Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, polarises the country more than any other event in the year. For the God-fearing devout, the 25-hour fast is spent ensconced in prayer and penitence, pouring out confessions in synagogue and begging the Almighty’s forgiveness for sins committed over the previous 12 months.
White robes are worn to symbolise purity; leather footwear and other trappings of elegance are foregone in order to maximise the atmosphere of contrition and humility; and nothing other than fervent supplications passes the lips of the congregants as they sway back and forth in the aisles.
However, while the faithful are shut away inside their places of worship, an equally committed section of the public spend the day worshipping their deity in their own, very different, way. Thousands of Israelis strap on helmets, saddle up their bicycles and take to the streets in droves, in a symbolic gesture that has become synonymous with their proud secularity in the face of the religious half of the Jewish state.
On paper, it makes sense that “Bicycle Day” is held on the one day a year when there is literally not a single car on the streets, allowing cyclists to enjoy the one-off opportunity to ride unimpeded up and down high streets, main roads, and even motorways. Delighted children wheel around the city centres with their stabilisers keeping them upright, and their more proficient parents take to the hills via roads normally off-limits to riders and their mounts.
But the phenomenon is more than just a celebration of a vehicle-free day in the summer. After all, it’s not as though there aren’t places for people to cycle during the rest of the year should they so desire. Instead, the taking to the streets in such numbers is a declaration of intent by those taking part. It is a defiant rallying cry to those who refuse to give in to what they see as an unwanted religiosity creeping ever further into their daily lives, dictating what they can do in their own country and when they can do it.
The divisive chasm between the orthodox and secular in Israel is never far from the front page of the papers. Rows about whether state-owned businesses such as El-Al, the national airline, can operate on Shabbat are frequently contested either through the courts or via the airwaves of the TV networks. Violent incidents on buses sporadically occur when outraged haredim decide to forcibly move a non-compliant woman to the “female side” of the bus in order not to breach modesty laws. Pitched battles take place between orthodox youth and their gay counterparts every time a gay pride march is staged in Jerusalem, resulting in ever-more-bitter divisions between the two camps.
But, despite all this, it’s not as though Israel is run in anything resembling Taliban-style fashion. By and large, the religious are toothless when it comes to dictating the state of play for the rest of the nation, and instead are reduced to ruling the roost only in the areas where their numbers are in the majority, such as the black-hat stronghold of Bnei Brak.
And it cuts both ways – for example, the fiercely defiant secular areas of Tel Aviv, where the residents take no notice of pleas for observance from their religious counterparts, and party all through Shabbat and the holy days as though Judaism was a mere irritant in the back of their collective consciousness. For my part, I’ve got a foot in both worlds – quite literally, at the moment.
Whilst I spend most of my time in my flat in the fairly orthodox German Colony of Jerusalem, I’ve also got a flat for the summer on the beach in Yafo, which, thanks to its largely Arab populace and proximity to downtown Tel Aviv, is the complete antithesis to my main residence. And, having seen both sides of the coin for weeks now, it’s becoming more and more clear that this country is irredeemably polarised when it comes to bridging the gulf between the opposing communities.
For all that I mourn the lack of contact between Israelis and Palestinians, the internecine conflict within Israel’s borders is as, if not more, pressing an issue in terms of social cohesion and communal stability. The ultra-orthodox, by virtue of their strength in numbers are a force to be reckoned with for anyone taking them on in the political arena.
They cast block votes in elections, according to the directions of their spiritual mentors, and can make or break government coalitions according to whether or not their demands are met, be they for extra funding or for blanket exemption from the army for their offspring. Their ability to force the hands of those in the Knesset results in open hostility on the part of their secular neighbours, who see the state’s pandering to the religious as an intolerable insult to the rest of the country.
And so they do what they can to show that they’re not cowed, such as pedalling their way through the deserted streets on Yom Kippur. And, though their energetic protest goes unchallenged by the fast-weary orthodox making their way to and from the synagogue, their actions certainly don’t go unnoticed. Another year, another Day of Atonement, and another reminder that all is certainly not forgiven or forgotten on the streets of the Holy Land.
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