What two Borats at a gas station in Jerusalem taught me about hope

So maybe you don’t know this about me, but I’m in a Torah study group with rabbis and comedians.

(They’ve been generous enough to let me join, given that I am neither rabbi nor comedian.)

Today, we were studying the laws around purity after childbirth — which naturally led us to talking about periods.
Because Torah study: come for the plagues and prophets, stay for the niddah.

And it reminded me of a story from a few months ago:
I was at the Yellow gas station by King David Street — they make a surprisingly good cappuccino, don’t judge — when this young woman walked in.

She poked around the shelves, couldn’t find what she needed, and went up to the cashier — a guy named Muhammad — and asked in English:

“Hi, do you have any tampons?”

Muhammad nodded sagely . “Yes. But you don’t want tampons. You want pads.”

Ah here we go — someone who’s never had a period in his entire life has an Opinion. I rolled my eyes so far back I almost swallowed them.

The woman blinked. “No… I want tampons.”

Muhammad leaned in, very serious now, like he was letting her in on a secret.
“No, no, no. Pads are better. Better for your vajeen.”

Vajeen??? Am I living in a borat movie?
I damn near choked on my gum.
Just then, another guy wandered in — black yarmulke on his head, belly straining against the buttons of his shirt.
He greeted Muhammad warmly — in Arabic.

“Shalom, Yossi!” Muhammad beamed. “How are you? Tell this woman — pads are better for her vajeen!”

Without skipping a beat, Yossi turned to the woman and said, in English,
“Oh, for sure, sweetie. Absolutely. Pads are much better for your vajeen.”

The woman smiled politely — the kind of smile you save for airport security or hyperactive preschoolers — and said
“Thanks, but believe you me, I know what’s best for my body. Just the tampons, please.”

Muhammad shrugged, handed her the tampons, and she paid and left.

I ordered my coffee — a laugh curled in my mouth I could barely contain, because here’s the thing:

One:
Some men love telling women what’s best for our bodies. (It’s practically their cardio)

Yes, it’s irritating AF, but for one glorious moment, Israelis and Palestinians were actually united — not by peace talks or coexistence groups even a mutual hatred of pumpkin spice hummus — no. They were United by their shared mission of TELLING women what to do with their bodies

Two:

Apparently once a man in Jerusalem hits a certain age, he automatically becomes Borat.
It just happens. Like clockwork.
I became my mother.
Yossi and Muhammad became Borat.
We don’t get a say in it.
It’s just how the universe works.

And three :

Listen — we can laugh about it, but honestly? As exasperating as it may be to navigate mansplaining in any language or culture especially when you have not one but TWO Borats telling you what’s best for your body, I remember a time not so long ago when men couldn’t even say the word “period” without turning green and literally melting into the floor. And here were two grown-ass men comfortably, even proudly, discussing the merits of various feminine hygiene products.

Hey, I  give props where they are due.

And they’re due.

It’s a weird world we’re living in, kids — messy, loud, stubborn — but sometimes even the strangest moments remind me:

People can still surprise you.

And sometimes, a gas station cappuccino and a tampon debate are enough to crack the door open just a little wider. Maybe world peace is still a long shot. But if Muhammad and Yossi can find common ground over a woman’s vajeen, I’m willing to believe anything’s possible.

Iz niiiiice.