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War and Peace

For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by Jews and I felt fear. Not too much, mind you, but just enough to give me the chills.
[additional-authors]
July 8, 2009

For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by Jews and I felt fear. Not too much, mind you, but just enough to give me the chills.

It was late Shabbat afternoon in Jerusalem’s Mea Shearim, and thousands of enraged Charedi Jews were demonstrating against the opening of a city parking lot adjacent to their neighborhood.

My friend Rabbi Chaim Seidler-Feller and I were walking through their neighborhood looking for the shul of the Slonomer Chasids, who are known for their beautiful and mystical davening.

But before we knew it, we were interrupted by riot squads, horses, police cars, media trucks and screaming demonstrators. We needed to get through the mob to get to the Slonomers. We got past two police guards and then found ourselves literally trapped by demonstrators who were yelling “Shabbos, Shabbos, Shabbos!”

I was dressed all in white (not a smart move), so I clearly stood out. My yarmulke didn’t help. A group of Charedim looked at me with threatening eyes. It felt so weird to feel anxious in front of Jews. Their utter certainty in their beliefs spooked me. It’s one thing to see these mini-riots in the news, but when you’re in the middle of it — when you can smell the breath of a demonstrator — it gets personal.

I thought: “How on earth can a stupid parking lot create such rage? Why should the ‘sin’ of other Jews be the source of such anger?”

So I let my instincts take over. As I heard the screams of “Shabbos!” I decided to scream the word “Shalom!”

As in “Shabbat shalom.”

This did not go over too well. By now, Chaim had come to see what was going on, and if you know Chaim, you know he can exhibit the passion of three Sephardi men overdosing on Turkish coffee.

Chaim overheard one of the Charedi men saying something to the effect that Jews who desecrate Shabbat should be killed.

This was not good.

Instantly, Chaim got into a heated debate with the Charedi man, who was so skinny he looked like a bearded ghost. They went back and forth. Chaim was familiar with the Torah sources the man was quoting, and he shot right back with his own.

I’m guessing the Charedi man was not used to being challenged by a Jew who knows his Torah, because the more Chaim talked, the more upset the man got.

In a strange way, though, Chaim’s passionate Torah talk protected us, because at least it showed them that we were not secular spies.

Still, the place was going crazy, and this was no time to engage in a Torah salon.

So we quickly took off in the direction of the Slonomers, hoping to get there in time for Mincha.

We snaked through the narrow alleys of the shtetl, where hundreds of posters plastered the walls — the same form of public communication used in European shtetls for centuries.

We found our way to the Slonomer shul. Chaim asked a man when they would daven Mincha, and we followed him. The man, like all the other Slonomers, looked just like the demonstrators — long black kapote (caftan), beard, payos and fur shtreimel.

We asked the man why the Slonomers were not demonstrating with the other Charedim. The man paused, slowed his walk, made a little smile and said he could not answer that question on one foot.

We followed him into the shul, which was surprisingly large and packed with Slonomer Chasids (how do they have enough apartments for all these people in this little shtetl?).

I wanted to get a closer look at the Slonomer Rebbe, so I wound my way to the front of the shul. In my white outfit, no matter where I was, I felt like the middle of an Oreo cookie.

After Mincha, everybody moved next door to what looked like a mini airplane hangar with metal bleachers and one little window. It was time for the third meal, which in many Chasidic traditions is the most important meal of Shabbat.

The Rebbe himself showed up about 30 minutes later. Even though we were the only ones not dressed like them, we were warmly received with offers of food and drink and a place to sit. In fact, after the Rebbe did the Hamotzi, someone brought us a tiny piece of bread directly from the Rebbe’s portion, a big honor.

These Charedim were clearly men of peace.

After their beautiful and haunting nigunim, the place went deathly quiet. Chasids were standing on benches and hanging on rafters. I don’t think you could have fit another person in the room. The place was appropriately dark and mystical. In a very soft voice, the Rebbe spoke.

I didn’t hear or understand anything he said, but I didn’t have to.

Earlier, in the shul, Chaim had shown me the book written by the Rebbe’s father, which all the Slonomers study.

The title of the book was, “The Ways of Peace.”

David Suissa, an advertising executive, is founder of OLAM magazine, Meals4Israel.com and Ads4Israel.com. He can be reached at {encode=”dsuissa@olam.org” title=”dsuissa@olam.org”}.

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