"I was afraid of the soldiers, the police, I was afraid to pass by them, I was afraid to look for exit to buy food that was missing in the city" • A short story by Avital Jeanette Keshet

• Survive while on the move. Bnei Brak during the closure

  Photo: 

  Joshua Joseph

The Corona epidemic broke out just as I was in a massive move away from the ultra-Orthodox public, which seemed to me stiff, closed and outdated. I defined my relationship with him as lost, thinking about moving.

In the days when quarries were allowed under the housing covered with peeling ceilings, I began to become aware of the prayers of those from whom I sought to withdraw. They woke me up from my sleep, the voice of the skilled cantor, accompanied by his son's lucid voice, sucked into comments forced upon me.

Then when the prayers were left in solitary confinement, the cantors descended into the street, from where a Torah scroll came, and melodies by Carlebach, Chabad, Carlin and others became part of the soundtrack of my infected bloodstream. 

When the military quarantine was imposed and the city was conquered for fear of mass infestation, as some knowledgeable sources put it, I admit I was scared.

I was afraid of the soldiers, the police, I was afraid to pass by, I was afraid to look for exit doors to buy food that was missing in the city, for example eggs, but not only. Before the establishment of the state, nobody liked to live under the mandate rule. I learned this as a child, while sitting with the teacher who taught history at the "secular" institutions, as they are called here. 

Now I also didn't like this choking ring, which was usually manned by bored young soldiers. 

In my home, there were five people left, and with no choice we shared insights and camps, and we mainly thought about how to survive while on the move.

It soon became apparent to us that the ultra-Orthodox young son must not be sent for shopping. When we did, we discovered that it was a bitter mistake. Once we had passed on the run like a cat past one of the policemen and stopped, our chosen guy, the only one of our children who did not abandon the Gemara for a moment, got a "stop" call that did not go unnoticed.

"All the ultra-Orthodox here are sick, and you risk us, don't be ashamed!", One policeman blurted out.

Unfortunately, his thinking didn't make us seventy. The son, who until then considered himself a citizen of the world, mainly because he is a repentant son, underwent an initiation process that we did not wish for, the neighbor from the floor who also tried to break the blockade, told us that he had been abducted and then escaped from the policeman as long as he liked. We didn't reprimand him, we had no power.

We immediately called the municipality. The obscure, confused young woman who answered wrote down our name and address, ensuring that the shipment would wait a few more hours at the door. We waited, but after a whole day, no food basket came to our door, we realized that salvation would probably not come from it.

As we were drawing advice again, the second choice fell on his advanced-looking brother, who does not opt ​​for fashionable colored attire, and covers his head with a tiny gray cap that disappears under an updated haircut.

He left safely and returned safely to his emissaries, carrying on his arm bags full of goodies.

Thanks to him we managed to sneak food that was not found at that time in the city of Bnei Brak, and is in the showcase for the rich, "Ramat Gan".

The days passed, Seder, singing "What's Changing", applause for children standing and asking on the balconies made us feel distressed. Sunday, Monday, one day I felt the cumulative crunch was making me restless, I left the city on my own, looking for a secluded corner in the nearby Ramat Gan city. There were relatively reasonable lives on the side streets of that city, people running, two young women spreading a blanket on a lawn, a clear gathering was seen among the dog owners, they searched just as much as I did, and here it was found that they violated instructions, only they did so non-stop. 

In the corner I found was clean air, I spread my hands to the calm sky and prayed to my creator, ripples of attention flowed towards me, as the air pollution was also falling from the sky answering you, it turns out.

After returning to my closed city, passing deceptive barriers, avoiding mobility, climbing over fences, I reached the street, sharing another celebration.

Mooshi (pseudonym), one of my neighbor's children, was celebrated with great glory and citizen bar mitzvah, his father went out on the street and played guitar, at the end of the street stood two other neighbors: Neumann, father and son. The father wore a festive coat, the son hugged him and they both became happy, danced to Mooshi, moving back and forth in complex skips.

Moishi himself, a boy with impressive vocal abilities, sings. His adolescent voice had a dialogue with besieged Jerusalem, assuring her that it was all just Christ's time.

Balloons were thrown from the balconies on the head of the Bar Mitzvah groom, speckled fireworks were also fired.

The women who saw me back there, we solemnly flaunted me with a lot of booty: "Bar Mitzvah, Bar Mitzvah," they read, it was evident that they were cheerful to burst.

I stood in front of one of the pillars of the building, clapping my gloves and removing the mask. There were no other barriers between us. That's how it is, the joy of breaking bad habits.

Drunk with joy, we didn't notice the cop making his way down the street. He studied what was going on and then spread the celebration.

We didn't ask why, it was unnecessary.

I went home, my husband closed the shutters, and then there was a knock on the door.

We hesitantly started and took a distance of two meters from the door.

The auspicious neighbor Neumann stood there. "It was a great bar mitzvah, thank you for participating, we would love to have you speak with us in honor of Moshi 'Psalm of thanks'." We answered yes, but what.

Avital Keshet is a repentant, multidisciplinary artist, poet and prose writer. Edited by the journal "Voice. Poetry. Woman" by the Asylum Gallery, which deals with female poetry and art. An actress, entrepreneurial lecturer of singing Arabs, supports and deals with providing an open stage for women everywhere in the country, and if possible, the name will be available in the world as well.

• Is the Reichel era worthy of a hit?

• Israel's longest Independence Day broadcast

• Eyal Berkowitz: "Odeh Painted Supports Terrorism"

• Demonstration against the appearance of Eyal Golan

• Watch: Rodberg Lake in pregnancy photos

• "Chambers": Love does not buy in reality