A little backstory on what went down on Friday morning, the last day we were in Israel...
Rita went to Israel last year and posted about a place she had stumbled across in Old Jerusalem...a business that had been in the same family since the days of the Crusaders.
They were tattoo artists.
She wrote a social media post about them, and mentioned that in that era, with no passports, the tattoos served as a testimony that the person had actually been to a place. Pilgrims to Jerusalem were tattooed by the ancestors of the current owners. As Rita was on staff at a church, she just said, 'I might have gotten one.'
I read that story and was very intrigued. I have basically zero interest in getting tattooed for artsy fashion's sake; no judgement against folks who are in to that; I just don't care for the way they look. And I don't get the urge to permanently alter skin. But I could understand a tattoo as a reminder of the experience.
(I'm not entirely sure that this is the place, but so far as I know, it's the only one that fits the descriptions I've heard. And it's near the Jaffa gate, which is the location we were discussing.)
So there was always a kind of buzz amongst the folks on the trip...were we going to go to the tattoo shop? If we did, who would get a tattoo? What tattoo? I commented to my pastor friends who were also on the trip...and who know my family...that I was a little leery of getting a tattoo, because of the precedent it would set in the family. I mean, if Mom got a tattoo...even a very teeny one for a remembrance...it could mean the kids would decide to get all inked up. I wasn't sure I wanted to open that door.
But by the time Thursday night rolled around, I felt like it was something I wanted to do. They had to know who was committing to going for the tattoos on Friday morning. But, remember, at this point I had no cash left. "If they will take my credit card, I will go." I said. I was assured that the credit card would not be a problem there.
So Thursday night I had a rather odd feeling. I looked at my wrist, where I figured I would get the image, thinking, 'This is the last night my wrist will look like this.' I wasn't sure what I would get; I wanted to see what kinds of designs the pilgrims would have gotten centuries ago. But, as there were 12 of us going, we were told that we could only get small designs that could be done in 15ish minutes each. That was fine; I only wanted a teeny, simple design anyway. I had in the back of my head that I would get a simple Jerusalem cross, if I could, but my plan was to just get the smallest, simplest traditional design.
But I had always believed it was not entirely appropriate for followers of God to get tattooed. I mean, there is that verse in Leviticus that says, bluntly, 'do not...put tattoo marks on yourselves.' (19:28). What was I going to do with that? Was that regarding all tattoos, ever, or just in the context of the verse...somehow commemorating dead people? A few verses above is the instruction 'do not eat meat with the blood in it'...am I routinely breaking that one every time I enjoy a pink-juicy medium rare steak? Of course, the blood was drained before it was butchered, but still...
I finally reminded myself that I am not Jewish, and the Jewish law, per se, was given as instructions for living in a land of pagan people so that the Hebrews would maintain a distinct culture and identity. Jesus fulfilled the law. So, ultimately I put it in God's hands...because, you know, they might *not* take the card and I wouldn't be able to do it.
But I fully expected that there would be no problems. I don't like pain and I don't like needles, but I felt like this was still something I wanted to do. I did natural childbirth four times; I could endure fifteen minutes of needle pricking.
And, here's the weird thing. My perception of who I was shifted slightly that night. The tattoo would change my self image. It took some moxie...some self confidence...neither of which I have ever really felt were true of me. It wouldn't just be making a declaration about being in Israel...it would mean I would step over a character definition of myself that I have carried for a long, long time. Part of me quailed, not wanting to make that shift. But it was time to move into a different perception. I told my timid self to be quiet.
So, Friday morning, I got up for the early bus call and packed up. But I pulled the last card from my backpack pocket, not even trying to remember what it might be.
It was 'Fear'.
I thought of my mental journey the night before and realized that this was a day to conquer fear. It almost seemed like a confirmation that I was doing the correct thing. The twelve of us who committed to being tattooed ate breakfast, turned in our keys, loaded our luggage, and got aboard the bus. We were going to get dropped off at the Jaffa Gate, then the bus would return to the hotel for the rest of the group and they were going to meet us there about three hours later.
But we sat on the bus for a good ten to fifteen minutes past our departure time. Finally, our tour guide got on and told us why.
There had been a terrorist incident at the Damascus gate of the old city (remember, this was the final day of Ramadan). A couple of folks had been attacked by a knife-wielding individual; one had died. The security people had closed all the gates to the old city. It didn't look like we were going to be able to get in. 'But,' she said, 'It may reopen if they decide the threat was eliminated so we will try.'
Fifteen minutes later, we approached the Jaffa gate and saw all the security people there; it was not open.
So, no tattoos, and no old city tour, which was what was scheduled that morning. We went back to the hotel and kind of twiddled our thumbs until the rest of the group was ready to go.
But, with the security issues in the old city, and no access to sites on the east side, what would we do?
We would visit the Yad Vashem -- the Holocaust Memorial. It had not been on our itinerary originally...the idea had been to visit places, not museums. But the circumstances being what they were... Our leaders apologized to us for not keeping to the plans and for disappointing those who wanted tattoos, but, you know, it was ok. I was happy to trade the chance for the tattoo to be able to visit the Yad Vashem; it seems to me to be the least we can do to honor the memory of those who died so senselessly. While we were headed over, Tisha told us that there are three places one must visit in order to begin to understand Jewish folks...Masada, the Western Wall, and the Yad Vashem.
We had about two and a half hours. She first took us to the children's memorial...that is gut wrenching. Mirrors reflecting lights in such a way that there is one light visible for each child that died in the Holocaust...and their names, ages, date of death, and country are read out. It is beautiful and heartbreaking. There are 1.5 million children who died in the Holocaust.
We were a very somber...and rarely dry-eyed...bunch as we walked from the Children's memorial to the entrance to the main hall of the museum.
I was prepared for an emotional experience. What I wasn't prepared for was the fact that we were not the only tour group who had experienced a change of schedule. I was at first determined to move through it as slowly as I could and see and learn as much as possible. However, not long after we entered the museum, a very large group came in...maybe even two or three groups that arrived at the same time. I was soaking in the first exhibit...a spliced together film of Jewish folks going about their business before the Holocaust began, taken from all over Europe. It was very well done, and I kind of forgot where I was as I watched it. Suddenly, I became aware that there were a lot of people moving around me and decided I'd better move on.
The museum is laid out in chronological order; alcove-like rooms on either side of a main vaulted hall way, with the path zigzaging its way down the length of the hall. I remember very little of the first room; it was absolutely packed with people. I tried to move through and read all the descriptive texts but I soon realized that was not going to be possible...then I realized I could barely move at all and began to get claustrophobic. Before long I was just trying to get through the press of people so I could breathe.
Once I got ahead of the large group I could slow down a bit and read the signs on the exhibits and watch the videos, but my whole museum experience was first and foremost staying ahead of the group. Occasionally I would get so absorbed in what I was looking at that I forgot to keep moving and would get overtaken by the leading edge of the large group...which also had two or three tour guides leading smaller groups in the whole and were all moving more or less together...and so I would have to scoot along to avoid getting overwhelmed again.
Y'all, that really struck me. Looking at all the pictures of people crammed into ...train cars....barracks...gas chambers...and I couldn't handle one room uncomfortably full. But I could move and get free. All of those folks...they could not.
But I did manage to learn a bit in my accelerated journey. One of the things that grieved me was that it wasn't just the Germans who killed folks as I read of the massacres in Vilnius...where Lithuanian volunteers carried out a large number of the killings.
Then I came to the story of the Danish Jews, who were rescued by the Danish government. I read the story of the flotilla that delivered so many to safety in Sweden and wanted to just holler out, 'Go, Denmark!!!' because they seemed to be the one bright spot in the litany of horror. 90 percent of Danish Jews survived, because the Danish leaders took action to save them.
There were stories of people who escaped by migrating to then-Palestine...and some who tried but were not allowed to enter and were sent back to the killing fields and gas chambers. But some were able to stay. And those built kibbutzim and communities and, as the final view of the museum proves, a nation.
The inscription on the arches reads, 'I will put my breath into you and you shall live again, and I will set you upon our own soil....' Ezekiel 37:14
I have written and deleted several little wrap-up statements for the post...but you know, I think that doesn't need anything else.
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