She came in, sat down at the table, and in faltering English said, "I just wanted to say goodbye".  Odd, I thought, since she had just arrived! I looked perplexed and a woman to my right said knowingly, in European-accented Hebrew (the "new" international language in synagogues), "She probably just got her visa."

We had found a great deal on a flight that stopped in Europe on the way home from the United States. We would stay in this European country over Shabbat, since with the summer's long days, we would have time on Friday to get our lay of the land and all of Shabbat to walk around. We would then fly out on Sunday.

Besides seeing the sites and visiting museums, we had located three synagogues and decided to pray at all of them, ending with the one that was known for its Shabbat Kiddush, cholent and kugel even in the summer. This menu was a great improvement over the vacuum-packed tuna fish that awaited us in our room.

The first synagogue we visited was housed in an old building, where there was no women's section. So I sat out in the hallway. I heard singing from above, and walked up two flights and found a second minyan in progress. I looked around and though all the eyes seemed to turn and look at me - the outsider - I felt the people were vaguely familiar.

Living in the center of Jerusalem for over 30 years, we often visit different synagogues on Shabbat. Within a 15-minute walk from our home, there are literally hundreds of minyanim where people from myriad countries of origin, representing all shades of customs, pray. And so when I saw the women, they looked somewhat familiar to me - not European at all. I, on the other hand, looked and felt very much out of place. Most of the older women wore scarves over their hennaed hair. One woman beckoned me to sit next to her. She was slim, wearing a pantsuit and a scarf knotted under her chin.

At the appointed time, I pointed to my watch and said, "Shabbat Shalom" and left. I met my husband and we walked through town to the third minyan. When the prayer service was over, we were invited to join the rest of the congregation for their advertised Kiddush. There were about 60 men and eight women who were seated behind a curtain/screen (mechitzah).

All of a sudden, a woman entered the area. She wore a pantsuit and had a scarf knotted under her chin. I knew her, as she was the one who had greeted me and offered me a seat earlier in the morning. I began to talk with her, and discovered that she had lived in this country for over two years, waiting for a visa to join her children. "Join your children, where are they?" I asked. In halting English she explained that after her husband's death she worked to pay for her two sons to make the circuitous trip to the U.S. Once they were there, she saved money for her own exit. During the past two years she was housed in temporary dwellings, learning English and being cared for by organizations that help wayfarers. Now, finally, she had received her coveted visa. She had a ticket for Tuesday and would be reunited with her sons, who she hadn't seen in over five years. "I came to say goodbye," she said again.

I sat in awe of this woman and the sacrifices she had made to gain her children a new permanent home. By Hashgachah Pratit (the Grace of G-d), I was born at a time and in a place which allows me to move seamlessly between almost any country in the world, and be able to set up home anywhere I choose. During Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, we live in temporary dwellings just for a week. This woman, and so many others, is living in temporary dwellings - under difficult conditions - for years.

I stood up and went around the table to her. "As an American, let me shake your hand and be the first to welcome you." The woman, with the scarf knotted under her chin, hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. I continued and said: "As an Israeli, let me say, B'Shanah Ha'ba'ah B'Yerushalyim".

 

Originally published in the Jewish Press on October 4, 2006.

Tags: Jewish Press | Temporary Dwellings