The Day Approacheth

Yom Kippur, that is, not the birthday that marks a rather weighty landmark in life's road, although that's looming too. When I was young I was certain, utterly convinced I wouldn't live past twenty-one, hence the eve of my twenty-first birthday was more than a little nerve-wracking, exciting too, in a bizarre and morbid kind of way, so I did what any right-minded twenty-one-year-old would do, and drank until I couldn't see. For a whole year, leaving the house was a dubious, curious act : The Reaper with his hoodie up was grinning from behind every dark tree in the park and every car passing was the one that would fly out of control, onto the pavement and run me down. It's weird wondering how you'll die. Will it be gruesome and bloody or will I slip off in my sleep (unlikely at twenty-one)? Will I drown? Because they say you hallucinate wildly when you drown and that sounds like fun, except all that water in the lungs makes me want to take a large breath, and suffocation of any kind must be very, very unpleasant. A pill laced with poison? A spiked drink? A dodgy curry? At a madman's hand? In a traffic accident?

I still wonder those things. What would I choose, given the choice? Everyone wants family and friends around their bed and the slipping into sleep option. I think a bungee jump without a rope would take adrenaline to a new dimension, or to skydive over mountains or canyons and not have to worry about how to land. Quick and painless. No incontinence or madness, please: Future grandchildren, if you are reading this, respect my wishes. Bind Grandma Emma up, wipe her dribble away, appease the spirits she talks to incessantly, and take her skydiving.

But it didn't happen at twenty-one: Here I am! Pretty amazing, really, considering all those hearty efforts at self-destruction. All that hard work for nothing. Huh.

Where was I? Oh, Yom Kippur. Even the words are scary. Everything goes silent and the soul gulps.

For the benefit of you gentiles out there, a run down:

The days between Rosh ha Shana and Yom Kippur are called The Ten Days of Repentence; where we admit to and ask forgiveness for our weaknesses, our wrongdoings, our lack of faith and, among all our other sins, for saying things that hurt others. As opposed to Rosh ha Shana, which is the day of judgement for the world, Yom Kippur is our own soul in G-d's court. Will the defendent please rise. And very serious it is, too. What will your sentence be? Will you be given another chance, another year, to do better?







On Yom Kippur, from sundown Wednesday to sundown Thursday, we can't do five things: eat, drink (anything), wash more than our fingertips or anoint the body, have sexual relations or wear leather shoes. This means Wednesday, pre-fast, is spent (ideally) drinking plenty of fluids, having a proper meal before sunset, getting the Crocs, flip-flops and white clothes out (for purity; to be like the angels), having a shower and preparing mentally for the fast. As it's a holiday, the Shabbat rules apply, which means no driving (and this is amazing, because NO ONE drives in the whole of Jerusalem - in most of Israel - except an Arab or two, enjoying the empty roads, and the whole country stops in a hush), no cooking, no TV, radio, computer - nada.

The sky darkens, Yom Kippur begins. With no distractions, one waits, reading, praying, sitting, for the judgement. We go to sleep without brushing our teeth. The worst part is not having a cup of tea the next morning. The teeth being grainy. The mouth dry, already. A long day ahead.

Children are allowed to eat until the age of Bar and Bat Mitzvah, so Tamar is embarking on her first full fast this year. In the last few years she's been practicing by not eating for as long as she can manage, which was until Maor ate some lunch and said, 'Mmm, yummy, oh, wow, soo very delicious, mmm', licked his fingers with gusto, smacked his chops with gastronomic pleasure and got shouted at, as she then cried and caved in. So the children, bless them, are full of the usual energy, wanting action, playing, arguing, screaming, but the hours stretch in a slow drawl, like intenstines spread out across a football pitch, like the coils of a spiral ironed until they reach the edges of the universe.

No, Mum can't read any more stories because her mouth is dry, and no she can't play Subbuteo because she's lying on the sofa by about four o'clock in the afternoon, suffering, wrenching herself ever-inward, desperately clinging to the very essence of what it is to be a soul, to be a human, grappling with her conscience, her temples hammering, the wires of her head crossed. Where's Abba? Abba's in the synagogue all day, praying for us. Men's version of Yom Kippur is so different: they don't have to rip kids off each other or spoon feed babies, or clear up their plates or change nappies and not be able to wash their hands properly. They can absorb themselves in prayer, en masse, in a collection of suffering souls. I must ask what it is they go through because I'm not sure I really know that.

When Tamar was a baby, we spent Yom Kippur in the mountains in India in the big house we'd rented, and by then, all our brothers and parents and sisters who had come out for her birth had gone back and young Israelis fresh from the army were renting the free rooms. One girl, Tova, felt so bad she had to drink something mid-way through the day. 'What I can't understand,' she said to me, 'is why we have to suffer.' I didn't have an answer for her. I have one now, though.

I think it was Krishnamurti's book I read in a little wooden house in the middle of Australia's green wilderness, that said, 'skip every nth meal, don't overeat. Be vital'. When there's nothing left in the body - no food or fuel, no fluid, the tongue is dry, the body is existing merely on some vital force; when there is no place to go, no TV program on, no web to surf or phone to answer, the soul starts speaking and you have no where to go to ignore it. I've talked about this plenty this summer; haughtily deriding people who watch TV every night and then go to bed never giving their souls a chance to be heard. We erect intangible barriers by day that hold us up: reason dominates, practicality is the key, socio-economic forces push us through hour upon hour of action until we crash into sleep. At night, sitting in the hum of darkness, reason backs off. The walls of the structures slide down. In the quiet times, the soul rises. Hey, it says. Remember me? What about your dreams? What about the things that hurt you? What about doing something else with your time here? Where is the music, where's the artistry, where's the beauty and when was the last time you were awed by nature? What do you believe in? What do you want?

On Yom Kippur, however, being daylight when you suffer the most, the soul says other things. It asks why you behave the way you do and if that's acceptable. It asks how much effort you've made this year, whether you've kept your lashing tongue at bay, if you could have done more, done better, been kinder, more thoughtful. If you're being true with yourself, or true with G-d. If you really mean it when you say you're sorry, or you're just saying it. Every last moment of your year is re-lived, and how you dealt with it is questioned. You stand in the court room with no one in the gallery supporting you or heckling for your freedom. You stand alone, tiny, humble, mortal, before G-d. Before truth itself. A heavy day indeed. No one is perfect, and this is the opportunity to face just how imperfect you actually are.

I hope I've succeeded in putting off anyone who was thinking of converting this year. The Rabbinute should employ me. You want to be Jewish honey? Come, sit. Let me tell you something...


Don't get me wrong; Yom Kippur is not bad. It's the whitest day, a gift, a holiday. How many chances do we get, I mean really, of doing that? Of connecting with all others doing the same, everywhere in the world? Of fasting, of cleaning out body, mind and soul? You know how pure you feel when the sun finally goes down to mark the end of the fast? Do you feel like eating rubbish? You do not. Do you feel angelic? Yes. Are you ready to be a better person. Oh, yes. This time, yes. Definitely. Just give me one more chance and I'll prove it.







Gmar Hatima Tova. Easy fast, as we say in Hebrew, Tsom Kal.