"Map of Jerusalem" the sign on the sidewalk says. I pass by it while I am on the bus on my way home from the university. Suddenly a memory from 3 years ago rises from the ashes of my jumbled brain—the brain that now thinks in 2.5 languages (English, Hebrew, and a squeak of Arabic) and prohibits me from speaking any of them well. It was a Saturday night when my friends and I tried to make our way from the German Colony neighborhood to the center of the city. It was late, it was dark, but we had a native Jerusalemite with us, and we figured that improved our chances of success. We did succeed in arriving (finally), but during our adventure roaming different neighborhoods of the city, I remember coming upon a map such as the one described above and thinking that Jerusalem is a maze of streets, a labyrinth that I will probably never understand. And now, strangely enough, I do. To be honest, the streets—many of which are not labeled well—are probably the easiest part of the city to understand.
The sign I saw today hints at the complexity and yet also at the humor hidden in the stones of this holy city. "Map of Jerusalem" the sign on the sidewalk says. "But where is the map?" I ask. The side I see is blank. "Maybe it's on the opposite side." I turn in my seat in order to check the other side, and the sign answers my question with a smile and a shot glass. Instead of a map, there is an advertisement for Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch Whiskey. "Well," I think to myself, "At least it's not Manischewitz."
So, where are we going . . . really? We have certainly not arrived to the place we want to be—the place perhaps, but definitely not the situation. Not everyone would agree, but I think one needs to know who and where he is before he can determine where he is headed. Is it possible that this is exactly the situation in which we find ourselves now, or for the last (insert your number here) ____ years? I think quickly about all the maps and plans that have been drawn, revised, burned, re-drawn, announced, voted upon, denied, agreed upon, shaken hands about, protested over, laughed about, and cried over concerning this piece of land and the fate of its peoples, and I wonder if it would have just been better to sit down with our neighbors and have a shot of Johnnie Walker. I know someone who thinks so—someone who was in war, who has seen wars, and who has had enough of wars at his tender age of 61. I've had enough at the wise age of 24. Maybe that is what it will take, enough 24-year-olds—not 60-year-olds—saying, "We've had enough." We have a problem saying it over whiskey, but perhaps with war, we know our limits.
