Why I am not a fan of the Jerusalem Municipality
Please stop digging up every corner of this beautiful city
Well.
It’s around seven in the morning during the weekend in Israel and I’ve been awaken — as I am wont now — by the familiar grating sound of the backup beepers which indicate that the municipality’s JCBs are busily digging up the pavement immediately outside my front door. It’s become an industrial alarm clock of sorts.
(The same one the electric company dug up in the summer; the same one that most residents and store-owners on the street seemed to be perfectly happy with.)
I’m previously expressed my thoughts about the city of Jerusalem.
I came here six years ago. I’d imagine I’m one of relatively few people in history that have made the transition from Cork, Ireland to Jerusalem.
I never chose Jerusalem. The cheesy follow-on would be “Jerusalem chose me” — although it always strikes me as immodest to make that claim about such a vaunted and historical city.
When Jews begin the process of moving to Israel, they typically do so via an agency called the Jewish Agency (JA) or Nefesh b’Nefesh.
Growing up in Ireland, the Jewish community I was part of was vanishingly small. My late grandfather, Fred Rosehill (z’l) was responsible for keeping the fire alight. But making aliyah (moving to Israel) from a place that small was challenging, although not impossible.
My shaliach (emissary) flatly declared me to be an “academic” (no that doesn’t mean that you have tenure; just that you’re a college graduate). I was destined for Ulpan Etsion. And Jerusalem’s intake happened to accord most tidily with my planned date.
Six Years of Construction
The weird thing about Jerusalem is how much the city has grown on me.
I think that Jerusalem is actually a very apt city to live in having moved from Cork.
Unlike Jerusalem, Cork is Ireland’s second city. But like Jerusalem it’s the country’s decided underdog (for those not aware, although Tel Aviv isn’t Israel’s capital, it’s by far the more glamorous and celebrated of the “siblings”).
Like Cork, Jerusalem lives in the shadow of another city (Tel Aviv). And like Cork, the young people of Jerusalem tend to flock out of the city in search of better employment prospects elsewhere. But also like Cork, they often do so only reluctantly. Jerusalem holds a special place in its residents’ hearts.
If I can praise but one thing about Jerusalem it’s the fact that it has just enough of everything.
Kosher Indian? There’s now one (vegetarian, but it’s a start). You have one good DJ store. A few good bars. Many falafel stands and synagogues. Enough gyms that one isn’t starved for options (although Tel Aviv’s scene is undoubtedly superior).
But if there’s one thing I am not fond of about Jerusalem it would be the relentless construction going on. And for that I have to blame: the iriyah (municipality).
I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that during the six years I have called Jerusalem home I have lived within 50 meters of a construction site for more years rather than not. As I work from home (mostly), finding ways to navigate noise pollution has become an unfortunate fact of life for me.
The amount of construction going on in the city is relentless. And — from what I have been able to tell — very little of it is coordinated with residents, at least in meaningful ways.
Right now the city is ripping up the (to my eyes) perfectly good pavements lining our neighborhood. Last summer it was the electric company digging up the road. The city’s workers appear to pave for about half the day — conveniently starting at 06:30 on the dot. As if to prolong the suffering, they’re even doing one side of the street at a time.
After moving from a more central neighborhood where the municipality was doing the same thing — and literally stationed outside our front door (see above) — we thought that moving out of the center would get us some peace and quiet.
Nope.
Construction hasn’t been our only complaint.
During the entire length of the summer — with the city under lockdown — the Jerusalem Municipality insisted on running a street festival immediately outside our front door. Think a clown screaming into a microphone for 4 hours two nights a week. To the delight of children. To the adults living across the street? Not so much.
I complained. Repeatedly. As did other residents. The city’s response (effectively): be grateful for the “entertainment”.
The City of Jerusalem makes it extremely difficult for renters to pay their arnona — municipal taxes; and Jerusalem’s are about the highest in the country — in a way that doesn’t put them at the mercy of potentially exploitative landlords.
Tel Aviv lets residents pay every two months, which means that renters can only pay what they need to.
In Jerusalem you have to sign on for paying a year at a time. Miss a payment or letter from the city? There’s a good chance that a summary lien (Hebrew: ikul) might be placed on your bank account.
The Jerusalem Municipality undoubtedly does some good things. It excels, from what I can see, in trying to portray Jerusalem favorably on the international scene. Yet my observation from more than half a decade of living in the city is that that commitment is not matched by how it treats its own tax-paying residents.
For a city that constantly laments the fact that it’s hemorrhaging young people, it could start with examining what it’s doing to make the city a nice place in which to live. A recent quality of life survey amongst Israeli cities ranked Jerusalem in last place.
The development of Jerusalem is a thing that many Zionists celebrate. Yet noise pollution is something that we should not have to tolerate as a fact of life.
It feels to me as if a far better balance could be struck between the exigencies of developments and the needs of residents.
Until that balance is struck my thoughts about the City will remain not warm and fuzzy.
