Jerusalem. City of gold. City of white stone, winding streets, rolling hills and pleasant breeze. City of covered heads, baby strollers and family picnics. Where do the singles fit in here?
I made aliyah nine months ago. After several months of pointless affairs and disastrous blind dates, I had a powerful realization. Here I am in this holy city, the holiest city in the holiest part of the world, where God commanded us to be fruitful and multiply — and I am alone. Sure, I have friends. I even have a newly discovered cousin in Jerusalem, and other distant family in the North and along the coast. Ultimately, however, I am single. Alone. In this town, I am an anomaly.
I do not think that this city has an inherent intolerance for singles, yet Jerusalem is known throughout the country for its family culture. While the newspapers publish articles about the rise in baby bigotry in Tel Aviv (restaurant owners banning babies, mounting papoose prejudice in the streets), Jerusalem kids run the show. I hear their youthful yelps from the nearby park late at night, their parents safe in the knowledge that this is a family town and that children are always invited. On a Shabbat afternoon stroll, I see twice as many families out walking as I do single people. A friend of mine and her newborn, rarely separated, attend plays together and no one blinks twice when the baby gurgles along with the actors: of course her presence is welcome. Parents mall-crawl late into the night with their tots in tow, pushing prams from shop to shop while onlookers cheerfully flirt with their little ones. Jerusalem embodies Marlo Thomas’ vision of "a land where the children are free."
Sigh. The question remains: Where do I fit in? Without husband, children, family, I am nothing here. I am merely a baby flirt, smiling, teasing and baby-talking with other people’s offspring. I am a family crasher, leeching onto other people’s family structures in an effort to feel connected. I am the single woman at every dinner party. I am the friend everyone wants to match up.
"You should meet my friend/cousin/neighbor so-and-so. I think the two of you would really hit it off…."
It’s always the same story. Single in the Holy City is a curse.
The "oleh outlook" may perpetuate this feeling, so to speak. Jerusalem, city of new immigrants, is a place of lost souls. All of these young, new transplants are roaming around without any grounding. No parents, no direct family, no ties. We all came here for various reasons and chose, in a way, to marry Israel — to make Israel our home. But without a family to come home to each night, life is unstable. We are plants without roots, nomads and homeless in our homeland.
I have attended more weddings and engagement parties in these first nine months as an Israeli than in the whole of the rest of my life in the States. Part of that, undoubtedly, has to do with my age. The mid-20s are a natural time for coupling and commitment. To be completely honest though, I often yearn for the singles atmosphere of Los Angeles. My relationships there felt more relaxed and less desperate. Perhaps that is, to a certain extent, because I was a temporary resident. I opened a California bank account, bought a car and furniture, and registered to vote, all knowing that my time there was limited. Ultimately, I planned to make aliyah, so I was not looking to settle or put down roots. I was not trying to make connections or feel at home.
Sark, the wonderful San Fransisco artist and cartoonist, makes a bold suggestion. "Marry yourself first," she encourages. "Promise to never leave you."
When I was in Israel for my junior year of college, I had a silver ring made for myself with my name engraved in Hebrew and in Arabic. It is simple, and beautiful, and full of deep personal significance. It holds meaning for me that connects to my most daring dreams, my highest ambitions and my reasons for making aliyah. Sometimes, I jokingly refer to the ring as my wedding ring, particularly when I am avoiding unwanted advances. Recently, I realized that my ring is in fact a wedding ring, and that, in the spirit of Sark, I should focus more on being a good self-spouse, on being a good partner to myself.
The true challenge of living in Jerusalem is to not let the pressure take over. I have to be able to stop the series of awful blind dates. I have to come to terms with my singleness. Accept it. Embrace it. Love me for my single self.
Or else, I’ll move to Tel Aviv.
Miriam Lewis is a freelance writer, designer, performer and stage director in Jerusalem. Originally from Michigan, she lived in Los Angeles for a year recruiting for long-term Israel programs.
