Surreal Sukkot or Adventures in Diversity and Coexistence

Here's the story of my Sukkot - filled with my own assumptions, prejudices and learnings.

Yesterday at 3 pm I found myself at Terem Urgent Care in Beitar Illit, an ultra-Orthodox town over the Green Line about 10 minutes drive from my home. I do quite a bit of shopping and health care in Beitar, but I never go there on holidays or Shabbat. The urgent care opened about 3 hours before the holiday of Sukkot was about to begin. I was happy to be 4th in line, and although most of the clientele were ultra-Orthodox residents of the town, the third people in line were people I knew from Tzur Hadassah. Like a few of the people waiting, I had dressed early for synagogue because I didn't know how long I would be there.

All the staff were Arab men - and there were three of them - a nurse, a doctor and an x-ray technician. The nurse tells me he is from Jerusalem, from the Mt. of Olives.

The doctor tells me I have cellulitis, that he is giving me IV antibiotics and that I need to have an IV dose every 8 hours. He tells me to come back at 11 pm and that I will not be able to drive in, I have to go to the town gate and ride from there to the clinic with the security vehicle.

So after about 2 hours I came home, went to synagogue, had dinner in the Sukkah, took a short nap, and got in the car at about 10:50 to go to the clinic.

At the gate of Beitar, the guard speaks Arabic, everyone around (about 4-5 other men) is speaking Arabic and to tell you the truth, I don't feel particularly safe. I don't even drive the road to Beitar at this hour, certainly not any farther than Beitar where there have been stones thrown, car accidents, etc. It confuses me that this ultra-Orthodox town has put their security in the hands of Arabic speakers for the holiday, and that I am supposed to get in a car with a strange man in order to get to the clinic. By the time the vehicle comes to pick me up, I'm decidedly uncomfortable (not to mention tired and not feeling well). I can't get in the back seat because it's full with a mattress (later the driver tells me he is delivering it to some soldiers). 

I ask the driver where he is from and he tells me that he's from a village up near Tiberias. He is Druze. This starts to make a little more sense to me.

The streets are full of people walking around, mostly young people. The driver slows down to drive slowly through a crowd. A young guy approaches and says, "you don't smoke do you?" He wants the driver to light his cigarette (smoking is permitted on holidays by transferring a flame, but lighting a flame is not) but he can't ask directly. The driver knows this and lights his cigarette for him. Apparently this is more important than me getting to the clinic.

When I get to the clinic, I'm the only patient, but there are teenagers knocking on the door asking to use the bathroom. The nurse tells me they knock on the door all night, every Shabbat and holiday, groups of teens roaming around, not necessarily observant but since they live in the town they have nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Since I'm the only one there, the doctor also talks to me for awhile. He spent 7 years studying medicine overseas and married while he was there. I tell him about the paper I translated about Arab Israeli men with European wives who converted to Islam. He asks me about the findings in the paper - which were that the families tended to espouse liberal, universalist values (similar to a study of Canadian mixed families, different from studies in Belgium). I tell him the families in the study were from the Lod area - he tells me Jerusalem is different religiously. (They are about 30 miles apart.)

He tells me a bit about the challenges of working in Beitar - the patients don't necessarily listen to him or follow his instructions, the vaccination rate is not high enough, patients don't always have clear awareness of their children's symptoms. I'm trying to use the most positive terms possible here for what he was describing.

Going back I have the same driver. I get home around 12:45 pm to come back at 9 am for the next dose.

Driving to Beitar in the daylight things seem much easier, I'm less tense. As I get out of my car to go to the security car, a Hasidic man calls out to me "Giveret (ma'am), have you blessed the lulav (four plant species that are used for special blessing on this holiday)?" I'm impressed - not every orthodox person thinks women should bless the lulav. He asks where I am from, and when he hears Tzur Hadassah, mentions the name of the Chabad rabbi here. I tell him thank you, I have 4 species to bless when I get home, and that I appreciate it.

The same driver takes me to the clinic. I ask about his kids, would they like to attend Tel-Hai College (a place I work for that has many Druze students). He tells me his daughter an athlete, she's only interested in Wingate.

The clinic is dark when I go in - I'm not 100% comfortable. The nurse has slept there, a little - his shift is more than 24 hours. The doctor went home after midnight, when I left, and now arrives again at 9 am. A few other people come in. Once my IV is over they call for the security car to take me home. It's around 11 am by this time, I'm cranky, fed up for missing synagogue and waiting for the security car which seems to take a long time.

The car arrives and I go out to it. The doors are locked. The man driving says, "are you alone?" I say yes. "I can't take you," he says, "I'm dati (religious)". I'm in shock. Who is this guy? I say not very nicely, "this is how you treat sick people? This is dati?" He says he will get me another driver and drives away, I start crying. A woman on the street asks what's wrong. I say he can't take me, he's dati. "How can he be dati?" she asks, "he's driving." I explain he must be Muslim or Druze dati. I go back inside. The nurse and x-ray technician ask what happened. I explain. "Oh yes," they tell me. "He's a sheikh. He can't drive you, he's dati."

At this point I say, somewhat laughing but also somewhat loud, "I have a problem here - these religious people won't let me drive and these other religious people won't drive me." The x-ray technician says, not meanly, that I could go to Beit Shemesh (25 minute drive) or Jerusalem (30 minute drive). I explain I was coming here already, to this particular doctor who saw me yesterday.

The security driver who took me before comes back for me. "He really can't drive you" he explains to me. "He's dati." I get back to my car and go home, certain now that I have to write up this story.

I'm supposed to go back for a 4th dose after the holiday ends, but my wife convinces me to go a little early to beat the crowds. As a result, I am able to see an amazing moonrise. Driving to Beitar, it is as though the full Sukkot moon is directly in my path on the continuation of the road, large and yellow on the twilight horizon.

I get to the gate of Beitar, half-wondering if a rabbi will appear to conduct havdalah for the Druze security guards. The driver I've now ridden with 4 times is at the gate and welcomes me. I ask him when the gate will open. He opens his smartphone to google in Hebrew "time for end of Sukkot holiday." I'm thinking it doesn't get any more surreal than this.

We chat about his evening - he'll get off at 9 pm. There are 10 of them who have come down from the north in 2 cars - it is exactly a 2 hour drive. He works in Beitar every Shabbat and holiday. He also has a day job. The night grows darker, more than three stars come out. A few minutes after the time stated on google, the gate is opened for two motorcycles, my car and another car.

I drive through empty streets under the full moon. Quietly and carefully. There are still no cars out and I am not at ease. I find the clinic and park. I go in and it's empty. The nurse explains that it will soon fill up and sure enough, a few minutes after the first IV bottle starts going into my vein, multiple patients arrive, along with a new doctor and nurse and one of the original characters in the story I forgot to mention who was there yesterday, the movie- star-handsome receptionist, in a tight t-shirt over serious muscles and a backwards baseball cap.

So four antibiotic doses later, I'm home again, grateful for the team of Arab and Druze professionals - security and medical - who have kept me and many others healthy over this holiday, even a little grateful for the dati Sheikh, for the beautiful Sukkot moon, and for learning a little bit more about this surreal slice of the world I live in.