It's Not Relevant

It’s not relevant. That’s the translation from Hebrew to English for telling me over and over again that the apartment isn’t available. That it’s already taken. That they don’t want English speakers; short-term renters; secular, non-practicing Jews. I’ve followed my tattered map to nearly every district in the city proper. I’ve stared into the eyes of thousands of potential neighbors – some showing only their eyes between a head scarf and a cloaked bosom, and others averting theirs, snapping the curls at their temples away from secular distraction to the dutiful attention to God. Some automatically speak to me in English, sensing a brotherhood of mutual nationalities. Maybe I smell like America – like dog food and new car and personal space. Others ask me for directions in Hebrew. I tell them that it’s not relevant. Older women carrying groceries and angst walk along the market cobblestones, side-stepped by Israeli soldiers nonchalantly toting a semi-rifle and smacking their gum. I make my way to another apartment catty-corner from the market buzz. He informs me that the rent is through August unless they decide to tear the building down. But bureaucracy slows everything here. So it’s’ probably not relevant. I’m greeted by students who don’t bother to side-sweep the shopping cart full of trash blocking the door. “It’s not mine. It was here when I got here, so I don’t want to throw it away,” they explain. “It’s not relevant.”

Yoga studios and daycare centers offer exorbitantly overpriced rooms with set quiet hours so as not to disturb their classes. Orthodox practitioners explain how turning on the lights or stirring instant coffee defies the stipulations of Yahweh’s law set forth for the holy day of Sabbath. I sit between fluent Hebrew speakers, smiling and nodding when it seems appropriate as the host explains the laundry, the utility bills, and that while she doesn’t really mind having boys in the house, we should first consider the how such a volatile decision may impact our moral integrity. It’s not relevant. 

The computer repairman – a kind, young guy familiar with the sideways idioms of the English language – suggests that his secretary is in need of a roommate. “Actually,” he says when he hangs up the phone with her, “it’s no longer relevant.”

Wandering back from another apartment, I realize that I haven’t eaten anything besides a Hanukkah doughnut in the past 19 hours. A vendor stuffs a falafel , fries, eggplant, cabbage, tomatoes, mango dressing, salsa, and tahini into a pita. After my third bite of the ethnic ecstasy, I pause to wonder if this is going to make me sick. I’ve been here before – I should know better about street food. The tightening of my lower abdomen is an instinctive reaction to an all-too-familiar trepidation. It turns out to be not so relevant.

I stare into the eyes of passers-by. They all live somewhere. How did they get there? I consider asking them how to find a house.

“The heart of the Old City!” the ad reads from Craigslist. “Just inside of Damascus gate!” For those who are unfamiliar, the Old City is divided into four quarters, though entirely under Israeli jurisdiction – Muslim, Christian, Jewish, and Armenian. Damascus gate is in the Muslim quarter. One of my current hosts served in the Muslim quarter during his time in the army. “Maybe for you it’s ok because you are American. But I was afraid. They heard my accent. I mean, it’s safe. But the police – they can’t be everywhere.”

The renter comes to get me at the gate. “It’s nice, but don’t expect to get through here during call to prayer. Then I have to just go a different way.” I can see the Holy Sepulchre from the bedroom. Dome of the Rock from the balcony. And still, I have this lingering fear, injected by the racial divides as tangible as the holy, ancient ground I was standing on. I go back at night just to see how it felt. The air seems to shift as I cross New Gate into the Muslim quarter. Despite the defiant bustle of Friday night for all those not celebrating Shabbat, the gate is nearly deserted. I take a breath and walked through, suddenly struck by the stark contrast to the daylight world of the Old City. Where there had been spices, prayer rugs, loofas, tapestries, gummy bears, sneakers, falafel, pomegranates, beggars, tour group flags and slowly rotating meat, there is now absence and silence. Cats, overpopulating the city since those clever Brits figured out how to solve the rodent problem, dig into the trash piles left for late-night cleanup. One moans as it backs away from a gang of three. Two Israeli soldiers, halfway hidden by the shadows, pass their shift scrolling through their iphone photos. My chest tightened as three teenagers looked at me with a confused expression as if to say “what are you doing here?” What am I doing here? How do you see me? Will you see me differently if I open my mouth? Why do you see me differently? Is it the same reason I was told to fear you? Because someone told us to?

I’m not sure who is first to say it, but as I walk back up to the side of town I’m supposed to stay on, my program directors, the teenage boys, the Muslim taxi drivers, the Israeli soldiers, all but the blessedly blind expat already occupying the Bohemian alcove I’d never know intimately – collectively acknowledge that it’s not relevant.

And my search continues…