“You’ll see,there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Tehilla insisted, trying to coax me to come to her house so that I could interview her in person. “I’ll call the guards to walk with you from the Jewish Quarter; it takes only four minutes. It’ll give you a feel of what it’s really like to live here.” Alas, given the particularly unstable state of Arab-Israeli relations at present, the coward in me ultimately prevailed, and we agreed to make it a telephone interview. Nonetheless, even our phone conversation made an indelible impression on me, offering me a glimpse into the type of woman who would not only live in the Muslim Quarter but raise her children in that environment. When Tehilla Lakritz Abilev was a young girl, the desolation and squalor of the Muslim Quarter of Yerushalayim ate at her. “It was a bizayon, a shameful thing,” says Tehilla, now a 44-year-old mother of eight. “Seeing Hashem’s holy city desecrated like that broke my heart.” It was this observation that eventually led the idealistic Tehilla and her kollel husband to make the decision to buy their first home in a neighborhood most of us would never even consider. Believing it to be a religious duty as well as a merit, the Abilevs willingly chose to impose this galus within a galus on themselves out of idealism. When Tehilla, who grew up in Givatayim, was single, she often volunteered in this volatile place, helping out the Jewish families who lived there. “I always felt that this was the right thing to do,” she says with rare conviction. “I made some friends in the Quarter and knew that after I got married, I would reside here and raise my family.” Following her dream, Tehilla eventually married Moshe Abilev from Bnei Brak, a yeshivah student who shared her ideals.
When their baby daughter was four months old, they finally made it to the top of the waiting list for an apartment. “After our wedding we lived in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Givat Moshe for about a year and a half,” she explains. “Obtaining an apartment for a Jewish family in the Muslim Quarter is not so simple.” Because the Arabs are uninterested, to put it mildly, in selling or renting properties to Jewish residents on “their” turf, it takes a long time for Jews to find a vacant apartment. The only way they get the go-ahead to settle there is if another Jewish family leaves the Quarter—which Tehilla says rarely happens—or yet another court case over ownership is resolved in favor of a property’s original Jewish owner. “Up until the Arab riots of 1929,” Tehilla tells me, “much of the Muslim Quarter was inhabited by Jews. When they were forced to flee for their lives, many Jewish owners lost their homes to local Arab residents who simply appropriated their houses and belongings and made themselves comfortable. Over time, however, more and more of those owners’ descendants are bringing proof to the courts that the properties are rightfully theirs. This is how we were able to make it into the Quarter, by purchasing a one-room house from a Jewish family.” When the Abilevs were notified that a house was available for them 21 years ago, they immediately packed their bags. “We saw it as a tremendous zechut,” says Tehilla, “especially because we were coming to live in a house that originally belonged to Jews. We had very little money of our own.
I was a teacher and my husband was learning, but we managed to scrape together whatever we had to make this happen.” It was obviously a good investment. The original one room is still the Abilevs’ home, although it has grown along with them over the years. “We kept adding rooms as time went on,” she explains. “At one point we were living in a 50-squaremeter (538-square-foot) house with six kids! When our Jewish next-door neighbors, who lived in the same size place as ours, found the quarters unbearable, they finally moved away, and we combined both apartments into one. It was great to have more space, but there was also a downside. We didn’t have any Jewish neighbors for another ten years.” One might think that a family like the Abilevs is an extreme rarity. How many people would want to give up the advantages and conveniences of living in a Jewish neighborhood to become “homesteaders” in such a hostile environment? Surprisingly, though, they are not alone in their choice. “We’re one of 70 Jewish families here, and those are only the religious ones. There are actually many more Jews living in the Muslim and Christian quarters of the Old City.” Unfortunately, because these areas are so large—three times the size of the Jewish Quarter—and the Jewish families are sprinkled throughout, they do not enjoy a sense of cohesiveness. “In my view,” Tehilla declares, “this is a situation of ‘In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man.’ If we weren’t here, it would be impossible to walk these streets—ever. It’s also the place that’s closest to the makom haMikdash, the holiest site on Earth. Many of us living here have big families, and it’s a pleasure to fill these streets with the Jewishness they once had.” In truth, it is only due to the small Jewish presence in the Muslim Quarter that Jewish tourists from America and Europe, and even yeshivah bachurim, are increasingly venturing into the area and even coming for a Shabbos meal or two.
Of course, it isn’t advisable for Jews to walk these streets alone, although Tehilla tells me that the adults in the community are accustomed to doing so. “We have a full-fledged shmirah system here,” she explains. “Anytime one of the children wants to leave the house, I call them up and they come in pairs to escort the child to his destination. Even the young Arab children can curse or push if they see an unescorted Jewish child on the street.This service is available at all hours of the day or night, and they’re very quick to respond whenever we need them.” To avoid attracting attention, these former soldiers who work as guards dress in civilian clothes, but they carry walkie-talkies and guns. Funded by the Israeli government, the guard service is the only compensation these families receive for living in the Muslim Quarter. “We don’t expect to get paid for doing this,” says Tehilla. “All of us see it as a zechut. While it isn’t always pleasant, this is something we want to do.” Tehilla takes a short break from our telephone conversation to kiss her children, the youngest of whom is four and a half, and wish them goodnight. When she returns to the line, I ask her about them. “What’s it like to raise children under such circumstances?” “It’s not pashut,” she tells me. “Raising kids here is special. Every spark of Yiddishkeit we bring to the place makes me happy and proud. My children have very different lives from those who live in Jewish or less threatening environments, but this is the life they know, and they all seem quite happy.
In fact, our married daughter and her husband, who learns in Ateret Kohanim [located in the Muslim Quarter], are on the waiting list for an apartment here! What does that tell you about her experience? “I think our children definitely grow up with great pride in being Jewish, in being Hashem’s am hanivchar. There are times when they’re afraid—baruch Hashem, they’ve never encountered anything especially fearful—but they’ve heard enough from us to feel that this is their shlichut, and they’re happy to do it.” The children can’t safely visit any of the local parks or even ride a bicycle in the backyard, which must be very difficult for Tehilla as a parent. “We try very hard to make up for what they don’t have,” she says. “I work all year as a teacher and my husband is still learning in yeshivah, but during the summer break we take them on numerous trips. We also have a lot of toys for them in the house, and they visit their friends in the Jewish Quarter quite often.” Every morning, the guards follow a routine not unlike the school bus system we know. They go from door to door collecting the students, who are then “bused” to their destinations in the Jewish Quarter. In the afternoon they do the reverse, often returning a short while later to accompany the children to a local Jewish afternoon program. Because they share the same philosophical convictions, one would expect that all the Jewish residents of the Muslim Quarter comprise a tight-knit kehillah under their spiritual leader, Rav Ami Sternberg.
However, this is not the case. “The beit knesset is a problem,” Tehilla explains. “There’s barely a minyan there because everyone wants to daven at the Kotel. Because everyone goes there or to the Jewish Quarter for the tefillot, there’s rarely an opportunity for communal connection.” However, the community does come together to share in each other’s simchos as well as for occasional gatherings. The shomrim even deliver weekly notices listing all the events, not unlike any other Jewish community in the world. Residents also meet at the Quarter’s Jewish library, and children spend their summers together at the local day camp. For those families who wish to celebrate their simchos in the Muslim Quarter, there’s a small hall off the Kotel available for use. But most choose to celebrate elsewhere, both because of a lack of parking space and to accommodate guests who are fearful of entering the area. “How do you feel when people tell you they’re afraid to come to your home?” I ask Tehilla. “I’m accustomed to it,” she says honestly. “Don’t people ask you all the time, ‘Aren’t you afraid to live in Eretz Yisrael?’” I laugh because I can totally relate to this. As much as I try to convince my family and friends abroad that we are not cowering in shelters from dawn to dusk, baruch Hashem, some of them still have a hard time wrapping their minds around the idea. “Some people did move away from here,” Tehilla admits, “because they were being constantly terrorized by their neighbors. A few houses were burned down by Arabs, and about 15 years ago a Jewish man was stabbed to death. But thank G-d, on a day-to-day basis life here is pretty stable. When my children say that they’re afraid, I tell them that Hashem is protecting us and I show them our strong door. I don’t think they’re to be pitied at all.” The Abilevs are so accustomed to living among Muslims, Tehilla tells me, that they don’t even hear the muezzin calling them to prayer anymore. “We didn’t come here to live in order to befriend our Muslim neighbors,” she says. “We came in spite of the fact that they live here. We don’t mingle with them at all.” She repeats this several times. “But what about the ones right here?” I ask.
The Abilevs share a building and courtyard with a large Muslim family, which I would imagine makes confrontations unavoidable. “They happen to be quite an aristocratic family,” she replies. “They’re actually quite different from most of the locals. In fact, some of their daughters speak English and Hebrew, which is not the norm here.” Indeed, many years back, she recalls, during a particularly turbulent political period, the patriarch of the family suggested to her, “Let’s leave the politics out of this courtyard,” and both families have since done so. Once, when the power was out for a few days, he even went so far as to provide the Abilevs with electricity from his generator. Tehilla doesn’t know much about her Arab neighbors’ personal lives. However, when she is informed of special news, such as the birth of a grandchild, she offers congratulations and inquires about the mother and baby. “While we don’t have much to do with them,” she explains, “we aren’t unfriendly toward them either. The mother of the family speaks only Arabic, so we barely ever exchange words. But I do speak from time to time with the daughters who know Hebrew or English.” “When was your last conversation with them, and what did you talk about?” I ask, fascinated by the phenomenon of such strange bedfellows. “It was actually this past Shivah Asar B’Tammuz, which coincided with Ramadan. I was coming home in the evening, feeling drained after a day of fasting, and I asked one of the daughters how she managed to fast every single day for a month. We spoke about that for a bit, and then the conversation turned to the current tensions.
But I gently steered it toward more neutral ground because I wasn’t interested in opening up a can of worms.” Because their Arab neighbors’ part of the courtyard is the only place where it’s kosher to build a sukkah, the Abilevs always ask for permission to erect one there—and each year they receive it. They usually show their appreciation by presenting the family with a selection of chocolates. I wonder aloud what it’s like to sit in a sukkah under those conditions. “Blessedly uneventful,” she says. “Then last year a new Jewish family moved in right next door and suggested that we build our sukkah on their massive rooftop. Because our sukkah was rather small, we decided to give it a try, even though we were a bit apprehensive. We just made sure that one of the men or boys—we have six, baruch Hashem—remained awake to keep an eye on things when the others went to sleep. Thank G-d, we had a beautiful Yom Tov.” Tehilla admits that there’s no question the general Arab population is hostile, especially the younger generation. The poverty in the Quarter is striking, and most of the Arabs employed at the local tourist shops barely scrape together an income. The culture is also particularly demeaning of its women. “They’re angry every time they see us in the streets,” she says. “There are minor incidents all the time—constant cursing, spitting, pushing and sometimes stone-throwing. Surprisingly, they don’t harm the Jewish women.” By contrast, more than once Jewish residents have saved their Muslim neighbors from danger. On one occasion a Jewish paramedic was on his way home when he encountered an Arab who was choking. He immediately performed the necessary procedures to save the man’s life. Tehilla compares the level of animosity to waves in the sea.
Sometimes the situation is calmer; at other times, like now, the waves are much stronger, resulting in more open expressions of hostility whenever an unescorted Jew passes by. In many respects, life for Jews in the Muslim Quarter is similar to that of their brethren elsewhere in city. Like the rest of her fellow Jerusalemites, Tehilla shops in the big supermarkets outside the Old City. “The groceries in the Jewish Quarter are only for tourists,” she laughs. She gives birth in the local hospital, Hadassah Har Hatzofim, and frequently attends events in the Jewish Quarter, even if it means returning home at night. Of course, the issue of transportation is something with which all residents of the Old City struggle. Because of the narrow alleyways and courtyards, cars are unable to drive on the streets. The Abilevs must park their car in the Jewish Quarter and walk home, which isn’t ideal when they are carrying heavy packages or sleeping children. For medical emergencies, there’s a designated golf cart that can squeeze into narrow spaces. The Abilevs and all their Jewish neighbors in the Quarter go out of their way to be hospitable. “Let’s say we’re sitting at home on Shabbat eating our seudah, and we hear Hebrew being spoken outside our window. We go outside to offer the visitors a cold drink and welcome them into our home.” According to Tehilla, all of the Jewish families in the Muslim Quarter feel that they’re fulfilling a special mission. Do their relatives agree? “My parents didn’t love the idea when we came here at first, but they got used to it. Not everyone in my extended family comes to visit us, but most do. I think some of them are even proud of us by now.” Although I admit that it is still beyond me how Tehilla and her family choose to live in a place as volatile as the Muslim Quarter, I greatly admire their idealism and willingness to walk the walk. May we merit to see all of Jerusalem restored to its former glory speedily in our days.
