That scream. No, not the scream when another kid snatches his truck. Or the one when his cup, filled with pomegranate seeds, falls on the floor. That scream. The one that lets you know something terrible has happened.
Shabbat is a funny thing. It’s a bit like a spell. A spell I know immediately has to be broken, when I see the deep cut on my son’s forehead.
That’s how we end up in A&E at 12.30pm on Shabbat. Instead of bringing a fresh salad to our lunch host, in an Alessi bowl wrapped in clingfilm, I’m dishing out pitta bread from a zip-lock bag in the Royal Free paediatric emergency waiting room.
Being brought up with Shabbat, I had never fully realised how weird it is, until now.
As a photojournalist, I’ve always wished I could take pictures of religious Jewish people on Shabbat; young and old, rich and poor, all dressed up in their finest clothes. It must be quite a sight to see out of context, I thought. And now as I look out of the Meadway cab on Golders Green Road, I catch a glimpse of what an outsider sees. With the furs, jewels and black hats, it’s like a re-enactment of Russia in the 1920s. I feel like a ghost when my friend crosses the road right in front of the car, holding her children’s hands. I can see her but she can’t see me. I’m in an alternate reality.
My toddler’s the tough type who will bump his head and just continue playing; which is exactly what he does for three hours until we see the doctor. There are books, toys and we brought lots of snacks — we are good to go. I mean, to go and wait. And wait.
The waiting room is interesting. The panic exploding in your mind is juxtaposed against mundane background muzak. The receptionist flips through her magazine, occasionally letting out an audible sigh. She doesn’t know how long the wait will be. Don’t ask her.
There’s a projector portraying the most bizarre series of images I’ve ever seen on the wall. And I’m a fan of Max Ernst, Jackson Pollock and Baby Einstein. It mostly consists of large tadpoles swimming in water with a boat passing through them in random directions. This is laid over photographs of scenery and various animals. But my son loves it, so I guess it does its job well.
We’ve been there an hour when a nervous man wearing a smart suit and kipah rushes in with a little girl who has a bloody lip. “Shabbat Shalom,” I laugh. He offers me some schnitzel, we play Jewish geography and figure out that our kids may end up in school together.
How much fun is Jewish geography? If it were a talk-show I’d watch it every week. Social psychologist Stanley Milgram said there are six degrees of separation between any two strangers in the United States. I hypothesise that there is only one degree of separation in the Jewish world: It’s the eruv. Just kidding!
“MORRIS”
Yes! It is our finally our turn. The doctor who buzzed the door for us earlier is now questioning me; on how the injury was obtained, and our peculiar religious practices.
“Do you know about Amish people in America?”
He nods.
“That’s how we live, just once a week on Shabbat. ”
Ahh. He slowly nods.
The gash on my son’s head is glued back together and it is time to leave. The exit door has an electric release and I politely Jewsplain to the receptionist that I can’t press it. She rolls her eyes and gets up to reach for the button as I apologise profusely.
I always feel bad when I ask someone to go out of their way to press a button or open an electronic door for me on Shabbat. I know the traditions I choose to uphold should never impinge on others but occasionally — in hospitals and hotels — it’s necessary. Somehow I’m not as embarrassed when I ask a cleaning lady at home. I guess it’s because she’s already seen it all.
When we arrive home shortly after Shabbat I am thankful it is all over. My husband greets us with a white face and a big hug. He asks if we can wrap the toddler in bubble wrap from now on. I tell him I’d think about it. For now, let’s just hope I don’t hear that scream again any time soon.
