The Tale of Many Jerusalems

What would a peaceful Middle East look like? A fable about politics, culture, and commerce.

Charles Paul Freund from the November 2002 issue

Two elderly men with long gray beards were exhausting themselves beating on the door of Abu Simsim, a small-time confectioner of Jerusalem. Just how long the old men had been there they themselves could not have told you, but it was long enough so that their dignity was gone, their palms were sore, and their voices cracked and tired. Even so, Abu Simsim wouldn't answer.

"In the name of all that is righteous, Abu Simsim, open your shop! May God favor you and make you the father of many sons, but only if you unlock this door now!" Thus called the increasingly desperate Abu Zeid, a lifelong student of the mysteries of the spirit, a seeker of the truth, and a follower of the Path. Abu Zeid had followed the Path all his life, never dreaming that it would someday lead him to the door of a maker of sweets, much less one who was as lazy and good for nothing as this one. Indeed, one who would actually lock the door in his face. Abu Zeid groaned in frustration.

"We beg you, Abu Simsim, for love of Abraham our father, to let us into your shop!" So beseeched Rabbi ben Ezra, the other old man, who was a finder of hidden meanings, a mathematician of the universe, and an initiate of the cabalistic Tree of Life. Through many years Rabbi ben Ezra had pondered the meaning of this Tree, never imagining that perched at its top would be a shop of sweets, much less one run by such a dog as this one. The rabbi tore at his beard and rattled the door by its handle. "Abu Simsim, for the sake of Jerusalem, sell us your halawa!"

"My halawa? For the sake of Jerusalem? Have you both awakened mad on the same morning?"

Abu Simsim was leaning out the second-floor window of his shop, staring down on the white hairs of the old mystics. At the sound of his voice they started, looking first left, then right, then finally craning their necks. At the sight of him, their eyes grew wide, and they embraced, murmuring, "God be praised." Abu Simsim slammed his shutters closed and disappeared again.

"Wait!" they shouted together. "Come back!" It was Rabbi ben Ezra, younger by a few seasons, who had the strength to call out, "Open up, dear Abu Simsim, or we'll break into your shop and steal your halawa."

The shutters slammed open again. "Tell me, oh fathers of wisdom, what is so wondrous about my halawa that you must steal it from me, lose your honor, and force my children to go hungry?"

Halawa in the Hashemite Kingdom

Ben Ezra and Abu Zeid exchanged glances. In fact, much depended on their obtaining some of his halawa, the more of it the better. But how could they tell him that? How could they tell him that they had had it in their grasp to transform Jerusalem, and make it at last into a city of peace! A dream of ages was at hand. All that was necessary was some of Abu Simsim's halawa.

"It's my fault," Abu Zeid said uneasily. "I...I cannot live without your halawa. It's like the nectar of Paradise!"

"May God favor you for saying so," answered the maker of sweets, "but you are lying. It is not at all like the nectar of Paradise. It is only crushed sesame, a lot of honey, and yet more sugar. Every confectioner in Jerusalem makes it the same way, though the Jewish ones call it 'halvah.' It leaves your mouth so coated that nothing quenches your thirst, and your fingers so oily that you dare touch nothing of value for hours. Everyone who gorges on it soon regrets his lack of judgment. And yet two worthy scholars threaten to break into my shop to obtain it. How can this be?"

"Truly," offered the rabbi while searching for his words, "your halawa is...unique. Only last night my daughter was praising it."

"But I know your daughter well, rabbi. May God grant her many years. She hates halawa more than I do. In any event, the shop is closed today."

"But how can you say such a horrible thing!"

"How? You know how, my learned teachers. Are we not in Jerusalem?"