Opinion/Editorial: A Wall by Any Other Name

Written April, 2002. The Brithright trip itself was in February, 2001.

           There I stood, in front of the famed Wailing Wall in Israel, and all I could think of was how cold the weather was.  It was supposed to be warm in Israel.  At the very least, it was supposed to be warmer than Montreal.  Why was it cold the one week I was in Israel?

           Like many North American Jews, I had been given the chance to go on the Birthright Israel Experience.  Birthright is a free ten-day trip to Israel, designed to give Jews who have never been there a chance to develop a bond with the country.  As our tour guide took us from site to site, I became increasingly aware that I was not developing any bond with the places around me.  I didn’t know why.  It could have been some sort of religious sign.  It could have been because I was a philosophy student at heart who questioned everything.  It could have been because I was not religious in any way.

As my tour group approached, our tour guide informed us that the wall effects different people in different ways.  “Some people can feel the heart of all those who helped build the temple when they touch the wall,” he told us.  Whether this was true or not, the wall definitely seemed to have an effect on those around it.  Some people were dancing and laughing, some were lost in prayer, and others were crying.  A few people went up to the wall simply to lay their hand upon it or kiss it.

The first thing that really struck me about the wall was its simplicity.  This was not some complex piece of architecture.  This was not like the Pyramids in Egypt, or the Coliseum in Rome.  This was just a simple stone wall.

The Western Wall is, of course, an important symbol to the Jewish people.  It is one of the few remains of the Second Temple.  This ancient temple, where Jews prayed during biblical times thousands of years ago, was destroyed and this portion of its outer wall is now all that remains of it.  Because of this, Jews attach great religious significance to the wall and consider it a holy site.  In all honesty, I had a hard time fully understanding why the wall itself was considered holy.  Synagogues, mosques and churches are all holy sites, but what is it that makes them holy?  Is it their walls?  Is it their ceilings?  Is it the stones they are made of, or is it the events and beliefs and traditions that these walls and ceilings housed that were holy?  A wall is a wall.  It is stone upon stone.  It is what happened within the walls that mattered.  It seems akin to studying the walls of a university, claiming they are full of knowledge.  It is missing the point.

As I came up, I held out my hand, keeping it inches from the wall.  What would happen if I touched it?  Would I suddenly see the error of my ways and see the significance of the wall?  Would I be suddenly be overcome with emotion?  Would I suddenly become religious?  Would I start crying or laughing?  After pausing for a moment, I placed my hand on the wall. No religious epiphany or magical feelings came over me.  It seemed cold to the touch, but that might have been due to the chill in the air.  The stone was smooth, full of grooves, cracks and small holes.  The larger crevices were overflowing with smalls pieces of paper, a Jewish tradition to write wishes and thoughts on a piece of paper and place it in the wall.

As I removed my hand, I looked closely at those around me.  A group of men on my right danced in a circle, singing loudly.  On my left, an older man stood with his hand placed on the wall, seemingly wrestling with his emotions.  He seemed about to cry.  I envied him.  I envied the men on my right who were dancing.  I envied those who could be moved by these simple stones that only reminded me of how cold I felt.  As much as I’ve always disliked the idea of blind belief, part of me wanted to have a religious experience right then and there.  I wanted to be moved.

Perhaps it’s the significance that each person chooses to attach to the wall that moves them to tears or to joy.  Maybe feeling only cold stone beneath my fingers says more about me than it does about the ancient wall in front of me.  All I really knew was that I was cold, and I didn’t feel any different than before I touched the Wailing Wall of Israel.

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