They’re filled with people, representing a potpourri of ages, cultures, languages, and styles. There are strollers and babies and little children, alongside harried mothers, kind bubbies, and roshei yeshiva. There are smiles and laughter and warmth – and always someone willing to lift the other end of the stroller.
They’re unmatched. They’re special. There’s nothing else in the world quite like buses in Yerushalayim, no other place where you’ll find camaraderie within such close quarters. There’s no other place where women settle in for a bumpy drive, slowly enunciating the holy words of Tehilim and handing out booklets for the rest of the passengers. These buses are finite in space, but, somehow, they always seem to expand, and the number of people they can hold seems endless.
And that brings me to my next point.
Sometimes, the buses are quite full. Yes, we’re all part of one nation, and there is a palpable feeling of achdus, and when there’s room in the heart, there’s room on the bus. Still, it’s squishy.
But as I said before, buses in Eretz Yisrael are special. They’re different. And there’s always a beautiful way to deal with a stressful situation.
* * *
It was evening, a gorgeous summer day, right before Sukkos. My friend was waiting at a bus stop in Geulah, alongside dozens of others, all anxiously awaiting the same bus.
And it wasn’t coming.
Minutes passed, cars honked, and hundreds of pedestrians strolled by. Lights flashed, muted conversation ebbed and flowed; the streets of Geulah continued to pulse with the regular humdrum of life.
And still, the bus didn’t come.
The bus stop continued to fill, tension levels increased, and there was a tangible feeling of impatience. People had places to go, things to do, and a long bus wait wasn’t on the schedule.
Finally, to the crowd’s relief, the bus arrived. They excitedly boarded the already packed bus, each passenger attempting to find an available pole to clutch as the bus continued its winding route. And though everyone was finally on a moving vehicle, the tension levels refused to budge.
It was squishy!
And then, suddenly, a quiet old man sitting in the corner pulled out a violin. He began to play the upbeat melody of “Vesamachta Bechagcha,” his quiet vitality gradually filling the bus. The nervous energy slowly ebbed, and the man’s melody picked up momentum, drawing the passengers into joyous song. Soon, it was a dancing bus, a bus filled with pure joy and unity to a tune of simchas hachaim and ahavas Yisrael. It was a reminder that we’re one nation, that we’re all preparing for Sukkos together, that we all have the same goal: to tap into the beauty of Sukkos and experience the simcha of the Yom Tov together. No longer was there impatience. No longer was there annoyance. No longer was there somewhere to go or things to do. Because all the passengers were where they were meant to be, on a dancing bus of joy and song.
It was a lesson in the power of music, the power of song: the power of one man’s pure intentions and how they have the ability to transform the mood of an entire bus.
And it was a lesson of the beauty of klal Yisrael, of kindness and caring and love – because however we look at it, we’re one nation trying to serve Hashem, trying to draw ourselves and others toward kedusha and simcha. It is a winding route, a bumpy route, and we must remember to tap into the music, to tap into the joy and song. And we must do it together.
