The Back of the Bus

By Rucheli Manville

I checked the time again… It was 9:35 in the morning and the bus to Tzfat was 15 minutes late. Just as I
shut my phone for the 18th time, the bus rolled up to the stop outside the Central Bus Station in
Jerusalem. The driver opened the door and I elbowed my way into the line, something that I’m still
getting used to since the concept of personal space is temporarily suspended for the purpose of getting
onto an Israeli public bus. As I pulled myself onto the first step, a man behind me called out to see if
there were any spots left, which seemed to be a valid question since the line had just stopped moving.
Catching a glimpse of the driver, I yelled out in the least American accent possible, “Yesh makom?!” (Is
there space?) The answer confirmed what I was afraid of. “Lo! Ein makom, zuz!” (No! There’s no room,
move!)

Luckily, in the middle of my dialogue with the driver, another 982 bus to Tzfat pulled up just behind us.
My friends and I rushed over, but there was already a long line and this bus was rapidly running out of
space as well. I realized that the buses must have already made a few stops in Shaarei Tziyon, a Haredi
neighborhood on the outskirts of Jerusalem, and Tzfat is a popular Shabbat getaway for observant Jews
looking to get out of the city. Since Shabbat comes in at about 4pm this time of year, it made sense that
everyone had tried catching the first 9:20am bus in order to head north a little earlier in the day.

I was the first of our group to reach the bus stairway again; evidently I’m adjusting to the Israeli lifestyle
quicker than I had anticipated. The other girls called out for me to save them seats. “I’ll try!” I answered,
hoping that there were enough spots left. Without paying much attention to my surroundings, when I
made it onto the bus I immediately sat in the first row that had both seats unoccupied. I figured at least
half of our small group could sit here, and the other two girls could try to find a place a little farther
back. Just a few milliseconds after my back hit the seat cushion, a young man in his mid-twenties with
the traditional Haredi garb of a black suit, black hat, full beard, and long, perfectly curled payos looked
at me from across the aisle and rattled something off in a quick, mumbled Hebrew. Clearly not
understanding, I asked him, “Atah medaber Anglit?” (Do you speak English?) I immediately realized that
it was highly improbable; asking a Haredi man from Shaarei Tziyon if he spoke anything other than
Yiddish, Hebrew, or maybe an Eastern European language was like asking an Eskimo if he speaks
Portuguese. It usually doesn’t register.

“Uhh… man…” he stuttered. Okay, A+ for effort. He gave up pretty quickly though, and resorted to slow,
basic Hebrew and a form of sign language. “Gevarim,” he pointed to himself and the boy sitting next to
him. “Po,” he pointed at my seat. “Nashim,” he pointed at me. “Sham!” he emphasized, as he jerked his
thumb towards the back of the bus. The thumb jerk woke my brain up and I looked around to realize
that I was the only female in a five-seat radius. Behind the men, a wall of married couples separated the
front of the bus from the single women in the back. I had just boarded one of Israel’s infamous
“segregated” buses.
Interestingly enough, my first reaction was to be offended. I find it interesting because in reality I’m an
observant Jew and I personally have no problem at all with the concept of separate seating. Despite this,
my instincts got the better of me for a second and I found the feeling of “How dare you jerk your thumb
at me!” spring up in my mind. Luckily, I regained mental control over my reactions and gave the man a
curt nod as I got up out of the seat and moved myself to the back of the bus.

It was suddenly very clear to me how the rift between the Haredi and the secular Jewish populations in
Israel has grown to be so large. For the most part, no one has taken the time to bridge the gap between
the two sides and explain to each other exactly why things are the way that they are. I live an observant
lifestyle myself and I still had the initial reaction to feel as if my rights were being oppressed!

But can you imagine if the man had been willing and able to explain his actions to me? “Excuse me, I
don’t mean to offend you, but I’d really like to learn and pray during this bus ride and it’s my custom to
not do so when women around. I am, after all, only a man and I get distracted easily. We would all really
appreciate it if the front of the bus could be saved for those of us who want to learn together and have
similar customs. Thanks so much for understanding.”

What a different reaction he would have gotten from me! Instead of it being my first reaction to be
offended, I would have been apologetic! No feelings would have been hurt and the end result would be
exactly the same; I would gladly have gotten up for a polite young man who simply wanted to learn and
pray on the long bus ride. As an added bonus, all thumb-jerking could have been completely avoided…

Unfortunately, it seems that this scenario is somewhat utopian. It would require that all parties involved
step outside of their comfort zones and be open-minded towards those with other lifestyles, and in
Israel there is (unfortunately) a long history of grudges. But if by some chance this could happen, the
growth in Ahavas Yisrael (love for fellow Jews) would be incredible, and I think it’s worth a shot.

Israeli religious politics aside, there is an extremely strong personal lesson I took from my bus ride to
Tzfat. This misunderstanding doesn’t just occur between Haredim and secular Jews in the Holy Land. Any
time there are people with opposite lifestyles, the chance for mutual misunderstanding exists, and if it
isn’t addressed it can lead to irreparable rifts. This chance encounter was a blatant reminder that even
though I’m considered part of a “more liberal” sect of Orthodox Judaism here in Israel, back home there
aren’t any Haredim to compare me to. With the exception of a few groups that keep entirely to
themselves, in the US I’m about as “Ultra-Orthodox Extremist” as it gets. On top of this, as a baalat
teshuvah (returnee to Judaism) I have a lifestyle that couldn’t be much more different from the one that
my family, friends, and most of my fellow Jews live. That means that it’s up to me to explain why I do
things a certain way, why the Jewish people have certain customs, and why I’ve made the decision to
change from an atheist Jew to an observant Jew. It’s my job to prevent a rift from growing between me
and the ones I love: not just my family and my friends, but every single Jew, from the most secular to the
most Haredi. Why? Because when it comes to Ahavas Yisrael, there’s only one bus and we all have to get
on board. Thankfully, unlike the 982 to Tzfat, this bus has plenty of room for everyone. And since the
tickets are free, the only question left is “what are we waiting for?”