26/2/99

When In Jerusalem, Do As the Syndromes

We have our very own local insanity. And we're proud of it.

    It is one of those typical Jerusalem winter afternoons. It isn't raining, though the weatherman said it might, the Palestinians aren't rioting, because they thought it might rain, and two guys dressed as Jesus meet at a No. 1 bus stop on their way to the Old City.
    "Say -- you look familiar," says Jesus.
    "Yeah, you too. I'm Jesus," says the other Jesus, offering his hand. "So, where do you hang out? I mean, where would I know you from?"
    "The Via Dolorosa, mostly. I'm a savior."
    "Of course! The Fifth Station, right? I'm usually at the Sixth, or depending on the tourist season, the Third. So. What brings you here?"
    "God spoke to me."
    "Yeah. Me too."
    Presently, another Jesus comes by, then a Moses and two Mother Marys. The Moses asks: "Does this bus go to the Old City?"
    A very old man, who arrived in this country by mule in '37 from Kyrghistan or Kazakhstan (he can never remember which) and has been waiting for the No. 1 to the Old City ever since, says, "Yes. You just missed one, but it was full."
    A Mary introduces herself to the second Jesus. "I'm new here," she says pleasantly, "Can you recommend a good place to stay?"
    A man in the queue -- wide-brimmed hat, black suit, scraggy beard and tzitzes hanging out -- says he knows of a place, "but, if I may ask, are you Jewish?"
    Mother Mary looks at him queerly. "Haven't you read the Bible?"
    "Yeah," he says, "and you're not in it."
    The oldest Jesus, who looks to be about 65 and is lugging a two-meter-long wooden cross over his back and an umbrella under his arm, sits down on a seat in the bus shelter. The woman next to him -- her hair covered, a little book of Tehilim in her lap -- jumps up. Jesus is embarrassed.
    A good Samaritan -- fur-covered hat, long black frock, pants tucked into high white socks -- tries to relieve Jesus of his discomfort. "It's nothing personal. You're a man."
    Jesus blesses him.
    A bus drives by, and it's empty, but it's not going anywhere.
    Then, conflict: the good Samaritan and another -- they look alike but the other is wearing a fur-covered hat, long black frock, pants not tucked into white socks -- start a fearful fracas, for they are diametrically opposed: the one believes the Messiah will come on a white donkey after all the Jews do penance and it is encumbent upon believers to lead their fellow Jews to the right path, and the other believes the Messiah will come on a white donkey after all the Jews do penance and it is not encumbent upon believers to lead their fellow Jews to the right path. They try to tear each other's eyes out.
    "The Messiah will come, yea," agrees a balding middle-aged man who could be either King David or John the Baptist.
    "I've been here for twenty minutes already," grumbles the Messiah leaning against the bus stop, and his two friends, who are also the Messiah, grunt in agreement.
    Moses, who until he visited Jerusalem for the first time was Donald F. Jefferson, an importer from Chicago, separates the grappling foes.
    Jesus blesses Moses in a Belgian accent. "Tsk," says the very old man from Kyrghistan or Kazakhstan, looking at his watch. "Where is that bus?" He is worried, because prayer-time is fast approaching.
    Across the street, two cars have had a minor accident, and the drivers are yelling at each other. A couple of people leave the bus queue to examine the damage. One of them, God, originally from Auckland, forgives both drivers.
    A bus pulls up. But it is pink and purple, not red and white, and it is full of Nigerian pilgrims who have lost their way. They were meant to be in Bethlehem. "Turn around and go straight, all the way straight," the younger Mother Mary, who hails from Corpus Christi, Texas, and was formerly an advertising clerk named Constance McGucken, tells the Nigerians' Yemenite bus driver, who learned English at medical school in Romania.
    Turns out that the elder Mother Mary and an intense young man who could only be Abraham are both from Jonesboro, and they exchange business cards.
    It is a typical Jerusalem winter afternoon.

NOT TOO many cities have a mental illness named after them, but mine does: the Jerusalem Syndrome could not afflict people in, say, Paris or Buffalo or even Haifa. It is our very own local insanity, and we're proud of it.
    We even have a hospital that specializes in the condition, and I imagine the place is wall-to-wall with Bible heroes.
    It could even be that one of them is telling the truth: that the real Messiah has come, but was picked up and brought there for treatment along with the others. How are we to know?
    Jerusalem's population lacks an insignificant mass, a faceless mainstream. There is no such thing as a typical Jerusalemite. So a guy walks around in a white robe believing he's the savior of humanity, that's unusual? All right, so maybe it is, but just a little.
    They're non-threatening as long as the syndrome doesn't get out of hand. You know how things happen here: we tolerate a dozen or so quaint characters and don't notice their fruitfulness and multiplication, until they've taken over neighborhoods, evolved into a voting bloc and put a couple of Jesuses in the Knesset, becoming a swing coalition partner that can make or break a government, and before you know it, we've got another major minority running the country. Harumph.
    The last time we had this threat, our heroic bureaucracy got hysterical and took action, and that's why you don't see half a million Black Hebrews calling themselves Israeli citizens.
     Our syndromeniks are among our pleasanter delusionary zealots: innocent tourists assuming noble role models, preaching love and peace and godliness.
    Unfortunately, it is human nature to spoil a good thing. Some day, a tourist will come here, become affected and, finding more than enough Jesuses and Moseses and Messiahs and Gods, choose to proclaim himself Samson, and start pulling down buildings and beating people with an ass's jawbone. Or maybe a busload of tourists will all seize up together, believe themselves to be Roman legionnaires and ransack the Temple Mount and then proceed to lay siege on Masada where a busload of sufferers of Masada Syndrome are preparing to kill themselves. It's harmless now, but it could become alarming with Judases stabbing all the Jesuses in the back, Eves running around in fig leaves, Noahs building arks all over the place, Jobs moping about and Herods taxing everyone to the hilt.
    Come to think of it, maybe a lot more people have the syndrome than we realize. In this town, it's hard to tell.
    If you've been in Jerusalem long enough -- and a day and a half is long enough -- you'll see it all. Except, of course, the damn No. 1.