An oasis on the way to the Kotel
At a rather fast pace, we walked through the Arab shuk on our way to the Kotel to daven Mincha.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a group of Jews gathered around a small kiosk, cups in their hands. I could not properly observe what was happening because I was concentrating on the steep descending steps beneath me, careful not to trip among all the obstacles and crowds.
Still, I mentioned it to my husband Raphy.
“I saw Jews drinking something at a shop,” I said. “Do you think an Arab donned a kippa, pretending he was Jewish and fooling us?”
He did not answer. We were trying to reach our destination as quickly as possible.
On the way back, we had a little more time and again passed the same place. At least half a dozen Jews stood there receiving drinks and cookies.
We still did not stop, but this time it was clear that the person serving them was definitely Jewish.
A few minutes later, Raphy began telling me the story from the Gemara of Nakdimon Ben Guryon, who provided water to the Jews making their pilgrimage to the Second Temple.
With all the surrounding noise of the shuk, I only clearly caught the name Ben Guryon, yet I understood that somehow the story connected to the kiosk we had just passed.
The next day we again walked toward the Kotel, and this time I intended to stop and examine the little shop more carefully.
When I looked up above the green archway, I saw a brown circular sign with rather large Hebrew letters spelling:
NAKDIMON
Above it was a depiction of the Beit HaMikdash, and underneath, in smaller English letters, the name Nakdimon.
For the first time in all these years, someone had the courage to open a place for Jews to enjoy a glass of water, soda, or juice while walking through the shuk on the way to the Kotel. Drinks flowed from what appeared to be old fashioned soda fountains, and for a brief moment it truly felt like an oasis on the journey to one of the holiest places in the world.
How did the Arabs accept this person? I wondered to myself.
How many times had I wanted to buy a bottle of water or a freshly squeezed orange juice while walking through the shuk, yet never dared to do so?
And now, after thousands of years in which no one had dared or even imagined reviving such an act of kindness, came one person obviously someone who studies the Talmud like my husband who was moved by the story of Nakdimon Ben Guryon and found the courage to become, in some small way, another Nakdimon himself, serving fellow Jews on their way to the remnants of the Beit HaMikdash.
In the middle of the noise, the crowds, and the hurried footsteps leading to the Kotel, this tiny kiosk offered more than cold drinks and cookies.
It offered a feeling of belonging.
