JERUSALEM -- "If I could, I would flee Jerusalem at the first
opportunity," says one office worker. "The fundamentalists are
taking over the city. We hate them and they despise us, so how
can we coexist?" says a trade unionist.
These quotes have nothing to do with Jews and Arabs. Rather,
these bitter words are from Jews about Jews. And Jerusalem is
the main battleground in this Middle East conflict.
For many years, an uneasy status quo existed in Jerusalem, with
the haredim, or ultraorthodox, and secularists segregated into
their separate neighborhoods. But there is an increasing mood of
pessimism among Jerusalem's secular Jews. They feel that the
status quo is changing, and not in their favor.
"I don't want to live in 'Little Tehran,' " said Eli Shuval, a financial
officer with Israel's umbrella trade union. "These Jewish
ayatollahs are turning Jerusalem into a theocracy. Every time I
see a haredi it reminds me that I don't belong here."
Secular Israelis feel under siege. The haredim (the label comes
from the Hebrew for God-fearing), identified by their black coats
and brim hats that date from 18th-century Poland, would like to
see the laws of the Jewish state enforce the laws of the Jewish
religion. Secular and mildly religious Jews oppose this
"Iranization."
Jerusalem is no Iran, but Jerusalemites are already constrained
by religious laws, such as the prohibition on working or driving on
the Sabbath. In certain haredi enclaves -- many secular Jews
call them "ghettos" -- the prohibition on driving on the Sabbath
has been enforced for years by rock-throwing youths.
The two groups are so bitterly antagonistic because they
represent different sides of the Jewish coin. The secularists see
themselves as rationalist and outward-looking Jews, while the
haredim consider them spiritually void and assimilationist. The
haredim consider themselves spiritual, community-oriented and
truly Jewish, while the secularists see them as superstitious,
insular and arrogant.
The 'Minnesota attitude'
The main route linking retired St. Louis Park lawyer Irvin
Schermer's secular neighborhood to his daughter's secular
community runs through a heavily populated haredi area. "One
time, they [haredi demonstrators] pushed police barriers into my
car, because we drove on Saturday," he said. "It's compelled us
to take a route that is twice as long. Once we got lost, and it took
us an hour to get home."
Many in the haredi community are equally disturbed by the
conflict. "I'm not used to the polarization," says Moshe Finkle, a
haredi chiropractor and former St. Louis Park resident. "It
strikes me as narrow-mindedness on both sides. I still have the
Minnesota attitude: I don't see 'me and them.' I feel we're all part
of the same family."
Disturbing for many is the enforcement of dress codes for
women. A woman walking through exclusively haredi
neighborhoods in immodest dress will be subjected to discomfiting
stares; men will cover their faces or abruptly turn away. Such
incidents are rare, because the haredi neighborhoods are well
known and easy to avoid and because Jerusalemites tend to dress
conservatively anyway.
Irvin Schermer's wife, Barbara, who has lived here 29 years, was
in for a shock when her favorite supermarket switched to haredi
management two years ago. "I went shopping wearing pants, and
the security guard came up with a dirty old rag that was
supposed to be a skirt. He said I should tie it around me. I gave
back my cart and never went back. I said, 'Take your skirt;
goodbye!' I hope they lose money."
Haredi Minnesotans who live in Jerusalem agree that Barbara
Schermer's experience is outrageous, but they do support some
standards. "In North High School we had a dress code," says
Rivka Tal, who grew up in north Minneapolis as Patti Schochet.
"If people work in a place with a big population of religious
people, it's perfectly legitimate for the workers to have a dress
code."
The broader issues of setting community standards reflect the
haredi push to preserve Jerusalem as a holy center, unlike any
other city. "I wouldn't close down KFC in the middle of the
town," says Finkle. "But if you start sprinkling them all throughout
Jerusalem, it's the symbol of the secularization of a holy city. At
least one place in the world should conduct itself on Torah
values."
Demographic trends point to a fast-growing haredi population.
Following God's instruction to "be fruitful and multiply," haredi
families have large families. A much-quoted study published by
the Jerusalem Institute for Israel Studies indicates that by the
year 2010, the haredim will constitute 38 percent of the city's
Jewish population. Another statistic: More than half of the pupils
in Jerusalem's grade schools, next century's voters, are haredim.
Secular residents already know how those votes will be used.
Many residents cite the Bar Ilan controversy as evidence of
things to come. Last summer the city closed Bar Ilan Street to
traffic during Sabbath prayers. Unlike the side streets of haredi
enclaves, Bar Ilan is one of the city's major thoroughfares. The
issue has led to bitter arguments and violent demonstrations as
haredim and secularists fight passionately for what they see as
crucial principles.
Different goals
For the most part, the secularists and haredim live in separate
communities, with separate aims. The haredim center their lives
on fulfilling commandments in the Torah. "It's not money that
forms the quality of life in this city, how many fancy buildings or
malls we have," says Tal. "It's the acts of hesed [kindness] that
people do for each other." In addition to her work as a writer, she
runs a free-loan society from her home for parents of newborns
who can't afford baby carriages. Each haredi neighborhood has
hundreds of free-loan societies for everything from cash to
medical equipment to wedding gowns.
Most haredi men single-mindedly focus their lives on Torah
study. "I don't want to sound flaky religious, but this has been
passed down throughout the generations," says Tal. "We have a
direct promise from God that this is what keeps the Jewish
people alive: Torah study, day in, day out. This is the role of man,
what nourishes him and his family."
Says Finkle, who, in addition to his yeshiva studies, supports his
wife and three children by running a chiropractic clinic in his
home: "I know when I learn Torah six or seven hours a day in
yeshiva, it has a positive impact on my child.
"My father [in the United States] has a strong work ethic and
feels I should make as much money as I can. I prefer living a
minimal material life and focusing on more spiritual and moral
values. I'm not looking in a broader perspective to correct the
world, society, Jerusalem. In terms of my own house, I feel we're
doing the right thing."
Secular Israelis wouldn't be so bothered by this focus on Torah
study if they didn't feel that the burden fell directly on their
shoulders. In a country where boys are drafted for three years of
military service and girls for two, many resent that haredi youths
are largely exempted to study in yeshiva. The number of haredi
men given draft deferments in 1997 accounted for 7.4 percent of
the total male pool, and is expected to rise to 10 percent within a
few years.
Harsh words
All of these frustrations have led to extremely bitter remarks. An
anchor on the television journal "Yoman" recently decried the
amount of money disappearing into the "haredi black hole." Other
political activists talk of "haredi parasites" and "removing them
from the state's nipple."
To this kind of talk, haredi leaders respond with warnings of
Jewish anti-Semitism. On the "Popolitika" political discussion
program, a haredi leader said, "The Poles and the Ukrainians
called the Jews parasites when they launched their pogroms."
Indeed, many of the comments from secular Jews are very
strong. The latest hit from one of Israel's most popular singers is
a critique of current trends called "Good Morning, Iran" and
includes such lines as "because we were silent [now] we'll live in
fear."
Both the haredim and the secular Jews are disdainful of modern
Israeli society, but for different reasons. The haredim see an
assimilated, spiritual wasteland. "There was idealism in the air
when I first came to this country. A sense of sacrifice for the
good of everyone," says Tal. "Now there are no values left.
Nothing has replaced Judaism except for Western culture. If we
wanted that, we didn't have to come to Israel."
Many secular Jews see a crumbling of the shared community. "I
wish Jerusalem would return to the way it was in 1968," says
Aviva Bar-Am, a travel writer and the Schermers' daughter.
"When you walked down the street, it was like living in a small
town in Minnesota, like Buffalo or Red Wing. People used to visit
their friends or go out and look at the flowers."
This week the Siegals, a pair of psychologists from St. Paul who
have lived in secular Jerusalem for 30 years, are going to a
meeting "trying to bridge the gap" between the religious and
non-religious. "We'd like to see more dialogue and more
interaction," says Billy Siegal. "And," adds Felicia Siegal, "some
lessening of tensions."
-- Laurie Grossman, a St. Louis Park native, and Amit
Gilboa are freelance writers living in Israel.