Jerusalem has 8 gates – Jaffa, Damascus, Lion, Dung, New, Zion, Mercy and Herod’s).

I was surprised to see stalls selling toy machine guns outside the Mosque.

Not that there is anything wrong with toy guns (OK, there is something wrong with toy guns), I considered them anomalous in Jerusalem – a place where there has been so much heartache, bloodshed and devastation over the years; I thought people would have been more circumspect.

Another taxi took us back to the flat before we went to a restaurant situated in the former building of the Betzalel Art School in the New City.

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The Jewish festival of Purim took place during my visit.

I explained this earlier – Queen Esther, Mordechai and, Haman in Persia following the first exile.

During the festival people are required to:

1. Listen to the Megillah (Scroll) of Esther twice (thanks D for that).
2. Wear fancy dress
3. Get drunk until they don’t know the difference between ‘right and wrong’ (For some Israeli politicians, that is a very sober state).

The place was lively.

In the evening, from the flat, we could hear the street party which began around 11pm.

The thumping bass sonically boomed through the walls.

Everyone was tired and went to bed.

I went for a wander.

Everywhere young people were walking, some in fancy dress, others with unusual make-up – glittery eyes and faces, polka dot hats and superhero costumes. The music was Israeli, filling the streets, controlled by animated DJ’s.

Initially I skirted round the outside as I am not keen on gatherings and, as this is Israel, a place where bombs sometimes explode.

I weigh the possibility of a terrorist attack much like the lone soldier who was on duty guarding one of the streets; M16 slung over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, thinking to himself, ‘I hope nothing happens.’

In the crowd which was mostly young people there was a scattering of families with prams, older people and an occasional Chasid.

People were eating pizza, drinking alcohol, laughing, dancing.

I reflected on my experiences living in the UK and the way in which nothing similar would happen there.

I thought of Nova, of the ongoing trauma and the young people, now, free and enjoying themselves.

It seemed like chaos. It was.

So much good cheer.

Smiles and excitement.

I thought of the war and the hostages.

The bereaved and the injured.

I thought of terrorists.

I thought of Gaza and the Palestinians trapped between warring armies.

An ancient place with modern sentiments.

And the noise.

The music I sometimes download on Spotify.

Eventually I returned to the flat. Everyone was in bed, trying to sleep amidst the din.

I drifted off.

The following day was my flight home.

And what about the snake?

OK.

This was on Wednesday night.

‘There is a snake in the flats!’ My brother cried. This had been communicated on his WhatsApp group – in Hebrew. Someone had taken the photo below.

Photo courtesy of the residents of Neve Zemer, Ra’anana 2025

‘What type of snake?’ I asked, ‘Is it venomous?’ (I have watched enough Deadly Sixty to know not to say ‘poisonous’) – who knew; the discourse was in Hebrew.

We tried Google Translate and first thought it was an Adder.

‘Adders aren’t good,’ my brother said.

Later, after a Google Image Search we identified it as a Palestinian viper, which is much, much worse than an Adder.

I headed down to the garden with my brother to look; I thought I could somehow snare it; grab the tail with my ‘lightning’ reflexes.

Fortunately, we didn’t find the snake although someone from the WhatsApp called the local snake catcher.

The snake was caught and later released.

It struck me as an interesting metaphor for the political times.

It was a Palestinian, not Israeli viper.

It was seen as posing a threat – mostly because humans have an evolutionary bias against serpents – particularly apposite in a country built upon the principles of the Old Testament and the Garden of Eden.

It was captured straightforwardly without harm to the snake or the locals and taken to another place; protected, for it is part of the local fauna, I thought us lucky to have encountered such a rarity.

A serpent in Eden.

The makings of a book.

Or a morality tale.

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*First draft was Sunday 10am, it is now Wednesday 8pm for proof-read.

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Photo by Rod Kersh 2025