On the street, even the secular one, a place of honor is dedicated deep within the heart to those black men clad in hats and suits, wearing the Haredi robes.
Even if outwardly, the generational aversion grows to enormous dimensions of hatred and resentment, mainly in political ways, in moments of truth and soul-crushing anguish, the yeshiva student is respected in the eyes of his secular brother, devoid of any signs.
For the title "People of the Book," which so distinguishes the Jewish nation, is represented without any question by the Torah-observant public, which frequently engages with the Book of Books.
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It is not for nothing that the ever-popular slogan "My grandfather was a rabbi" was invented. At the moment of encounter between an ultra-Orthodox and a secular person, the latter - who sees himself in a lower position than his interlocutor - is forced to raise himself a hand or two in the name of his grandfather, whose memory is blessed, who was probably a rabbi somewhere in Galicia, Lithuania or Yemen.
This feeling of secular "dwarfism" next to a yeshiva student, such as keeping one's mouth shut and elevating the culture of speech and conversation in his presence, has often resulted in an unparalleled sanctification of God.
Indeed, the very understanding that something great and holy is before you magnifies the name of the Lord of all. Indeed, how wonderful is the appearance of the yeshiva student.
But of course, as with everything sacred, even within the midrash, between Stander and the 'Collection of Commentaries', there will always be that guy, the one who doesn't do the greatest honor to the yeshiva world, to put it mildly.
The yeshiva world knows very well how to deal with these natural phenomena, and dozens of different and strange 'positions' have been invented for this purpose alone.
These Yeshivahs are well hidden between black binding glue and a diamond drill, preoccupied with their sacred work somewhere in the library room of an anonymous yeshiva.
The awl escaped from the drill.
Everything is fine and dandy, until that moment when some leadership issues a call of affection to our champions and acquaintances, the yeshivot Shlita, to stand up and make a real, major protest about the terrible tribulation that has befallen us in the Holy Land and its abrogation, its existence, and so on.
At these moments, when thousands of young men rise in joy from the stands, rush to their hat racks and suit hangers, and go out onto the streets of a city to express a 'very big protest,' people also come out of the library's vaults with them, sewing threads in their hands and remnants of fabric glue on their pants, and unknowingly get swallowed up in the black crowd making its way to important and useful intersections.
And while they, the real yeshiva students, are busy shouting monotonously and eerily quiet "Giveld," the "finance people" are slowly separating from them and looking for something different. It is not right for them to be in the same company as the older generation.
And in a second gathering of teenagers, a certain Rika from a certain yeshiva is joined by an unknown Rika from an unknown yeshiva, a luxurious Zippo lighter is pulled from one of the inside pockets of one of the faded suits, a free Friday newspaper is thrown out of nowhere, and here we have a green can burning with the fire of love, love of Torah and literature.
Here the famous "meat owner" from the Pompadita Yeshiva is forced to intervene, and with a flick of a muscle, the frog rolls into the center of a busy road, endangering passersby and travelers, all of whom are Haredi, by the way. Why protest in a secular neighborhood if you can do the same thing on the streets of Geula or Bnei Brak, where everyone knows everyone and there are even kosher kiosks in the area.
The best.
Two respected bodies are waiting for this exact moment: the media army and the security forces.
In the blink of an eye, Border Police soldiers trained to fight Arabic-speaking rioters jump up and pin the thin-masted Yeshivasha'er tightly to the ground in the Land of Israel, their feet on his head, stomach and knees, and their hands beat him savagely with a heavy, thick wooden baton.
The media photographers document everything that happens without missing a single detail. The burning tin must fit into the same frame as the wigs fluttering in the wind, a great image for the clichéd headline: "Urdu riots against security forces again.".
The Treasury people, by the way, have long since been gone.
They are deep inside one of the scattered kiosks, probably sipping a can of premium XL beer certified kosher by the Haredi Orthodox Jewish Community.
And at home, Maurice Aflalo sits on the armchair, in sweatpants and a tank top, and greedily eats the very yellow pictures of 'some Haredi' getting properly beaten.
""It's lucky Grandpa was only a tax collector," he mutters, snoring, and falls asleep.
