Today, Shabbat morning in Jerusalem, terror struck deep into this Canadian’s heart, and into my wife’s, as well. I know exactly when it happened. At 8 in the morning I drew some drinking water from the tap, finished it off, and headed to the washroom for my daily ablutions.
At 5 minutes after 8, I turned on the water, listened for its gushing sound, but heard nothing. Nevertheless, I, pulled the button forward on the valve that redirects the water flow to the shower head. Sure enough, there was nothing. Not a drop. I tried the sink. A few drops flowed from the faucet, then gave out. In the kitchen, same story. No water.
Don’t panic, I told myself. There must be a reason. The city of Jerusalem must have had a water emergency and turned off the flow to the neighbourhood. But wouldn’t they have warned us? Not necessarily. It’s Shabbat. They would only do emergency work. They’re not going to run around the German Colony warning each occupant that there’s no water.
Perhaps it’s a national emergency, an emergency so dire that it requires rationing to begin, even on Shabbat? My brother-in-law told me that with only 33% of the rainy season remaining, Israel hasn’t had 50% of the normal rainfall. Was our water shut-down a brave last-ditch attempt to ration water? Couldn’t be. This is Israel, so people and the newspapers would have discussed it endlessly for a month in advance. I call my brother-in-law for advice. He is not awake. With tremulous voice, I leave a message begging for his wisdom.
Loren is practical. She goes to the internet, seeking the number for the waterworks, City of Jerusalem. Quickly she googles it, clicks on the URL, and zip-zap, there it is, everything you wanted to know about water in Yerushalayim since 1000 BCE. Everything, including the clearly stated emergency number, with a single disclaimer: the emergency telephone is closed on Shabbat. That’s right, even if you had an emergency, on Shabbat, no help for you! There's always the general emergency number, 103. Of course, only Arabs will come to your aid on Shabbat.
Ah, it occurs to me, the owner of the apartment didn’t pay the water bill, so they cut off the H2O. But no, that makes no sense. If the waterworks doesn’t labour on Shabbat, why would they cancel our water on God’s holy Sabbath day? Scratch that idea.
Wait! Recently a Lubavitcher rabbi in Tel Aviv’s black hat neighbourhood, B’nei B’rak, ruled that people living in units of a multiple dwelling are not, according to halacha, Jewish law, permitted to use the water tap on Shabbat. Why? Because the many apartments using water cause the pumping station’s electrically operated machinery to go to work, and that violates the Sabbath. Jerusalemites pay more attention to halacha than any other Israeli citizens. Have they made it impossible for us to use our tap water on the Sabbath, starting today? Seemed far-fetched, but no more far-fetched than that rabbi’s decision. At least my upset turned to laughter as I thought of it.
But now we are desperate, in fact, terrified to the core. We come from a city, Montreal, where more water passes by our island ville every single day than Israel receives in an entire year. We have so much water, we don’t even meter it. For a Montrealer, having no water is an unimaginable emergency. You’ll forgive my recounting the consequences, but first and foremost, the WC’s won’t flush, the showers won’t function, we’ll have only milk and Arak to drink – we finished off the Shabbat wine on Friday night, and we cannot even wash our hands before eating. Panic..
What to do? Contact the landlady. She’s not in her apartment, so I can’t go knock on her door. She’s at the home of some family. I have to call, but it’s Shabbat. She’s Shomer Shabbat and won’t answer the phone until 3 stars are visible. I decide to call anyway and leave a message. Maybe she’ll hear the desperation in my voice, take pity, and answer the phone. It rings and rings some more. I’m told to leave a message, through which I explain our difficulty.
Loren comes up with a brilliant plan. Let’s get dressed and go to the YMCA, that magnificently towered building directly across the street from the King David Hotel and only steps away from Hebrew Union College, my rabbinical school. It’s a 15 minute walk; it’s open; we’re members; they have showers. They have coffee. Maybe we’ll be done in time for services, after which we’ll spend the day in the lounge at the Y reading, or walk to the Wall, then wander rootlessly about until nightfall, when we can reach our landlady. It will be taxing, but we’re from Great White North, and Québec sait faire.
The telephone rings just as we begin to pack our necessities for the trip to the “Yimkeh.” A stranger’s voice speaks, “Did you call your landlady?” she asks. “Yes, YES!” I say. The voice wants to know what the problem is. I reiterate: no water. The voice is a Shabbas Goy, a non-Jew doing this “work” of phoning me on the landlady’s behalf so she does not have to desecrate the Sabbath.
Voice to landlady, “No water.” Landlady to Voice, yelling from across her room, not speaking into the phone, “Tell him to check the water inlet valve. It’s on the street to the right of the entry gate, behind a metal door. If that doesn’t work, go the neighbour around the corner, and she’ll help.” Voice:: “Did you hear that?” To the unknown holder of the telephone, I say thank you and hang up.
Outside, exactly where it is supposed to be, I find a large metal door that has been left open. Behind it, the water valve to our apartment is marked and clearly facing the wrong direction. Someone tampered with it by turning it off at 8:05 AM. A prankster? A “pushtak” (punk)? A hater of Canadians, an anti-Semite, a self-hating Jew? There are 4 units in the building. Why was ours selected? Why us? Ah, that great theological question, in our case, writ very small.
Life returns to normal. Water flows, showers spray, we are ready for services. On the way, we notice one weakness of Jerusalem. Nearly everyone’s water meter is out on the street, connected to a valve that anyone can turn at will, an invitation to trouble that would take millions of shekels to set aright. I guess when you live in a country that requires every home to have a bomb shelter capable of shutting out toxic gases, the temporary loss of water supply at the hands of a pushtak hardly matters.
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