A rainy Shabbat morning settled over the heart of Jerusalem. The city center, usually alive with endless noise and movement throughout the week, stood silent. A low cloud swallowed the tower near the Chords Bridge, shaping a scene that resembled an ancient fable.
A Jerusalem Shabbat morning emerged from a heavy fog that slid across the city center like a thick blanket. At the main junction leading into Jerusalem, between the Central Bus Station and Navon railway station, the tall tower rising into the sky simply disappeared into a low cloud. Its upper edges blurred and vanished. The two stations, usually crowded from Sunday until Shabbat eve, rested. Thousands of people – soldiers, tourists, commuters – had already reached their destinations. The stations, washed by rain, were left to their quiet Shabbat pause.
Even the silver bus benches dripped with water, rinsing away everything left upon them. Wooden benches absorbed the droplets, trying to erase stains of cola, cigarettes, oil, and more. Public trash bins were washed clean, renewing their gray tone, and gutters spat steady streams down toward the road, sending the water toward the aquifer. The terracotta roofs of Jerusalem’s homes were refreshed, and the black tar gained a new sheen. Behind still-dark windows on this early Shabbat morning, the aromas of cholent, beef stews, beans, and steaming kubbeh in tomato broth escaped from kitchens into the quiet streets.
The sun’s attempt to rise and fulfill its duty was pushed back again and again. The line of clouds covering the streets of Alfandari, HaTorim, and approaching David Yellin declared: we have arrived.
Why is the entrance to Jerusalem almost empty on Shabbat morning?
The wet asphalt glowed under red traffic lights, and every digital display at the light rail stations in the city center showed the same message: “No service soon.” The central Jerusalem streets – HaNasi HaShishi, HaNasi Shazar, and Sarei Israel – looked as if painted in gray watercolor. The narrow alleys of Jerusalem filled with long puddles, fallen leaves, and an unusual silence. A quiet of Shabbat rest at the end of November, whispering toward December.
But not all of Jerusalem wakes at the same pace. Some remain under the warm blanket, listening to the rain hit the window, remembering it is Shabbat. Bags, keys, and market carts can wait. Others do not give up: those hurrying to Shacharit prayers, Jerusalem joggers dedicated to their morning run, police officers and firefighters beginning new shifts, foreign workers rushing to their elderly patients, and yes – Larissa, who rose early on Heichal HaMishpat Street to feed pigeons and stray cats.
Why is the white wagtail missing from Jerusalem’s quiet morning sky?
Among the pigeons, sparrows, and crows searching for breakfast and gliding through the cold air, one absence stood out: the white wagtail – Jerusalem’s familiar winter herald. A bird that appears each year almost on schedule did not “clock in” this morning. Maybe it was confused, maybe early, or perhaps it found a warmer place to linger.
Meanwhile, Machane Yehuda Market was also washed by the night rain, still sleepy and quiet. Shacharit prayers had already begun, and the winter phrase “He makes the wind blow and the rain fall” rose from Jerusalem’s eternal streets, not only from prayer books. The rain had truly arrived, steady and committed.
